emblazoned on both sides. He’d bought a copy of Stephen King’s latest paperback and it sat in the bag.
Where was she?
A flash of red out of the corner of his eye and he turned his head slowly. A teenage girl in a baggy red sweater, hand in hand with a tall boy, long straggly hair, worn jeans and bare feet.
He’d checked the files after he had spoken to Green. He opened the Notes files and searched for every reference to Christie. The image on the computer screen flashed between that of a hourglass and that of an electronic link between computers, while the search was done. He scanned through the resultant lengthy list of files with references to Christie, looking at the dates and the case titles. A few he thought worthy of extra checking and he opened them and flicked through the entries. Nothing. Back to the Christie list and another FIND option. In the Windows box he typed in “Turner, Kathy” and then KO. It searched and came back with the message NO RECORDS FOUND. Then “Kathy Turner”. Again, nothing. “Kathy” - nothing. “Turner” - NO RECORDS FOUND.
He specifically located the files on Barry Doyle and ran the same checks again.
NO RECORDS FOUND.
Kathy, but with a “c”.
NO RECORDS FOUND.
If she was who she said was, then her connection with Christie was unrecorded. That meant that she could be dangerous. Either way, he had to follow-up on the lead; he had to meet her - on her terms.
Barron checked the time.
She was ten minutes late.
Ten past one. She checked her watch. How much longer would he wait?
She wore a grey jumper, blue jeans and blue flat-soled shoes. She sat at the bench inside Hungry Jacks with the food in front of her. The wrapper from a hamburger that she had already eaten, and a packet of French fries, half empty. Cold. She sipped at the cold drink and watched the man through the window, directly across the road. Each time he moved his eyes around the intersection she was sure that as they swept across the window of the restaurant, that he would see her and race across the street to confront her. But that was silly. He wasn’t looking for her and didn’t know who Cathy Turner looked like. He was looking for a woman in a red skirt carrying a bag with a big “W” on it.
He was wearing a dark blue blazer and grey slacks and carrying the bookshop bag. There was a niggling thought at the back of her mind that she knew this man. Had seen him somewhere before. She pushed the thought away.
She stared at the man. Sergeant Green. She fixed his features into her memory. Closed her eyes and pictured him and opened them and checked the image. She watched him as he started to pace backwards and forwards, getting impatient, glancing at his watch more often now. The way he held himself, the deliberate steps he took, the practised way he took in everything around him. Yet, if she had not been expecting him, if she had not known who he was and what he would be wearing, she felt she might overlook him. Just another face in the crowd.
One thirty.
She’d finished her drink. She picked absently at the remaining chips. At a table behind her, a child spilled a drink and started crying and her mother shouted at her.
His watch again. For the fiftieth time.
He decided then. And moved.
He headed straight for her, not waiting for the Walk signal, weaving through the cars, walking straight to her. She lowered her head, picked at the French fries on the bench in front of her with her right hand, brought her left hand up and rested her forehead on it, hiding her face. She could sense him, only a metre or two away from her, and only separated by the sheet of glass. Her heart was pounding and her hand stopped, halfway to her mouth, chip dangling between fingers, which she was certain, were trembling. Were it not for the shop window she could have reached out and touched him. And he could have reached out and touched her.
But she realised that she was still taking in his image, storing it away. So close. A big man, bigger than she had estimated, now that he was closer. Tall. Six foot? Thin dusty hair and blue eyes. No beard or moustache and a tanned face. Looked to be in reasonable shape. He presented well in the blazer, white shirt and red and blue tie.
He turned to his left and she turned slowly to her right on the stool, following him across the face of the window, turning the corner and heading down Bourke Street. She stood and grabbed her denim shoulder bag. She walked out of the shop and followed him.
She knew this would be one of the hardest parts. This man was a trained policeman. They were used to following people, keeping them under surveillance and remaining unnoticed in the process. And, presumably, they used these same skills in reverse, to identify those who were following them.
She pulled back and let more people fill the space between them.
He reached Swanston Street and turned right and she quickened her step because as he turned the corner he went out of sight. She reached the corner. There were two youths there, one playing the saxophone, the other an electronic keyboard, two hats face up on the pavement in front of them, scattered with silver coins and a couple of five dollar notes. She saw Green and she stopped to listen to the music. She found a dollar coin to drop into one of the hats, giving Green time to stretch out some extra space between them. Then after him again, watching the blue bag swinging in his hand.
She followed him all the way to the AFP offices in La Trobe Street and watched him go inside.
She walked on down the street and then retraced her steps and found a place in front of a small office block that, according to the brass plates outside, housed doctors’ offices. There were cars parked on both sides of the street, but she could still see the entrance to the AFP building and she was almost opposite the entrance to the carpark that was under the building.
She pulled the cellular phone out of her bag and punched in the number.
*******
Barron was both annoyed and worried.
On the way back to his desk, he stopped at the coffee table, grabbed a mug and put a healthy sized spoon of coffee into it, added hot water from the urn and then sugar. He stirred it aimlessly, trying to make sense of what was happening.
All the signs were there - it could very easily unravel.
He desperately needed to tie up all the loose ends on this case with Christie. The woman called Turner was a loose end. He had no idea how she fitted in because there was nothing on file about her. That was dangerous. Like a loose cannon.
And she’d bloody stood him up! Dragged him to a rendezvous in the centre of the city and not turned up. Or had she? Was she there, watching him? Or was she merely the bait and there were others there, watching?
Christ. The edges were fraying. He didn’t need this.
Where was she?
“Dave?”
“Yeah?”
“You had a call, mate. Just missed her.”
“Her?”
“Sounded a bit of all right, too.”
“Anything
