Free Dirty Weekend by Gabrielle Lord Page A

Brian.
    ‘Please tell me about Claire,’ Pauline said. ‘It’s bad news, isn’t it?’
    Her hand flew to her mouth before I could say anything, my expression giving it away.
    ‘Oh, poor Anthony,’ she said.
    On my way out through the glass doors I saw Dallas Baxter coming out of his office.
    ‘You’re going, Jack?’
    ‘Is there anything else you need to tell me before I do?’ I asked, using a technique that sometimes caught people off guard.
    He shook his head.
    Like hell, I thought.
    I sat in my wagon looking back at the Ag Station, then I rang the cottage again. The clouds had lifted and there was no answer so I hoped they were all down at the river, having fun in spite of my absence. I tried Iona’s mobile, and left a voicemail message saying that if they weren’t back by the time I got home, I’d drive down to the river and see if I could catch them. Then I rang Brian and passed on the information about Annette Sommers, telling him I’d already started the ball rolling for him out here.
    Driving away from the research station, I took in the stunted feed crops and patches of cracked soil. There was something amiss in what I’d just witnessed, something wrong about Dallas Baxter’s reactions. An unusual situation , he’d said, in breathtaking understatement. Claire Dimitriou dead in her lab from a gunshot wound and her work partner missing—more than unusual. How long would it take, I wondered, before we knew what sort of firearm had been used? Because of the fatal triangle created by the weapon, the killer and the victim, tracing the movements of the weapon used in a homicide was just as important as tracing those of the people involved.
    After cleaning up and stowing my gear at Forensic Services, I off-loaded the video camera for processing, thinking all the time of the new widower, Anthony Dimitriou, into whose private life I’d unavoidably intruded—and in the most intimate and horrible way. It was awful to think I’d knelt by the body of his dead wife while he was completely unaware of what had happened.
    I mentally compared the two murders. The circumstances surrounding Tianna Richardson’s crime scene suggested a random incident of terrifying bad fortune—a woman in the wrong place with the wrong man at the wrong time. Claire Dimitriou’s death, on the other hand, appeared coldly premeditated; someone had deliberately sought her out in her laboratory.
    I was about to leave my office when a knock at the door interrupted me. Vic Agnew, my smart young scientist colleague, whose receding hairline made his forehead formidably high, stood in the doorway with a package in his hand. I could see he wasn’t happy.
    ‘Florence just told me I’m supposed to help her with some of the analysis work for this,’ he said, holding up the package. I could see the Tianna Richardson case number. ‘She said I’m to just drop my work and help her straightaway. Is that right? I’m still only halfway through those two Sydney cases, not to mention that Northern Territory job.’
    The joys of staff management, I thought. Who would have guessed this job would involve so much playing referee among overworked colleagues.
    ‘I’m sorry Florence saw you before I could tell you what was going on. My apologies.’
    Vic frowned.
    ‘There’ve been two local murders,’ I explained. ‘Which means twice as much work for everyone. Including you, unfortunately.’
    ‘Two? I heard about the murder at the nightclub,’ said Vic. ‘What was the other one?’
    ‘I can’t reveal much until all the relatives have been informed. Like I say, I’ll need you to work with Florence. And to take on a few of the things I might do otherwise.’
    ‘Okay,’ said Vic, sounding resigned. ‘I’ll talk to Florence and get the precise details of what she wants me to start on.’
    ‘There’s something you could do right now,’ I suggested, and indicated he should follow me down to the exhibit fridge. Unlocking it, I took