listening to a young man in a shiny, black uniform reading them a story.
The young man paused to examine Conan as he climbed the stairs.
‘Welcome, brother,’ he said, in an affected accent that sounded almost British.
‘How ya goin’?’
‘I’m Lieutenant Michael Rice. Can I offer you guidance?’
‘Guidance?’ echoed Conan, stifling a laugh. ‘Don’t know about that mate … I just want to look inside for the moment.’
Conan continued up the stairs and stood in the doorway, aware that the young man had abandoned his story and was hovering at his elbow.
‘These are the daily sessions,’ he said, referring to a whiteboard in the foyer, and Conan paused to glance at what was available. The board was headed with Children’s Bible Story Time, followed by Coffee Shop, various Bible Study sessions, and in the evening was the Daily Service followed by The Great Debate at nine pm.
‘Are you in charge here?’ asked Conan.
‘That depends on what you mean,’ said Lieutenant Rice. ‘I’m the officer of the day, in charge of the …’
‘I’m in charge,’ said a voice, and Conan turned to see a woman in a similar black uniform to Lieutenant Rice’s, which she filled rather differently. She would have been late twenties or early thirties, with brunette hair pulled back in a severe bun and a tight, humourless smile.
Conan found himself staring for a moment, but pulled himself together.
‘Ah … sorry,’ he said, recovering, and pulled his ID from his top pocket. ‘Agent Tooley … AFP. Can we talk?’
He was still staring at her. It was the eyes that did it. In all other ways she might have been the living quintessence of untouchable female authority, but her eyes gave her away. Her eyes said she was human, and narrowed as she perceived his interest.
‘Captain Melodie Roberts,’ she said, primly holding out her hand to be shaken. ‘Come with me.’
She led him to a stair but stood aside and waved him ahead.
‘After you,’ said Conan, but she simply raised an eyebrow and he grinned sheepishly, guessing she disliked being followed upstairs by men because of the opportunity it gave to stare at her arse.
He went up the stairs, and she followed, several paces behind.
The upstairs was a long gallery looking down on the hall with several doors leading to offices. Captain Roberts passed him and, yes, her arse was superb. Conan got only one quick peek at its rounded, pert perfection then stared resolutely at the back of her head, in case she suddenly turned.
Her office was the last at the end of the gallery and she gestured him into one of the two chairs opposite her desk.
‘So, what can I do for you Agent Tooley?’
‘Call me Tools,’ said Conan, and immediately felt foolish. She didn’t respond, so he pulled his triPod out of his bag and placed it on her desk. Seconds later images of the two murdered men flickered in the air, and her mouth set in a thin line.
‘Not again,’ she sighed.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve already spoken to the police … I’ve nothing further to add.’
‘So you knew them?’
‘Yes … as you would know if you people kept proper records.’
Conan, knew there was no record of interview with the Army of God on the file, but made a mental note to check when he returned to the office.
‘I’ve been sent up from Sydney and haven’t seen much of the file … but maybe I’ll ask some different questions?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like, what are you doing for dinner tonight?’ thought Conan. She got even more attractive as her anger flared.
‘Like … were Bruce Fong and Michael Wing Ho members of your organisation?’
‘That’s the first question they asked me last time,’ she snapped. ‘We don’t have lay members. We have officers and brethren … Bruce and Michael were neither.’
‘But you knew them?’
‘Like so many in this city, they were searching. They would sometimes attend the Great Debate.’
‘Which is on tonight?’
‘Yes.’
She was almost aggressive in her answers – eyeing him defiantly – making Conan wonder what he’d done to piss her off so quickly.
‘So what were they searching for?’
‘For God, Agent Tooley. We get many such people who cannot find what they truly need in their lives, so they turn to us.’
‘You must feel very vindicated.’
She stared at him for a moment, then enquired, ‘Was that sarcasm, Agent Tooley? Because if it was, this interview is over.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Conan. ‘I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic.’
In truth, sarcasm came so naturally when interviewing he wasn’t sure whether he’d meant it or not.
‘They were Habal Tong?’ he asked, trying to sound serious.
‘Yes … but very interested in Christianity.’
‘So … the Great Debate is about converting to Christianity?’
‘Sometimes,’ she said, still stiff and prickly. ‘Mostly it’s about comparison. This city is such a melting pot of culture and religion … it’s where we get together with people of other faiths to discuss what we have in common?’
‘So you all agree, eh?’
‘We do … on all the important points.’
‘Except one.’
Once again she stared at him, as though suspecting him of levity.
‘Except one,’ she agreed. ‘Is there anything else? I really have answered these questions before.’
‘Who’d you speak to the first time?’
‘I don’t remember his name.’
‘Was he Chinese?’
‘No.’
Captain Roberts rose to usher him out and Conan noted, to his small disappointment, the engagement ring on her finger.
‘I’m sorry I can’t be of any further assistance … and
