Free Dirty Weekend by Gabrielle Lord Page B

out the bag with the half-smoked reefer inside.
    ‘See what you can get off it,’ I said, handing Vic the small packet. ‘You’ll need to call Harry Marshall for a swab from Tianna Richardson, so you can eliminate her and see who else might be present.’
    ‘I’ve got a backlog that you wouldn’t believe,’ said Vic. ‘The job turnaround is three times what it was this time last year. And even then we were always months behind.’
    ‘Jane can give you a hand. Just do what you can,’ I said, trying to sound patient.
    Vic peeled off to open the door to his office, then hesitated. I braced myself for another grizzle.
    ‘What’s that stink?’ he asked, sniffing. ‘I can smell something bad.’
    ‘I can’t smell anything,’ I said. ‘Cold’s too bad.’
    ‘Dog shit,’ he said. ‘I can smell it.’
    I waved him away and went into my office. I pulled off my right shoe. Damned if I could smell a thing. I put it back on, making a mental note to give it a good scrubbing the minute I got home—which should be in under half an hour if there were no more interruptions.
    Prior to locking my office, I checked my mobile to find I’d missed a message from Dallas Baxter. ‘The place is already swarming with crime scene personnel,’ he said. ‘They’re upsetting my staff.’
    Life’s tough, I thought, still listening. He’d found out the details of the maintenance man who’d overheard the argument so I grabbed a pen and jotted down the name: Kevin Waites.
    ‘And the PhD student’s name is Jerri Quill,’ the message continued.
    I noted her address and phone number as well and ended the call. I’d hand this information over to Brian Kruger and that would be the end of it, I thought, switching off my mobile. I planned to do this a lot more often.
    Finally, the coast was clear and I hurried to the car park, hoping that no one would stop me with more complaints or work problems. But I couldn’t stop my thoughts focusing on this latest crime. I wanted to speak with Pauline Lamb on her own. Click-clacking down the corridors in her neat leather heels, she clearly covered a lot of ground. I knew from my own experience that women like her become almost invisible because of their efficiency. They ran departments, administered rosters and timetables, connected people and effortlessly gathered information. The brilliant capabilities they brought to bear on their work tended to disappear into the background. A woman like Pauline shouldn’t be overlooked, either as a potential source of information or as a possible suspect. Maybe she hadn’t told me everything she knew.
    But that was all for tomorrow. And in any case, hadn’t I determined to leave this case to Homicide? My job now would be limited to reporting on anything I might find in the examination room, or passing on expert analysis to the relevant departments. Relieved with my plan, I got into my car.
    Just for the moment, I was free of the job and its demands and if I drove straight to the bend in the river near Seven Oaks, where the huge willow waved its now yellowing leaves, I might just be in time to join the party and help them pack up. My heart started to lift as I drove too fast and the deaths of the two women, sad though they were, almost faded from my mind. These days, instead of turning the key and entering a cold and empty cottage, I came home to Iona’s warmth.
    But some little devil of curiosity kept at me. I wanted to know more about Claire Dimitriou and why she’d ended up dead. Switching my phone back on to see if I could get Greg on his mobile, I saw I’d missed two calls, both from Earl Richardson. Even though I understood his desperation and his grief, it wasn’t right that he should be contacting me again.
    The phone rang and I snatched it up, steering off the road and coming to a halt near a large eucalyptus stump that sprouted tender new leaves in bunches.
    ‘My name is Kevin Waites,’ said the caller. ‘Dallas Baxter