Private Oz (Private 7)

She found it on the second shelf on the right of the storeroom. It was quite light, easy to lift down. She put it on the counter below the overhead microscope, plugged it in and watched a small screen light up.

She pulled over her chair and started programming the device. She remembered the spec. A Saser, she recalled, was, according to the technical review she’d read in Forensics Now magazine, a little like an X-ray machine. But – and this was its USP – it didn’t see right through things to show bones of the body or the contents of a suitcase like an airport scanner. A Saser could be finely adjusted to penetrate beneath the surface to any predetermined depth. In skilled hands, it could reveal layer upon layer of any object. It was exactly what she needed now.

She lifted the lid and picked up the final pages of Julie O’Connor’s scrapbook.

The contents appeared on the screen. The pages were covered with scorches, almost all the writing wrecked. Darlene adjusted a few parameters and pushed the “Scan” button.

The Saser made a hissing sound. She studied the screen. The image appeared almost identical to the original – just small patches of scorched paper cleared. She could trace the lines of a few letters that had been invisible.

She altered the penetration depth and upped the resolution, pushed “Scan” again.

A new image appeared.

“That’s better!” she said, stunned by the quality. The picture had sharpened dramatically. She could see numbers, letters, whole words. She scrolled up. The top of the page looked better, but still not enough to show what she was after – the damn name.

Darlene adjusted the parameters a third time, her mind racing, numbers and quotients running through her brain. She had to get the depth right or she would overshoot, go straight through.

She pulled back on the resolution and doubled the depth of penetration to one five-hundredth of a millimeter, pushed the “Scan” button again.

The wait was agonizing. Darlene’s eyes were glued to the screen. She could hear her own heart thumping.

As she read two words at the top of the page, Darlene felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

GRETA … THOROGOOD.

Chapter 135

JULIE HAD SET her phone to wake her at 4.30. It went off dutifully on time, but she was already awake. She hadn’t slept … too lost in wonderful thoughts, thoughts of blood, rolled-up banknotes, revenge … sweet, sweet revenge. She got up, changed into fresh clothes, threw the wig, moustache and men’s things into a plastic bag.

It was still dark as she tugged open the door onto the parking lot at the rear of SupaMart. Totally deserted, of course. Just two cars left from the previous night. She tossed the plastic bag into a nearby dumpster.

It was three miles from here to where the silly bitch went jogging every morning. 6 am. Parsley Beach. “How typical,” Julie said aloud. “Just when she goes out running, I’m on the frigging train from Sandsville to serve stupid bitches like her.”

She turned onto Sebastian Road and just kept walking, the anger building with each step. She could feel the long knife through the lining of her jacket, and her smile broadened as she contemplated what she would do to Greta Thorogood.

Chapter 136

WHEN MY PHONE rang, I was in a deep sleep, floated up to wakefulness, confused, reached for the phone, and eventually recognized Darlene’s voice.

I glanced at the clock. It said 5.42. “Don’t you ever sleep, Darlene?” I groaned.

“Sorry, Craig. But I think you’ll wanna hear this.”

I was out the door in five, cell phone to my ear as I pressed the remote for the car.

Greta’s cell just rang and rang and finally went to voicemail. I left a message. “Greta. It’s Craig. If you get this message at home, stay where you are. Got that? Stay put and call me back. I’m heading over to your place right now.”

I searched for the Thorogoods’ home number as I pulled onto Military Road and headed toward the bridge, found it, punched the preset. No one picked up. I disconnected, tried again. Waited, waited … still nothing.

The traffic was beginning to build. I put my foot down, bugger the cameras, and if I got stopped? Well then I got stopped.

I sped left onto Warringah Freeway, the black colossus of Sydney Harbour Bridge in the distance, the towers of North Sydney to my right, a much larger collection of skyscrapers directly ahead over the bridge.

Three minutes later, I was on the Cahill Expressway. I shot down the off-ramp, weaving between slower cars, ignoring the blaring horns, ignoring the speedometer. I tore down onto New South Head Road and just went for it. I saw two cameras go off, but I didn’t care. Slowing, I pulled into Stockton Boulevard, the Thorogoods’ house a little way down on the right.

Lights were on. I tried the home number again as I stepped out of the car and ran along the sidewalk. No response. I reached the doorbell, leaned on it. Nothing. Tried again. Banged on the huge hardwood door.

The door opened and I almost fell into the hall. Brett was standing barefoot in a bathrobe, hair wet, bewildered.