Priors. Stuart Jackson E.
a moment, Mrs Turner.”
“Who will I be speaking to?” she asked.
“I’ll try to switch you through to Sergeant Green. I’m just not sure if he’s in the office at the just now. I’ll only be a moment.”
The phone went dead and was replaced by recorded music. She looked around her. If they delayed for too long, she’d hang up and try again later. A tram clattered past and she pressed the phone tighter to her ear.
“Mrs Turner?”
“Yes. Yes?”
“I found Sergeant Green. I’ll put you through.”
Another delay and then a man’s voice.
“Mrs Turner?”
“Yes.”
“How can I help you?”
Would they be tracing the call or not?
“I’m trying to locate James Christie. Can you help me?”
“You’re with Curtis and Wright, aren’t you?”
“No, not really.”
“Oh, I thought ...”
“I told your receptionist that I was with Curtis and Wright, because I didn’t want to spend a lot of time explaining things to her.”
“I see. What sort of things?”
“Do you know James Christie?”
“I do. What has this got to do with him?”
“He’s contacted me a few times. About an investigation that’s he’s connected with.”
“Which one?”
Christ? she thought. Bloody policemen, they’re all alike.
“There was a man killed in Tasmania.”
“Barry Doyle.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s him. You knew him?”
“Yes.”
“Anyway, Mr Christie found out that I knew Barry and spoke to me on two separate occasions. He asked a few questions that I wasn’t able to help him with, but the other day I was speaking to someone else and I uncovered a few other things.”
“What?”
“Well ... well I need to talk with Mr Christie. I wasn’t able to get him at his normal number, and this was another number that he gave me. I didn’t realise it...”
“That’s okay. He’s not available. He’s ... he’s caught up with a case in court at the moment. In Sydney. I can help you. Maybe, you’d like to tell me what ...”
“You?”
“I’ll make sure ...”
“I don’t know.”
“It’ll be quite all right. I’ll make sure that ...”
“Not on the phone.”
“Why not?”
“Look, I was dealing with Mr Christie. Face to face. I knew who he was. If I have to talk to someone else, then it has to be face to face.”
“Would you like to come in and ...”
“No. No. I thought we could meet somewhere.”
“Where?”
“In the city.” She paused. “On the corner of Burke and Russell Streets, there’s a bookshop. There’s a shoe shop, a sweet shop, a fast food place and on the fourth corner, the bookshop.”
“I know it.”
“Be there tomorrow. At one o’clock.”
“We don’t usually ...”
“If you’re not there, I can wait until Mr Christie comes back.”
“How will I know you?” he asked.
“I’ll be wearing a red skirt and a black handbag with a large “W” on it.”
“Okay.”
“And you?”
“Me?”
“What will you be wearing?”
There was a silence on the other end of the line. Then, “Grey trousers and a blue blazer.”
“You could be anyone of a hundred.”
He half-laughed and started to say, “Disguises aren’t our stock ...”
“I need something more distinctive. Carry a bag. A shopping bag. From Collins the booksellers. Goodbye, Sergeant Green.”
She hung up. Her heart was pounding.
Time to think, she thought.
*******
Drummoyne House had been named after Alfred George Drummoyne. He’d been a very successful pastoralist in northern Victoria, but he’d had a stroke and the doctors had told him to take it easy. He’d left the farm in the care of his three sons and, with his wife, moved to Melbourne. Then he’d discovered the untouched beauty of the Mornington Peninsula to the south of the city and he’d bought fifty acres and built Drummoyne House. During the Depression, Drummoyne had died and his wife had lived in it for another ten years before she too passed away. The children never looked after the house and much of the original property was sub-divided when the popularity of the Peninsula grew. Drummoyne house now stood on only five acres of the original fifty, but the area was heavily wooded and conveniently buffered from surrounding properties. And a high security fence had been erected to provide even more privacy. From the roadway, and the houses that surrounded it, the house could not be seen.
The sign alongside the gate at the start of the driveway merely said :
DRUMMOYNE HOUSE
Private Property
Barron slid the electronic key into the slot and waited while the gates swung open, driving through and watching, in his rear view mirror, until they had closed behind him. The driveway was compacted gravel and it crunched beneath the tyres of his car as he drove through the tunnel of trees, curving slightly to the west and then coming upon the large parking area that lay in front of the house itself.
Barry Malone was standing at the top of the short flight of steps that gave access to the broad veranda that completely circled the house. The windows on the second storey showed no signs of life.
Huge trees grew all around the house and, in places, their branches rested on the tin roof. A cool breeze murmured among the branches and leaves.
“Any news?” Barron asked.
“Nothing. The MO’s been with him most of the morning, but he’s getting absolutely nothing out of him. Just sits there. Says nothing. MO says there’s nothing physically wrong with him.”
“He’s probably realised that it’s in his best interests to say nothing. After all, what can you say when you’re caught with the body and the murder weapon.”
“But why? What’s the motive?”
“I may have something on that. Come on.”
They both walked into the house and up the stairs to the room that housed Christie. The MO stood up and crossed to them as they came into the room.
“Nothing, I’m afraid.”
Nothing.
“And still no idea about when or if he’s going to recover?” Barron asked. He glanced quickly at Christie who was lying still