Free Dirty Weekend by Gabrielle Lord

these premises until the police have arrived. Understood?’
    Dallas nodded, promising to find the details of the maintenance worker who’d heard Claire Dimitriou arguing with her research partner, as well as Claire’s doctoral student.
    Back near the main front desk, Dallas Baxter hovered around like an anxious plover guarding its young as I spoke to Pauline. Aware of him listening, I suggested to Pauline that we step into her office.
    She took me into a tiny room adjacent to the reception counter with just enough room for a swivel chair and desk.
    ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, her eyes searching my face, her anxious tone betraying concern.
    ‘How easy is it to get in here after hours?’ I asked.
    ‘As long as someone’s inside, they can let you in.’
    ‘So Claire could have buzzed someone in after hours?’ I asked.
    ‘Oh yes. She often worked back alone. Please tell me what’s happening. Is she all right?’
    I assured her I’d give her some information just as soon as I could, thinking all the while of the hours I’d spent alone in deserted buildings late at night, writing up overdue reports and certificates. ‘What are the protocols surrounding security for people working back?’
    ‘There’s an arrangement whereby anyone staying back alone logs out from the internal website when they leave. The security panel resets itself after they’ve keyed themselves out.’
    I looked around. ‘Any other exits?’ I asked.
    ‘Everyone arrives and leaves this way. There’s no other exit except the boom gate over there,’ she said, pointing through the glass doors.
    ‘What if the person working back late is expecting someone, or someone buzzes the door?’ I asked.
    ‘Then the alarm can be switched off at the main switch near the front door. It automatically resets itself after they’ve let the person in.’
    I thought of the glass doors of the main entrance area. A visual check would reveal the identity of the newcomer. Claire Dimitriou would have been able to see the identity of any visitor.
    ‘So there should be a digital trail showing who was in the building?’
    Pauline nodded. ‘Normally. But if someone were let in by a scientist working late, there wouldn’t be a record of that person. As long as the scientist kept keying in their code every hour or so, the alarm wouldn’t go off.’
    ‘So there are no electronic records that show who’s in or out or what time they came or went?’ I queried. At Forensic Services, the system recorded all individuals’ movements at all times.
    ‘We’re due for an upgrade. At the moment, we’re still just the country cousins. But I guess you’ve got to wonder who’d want to steal records concerning off-shears mortality and fly-strike?’
    She had a point.
    I took the number of the Ag Station’s security company, to check up on Claire Dimitriou’s movements, then I asked Pauline to print out a list of all the people who’d been at work the day before and those who’d arrived today. I caught myself wondering why I was taking over the Homicide detectives’ work like this, especially after telling Dallas that I wouldn’t, couldn’t , do such a thing.
    ‘I can arrange that. There’s also this,’ Pauline said, passing a book to me.
    ‘What is it?’ I asked.
    ‘The Work Alone Register,’ she replied.
    I flipped through some of the pages and saw columns with recorded names, dates and the times signed off when people left. Claire Dimitriou’s name had been scrawled down on Monday evening, but the last column, the sign-off, was blank.
    ‘I’ll be wanting the details of Peter Yu’s girlfriend and his address and telephone number,’ I said.
    ‘Her name’s Annette Sommers,’ said Pauline. ‘She runs an arts and crafts gallery in town—Galleria Rustica. But she hasn’t rung here for a while. She might not be current.’
    I made a note of Peter Yu’s details and of Annette’s name and place of work, thinking I could pass it on to