Priors. Stuart Jackson E.
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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 in a skirt sounds all right to you,” Barron laughed.
“She left a message.”
“What?”
“Something about helping Gino tonight.”
“What?”
“Gino. Don’t you know a Gino?”
“No. Did she leave her name?”
“No. Said she thought you’d be here. And just to tell you about Gino.”
“Are you sure it was for me?”
“That’s what she said.”
“I have no idea what it’s about. Maybe it’s for Greenie. I’ll let him know when I get to Mornington.”
“When you going?”
“Later.”
Barron sat at his desk, switched on the computer, entered his password and checked his electronic mail.
*******
Ron Taylor was having a pretty good day and he’d also managed to stay in the inner city area. He’d just dropped his last passenger at an office in Burke Road, Camberwell and he was heading back towards the city along Toorak Road when the call came in.
“Call for you, Ron,” the dispatcher said. Sam had worked for the taxi company for almost ten years and Taylor knew him well.
“Okay.”
“A lady called Turner. Didn’t catch her first name. Said it was urgent and to call her back. Said you had her number.”
Turner? He was about to question the dispatcher when he remembered.
“Thanks, Sam. See ya.”
He passed through the traffic lights on Williams Road and stopped at the next phone booth he saw. Taylor was a big man - tall and broad across the shoulders. He wore light grey slacks and a light blue open-necked shirt. He walked with a spring in his step and carried himself erect, like a man who keeps fit, despite the years. His hair was black, cropped short, a few strands of grey at the front. His moustache, people told him, made him look like Tom Selleck. His eyes were clear and grey, but for those who bothered to know the man and to see deep into his eyes, they saw something of the pains of the past.
He’d written the number on a piece of paper and slipped it into his wallet. He pulled it out now and dialled the number. He straightened up his shirt and tucked it into his trousers. She answered immediately.
“Miss Turner?” he asked.
She could sense the smile in his voice.
“I’m on La Trobe Street.” She explained the location.
“I know it,” he said. “Ten minutes.” And he hung up.
*******
Taylor parked the taxi in a nearby parking spot and walked up to the small coffee shop she had told him about. She was sitting at a table at the window, sipping a cup of coffee and keeping her eyes on the building across the street.
“The place across the street,” she said as he pulled up a chair.
“Australian Federal Police,” he replied.
“He went in about twenty minutes ago.”
“You can recognise him?”
“Yes.”
“Through a car window?”
“Yes. But we don’t know if he has a car under the building.”
He nodded. “But if he has got a car there and he comes onto the street in it, can you identify him through the windscreen?”
“I think so. I can’t get much closer. Where are you parked?”
“There,” and he pointed.