‘Wallace alleges our murder victim was not the same woman he met as Louise Simpson.’
‘Alleges? So now you’re a defence lawyer?’ Mark sneered.
‘I’m just saying something doesn’t add up. He had no reason to lie this time.’
‘It’s called buying time by throwing in something from left field,’ he said curtly. ‘That’s your specialty.’
There wasn’t time for agendas here. ‘What if there are two Louise Simpsons? Someone else is using her identity?’
He thought for a moment. ‘You could be on to something. Now … you just have to prove the Illuminati are behind it.’
Mark was revelling in the fact my credibility was at stake. I stayed calm, but stressed my point. ‘Wallace says he met someone claiming to be Louise Simpson, with two children, who lived in Killara.’
‘And he’s an upfront kind of guy, that Wallace, or should I say Finch?’
Yes, Wallace had lied. But he was also a coward, full of bluff. The way he responded to the photos wasn’t what I would have expected from a cold-blooded killer who took his time and made the victim suffer.
If the Wallaces hadn’t taken the baby, someone else had. And they had diverted all our energies to looking in the wrong place.
Two officers came out with Jennifer Wallace. Her hands were cuffed behind her back. ‘Nothing so far,’ one said.
Sniffer dogs alighted from another car. The trainer held a flannel blanket, presumably belonging to Zoe Ruffalo, to their noses.
Mark instructed them to search the cars, boots, in every bush, cranny and under every rock on the property.
Fifteen minutes later, the trainer came out. There was no trace of a baby.
Chapter 50
THE WOMAN THE Wallaces met had to be an imposter.
I phoned Johnny and asked him to go over all Louise Simpson’s bills and debits again. We were looking for anything to suggest she was a victim of identity fraud.
He knew that meant the baby was still missing and agreed to get straight on to it.
Darlene’s new machine was processing the DNA and would have an answer within minutes. I had to get clearance from Brett Thorogood to access the police’s DNA database with the Gene-IE.
Mary and I decided to head back to the office. As we moved to the Jeep, someone called my name.
‘Gisto. Hey, Craig! Congratulations on tracking down the killer.’
The voice came from the sleaziest entertainment reporter, Marcel Peyroni. I tossed up whether to ignore or answer him.
‘Where’s the baby? Were you too late?’
‘He’s an idiot,’ Mary said. ‘Ignore him.’
‘Come on, Craig, you gotta have a comment,’ he called.
I couldn’t pretend the guy wasn’t an arsehole. But I needed to know how this fool had managed to get a TV crew here so quickly. Had someone from the police leaked the news about the Wallaces? His stupidity had compromised the entire operation. If it wasn’t for him and his helicopter, Mary wouldn’t have had to put herself at risk. And I wouldn’t have to suffer the ire of Mark Talbot.
I walked towards him, hand blocking my face from the camera lens. Mary was one step behind. I asked if we could talk ‘off the record’.
Peyroni faked a smile. ‘Of course.’
His cameraman lowered his lens, but I knew it was still recording.
‘You’re a regular johnny-on-the-spot,’ I said. ‘No one from the social pages here. You’re in the wrong place.’