Priors. Stuart Jackson E.
Green expressed his annoyance at Malone’s flippancy by sighing and raising his eyebrows and turning his attention to Barron, in the hope that he would get a more reasoned response.
“Who from?” Barron asked.
“A woman calling herself Turner. Kathy Turner.”
“Who’s she? Should I know her?”
“Wanted to talk to Christie.”
“Why? Did she say?”
“Yeah. Said that Christie had been speaking to her a couple of times in the past. Something to do with Barry Doyle.”
“Barry?” Barron asked. “Did she say his name?”
“No, I did, but she was quite specific. No mistake about it.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Told her Christie wasn’t available. Was in Sydney and was likely to be there for quite a while. I asked her if I could help her.”
“And?”
“And she was a bit cagey to start with. Implied that she trusted Christie and didn’t know if it would be right to talk with someone else.”
“And you lost her?” Malone butted in.
“No,” Green said, not taking his attention away from Barron. “I arranged to meet her. She said she would only talk to someone other than Christie if she could see them face to face.”
“Where?”
“In the city.” Green explained the location that she had specified and the ways they were going to identify each other. “What do you want me to do?” he asked Barron.
“Good work. Leave it with me. I want you to help Barry here get all the paperwork on Christie finished.”
“You’re going with it now?”
“Yes. We can’t afford to hang around just waiting for Christie to regain his memory. We might be waiting forever. We’ll go with a case based on what we’ve got now. You’ll need to do a bit of poking around. Get some neighbours who’ve seen Christie and the woman around. See if they provide any insights. You know the stuff. When you’ve got it together we’ll do a run-through. If it’s okay, we’ll run it past the boss.”
“And if Christie comes good?”
“We’ll bring in whatever we can. “
“And you’ll meet this woman?”
“Yes. I’m sure it won’t amount to much, but if I go you’ll be able to concentrate on the case. I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Fine.”
“When?”
Green told him.
“Come on, we’ll let the doc know what’s going on. We got full cover for Christie?”
“Yes. Twenty-four hour watch. Armed.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Day 5 - Melbourne
The day was overcast, threatening rain. A wind blew up Bourke Street, carrying the sounds of the people in the mall. Up Russell Street, outside the cinema, there was group of boys and girls laughing and pushing. Ragged t-shirts and torn jeans, school bags with painted symbols. Closer to the intersection people stood and waited for a bus, outside the newsagency. A woman standing at the confectionery shop, looking at her watch. Waiting for someone. Something. Other corner looked clear. An elderly couple looking at the shoes in the shop window.
And diagonally opposite that, the fast food place. Hungry Jacks. People going in and out all the time, groups, couples, singles, all ages. And then down Russell Street, north, the collection of little shops and restaurants. Nothing out of the usual.
And, of course, everywhere the crowds. Coming and going. North to south and south to north. East to west and back again. Milling at the intersection waiting for the Walk signals to appear, gathering at the pedestrian island for the trams, clogging the pavements, blocking his view, dashing between cars, parked and moving, noisy, chattering, laughing, shouting, screaming, crying.
Bloody normal, really, he thought.
Barron took it all in, then reviewed the scene again. East up Bourke, panning to the right, south up Russell, west down Bourke towards the mall. A tram went clanging past, cutting out the other side of the road and there was a bit of shoving and pushing at Hungry Jacks. North along Russell and back along the pavement to where he stood outside the bookshop. He moved the plastic shopping bag from one hand to the other. Collins Booksellers 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