CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The hotel was in Darlinghurst, a run-down converted terrace house with a patchy frosting of mould over anaemic yellow paint. A small plaque on the front door announced it was the Apollo Budget Hotel.
The front door creaked as Eva opened it. An old Chinese man in a cardigan was sitting at a front desk watching a small colour TV. The blinds were drawn and the room was dim, reeking of stale oil and boiled cabbage. The man turned his head and looked at Eva, expressionless.
'Mr Henderson,' she said. That was Sniper's nom de plume. The man stared at her, unblinking and she wondered if he'd heard her.
'Twenty-four,' he finally said, and pointed up a flight of stairs.
Her assignations with Sniper were twice weekly, each one at a different venue—grimy, hourly-rate places, th
