Dirty Weekend (5 page)

‘Anyone else use this lab?’ I asked.

‘Claire and Peter have had exclusive use of it for the last two years. Apart from Claire’s PhD student who’s sometimes here.’ He pulled out a photocopied building map. ‘This is the layout inside the lab,’ he said, passing it to me. ‘You might find it helpful when you go in.’

‘I’d better have the name of Dr Dimitriou’s student.’

‘I can’t think of it just now. I’ll look it up and let you know.’

‘Tell me more about the change in mating habits,’ I said, taking the plan from him before unpacking the respirator and checking it. ‘What were they hoping to achieve?’

‘They were working on the receptors for vassopressin.’

‘Isn’t that a hormone?’ I asked, trying to remember.

Dallas nodded. ‘They’d based their original project on an experiment with field voles and mountain voles in the USA.’

‘Voles?’ I wasn’t even sure what a vole
was
.

‘The American scientists induced behavioural changes in voles with hormonal tweaking,’ said Dallas. ‘From being promiscuous, they became faithful to one mate.’

I considered that. Restricting a male rabbit to only one mate could have a big impact on rabbit populations. ‘You said the project started out that way,’ I reminded him. ‘Did it change?’

‘The original Faithful Bunnies series was not successful,’ said Dallas. ‘Consequently, over the last few months, they’ve been working on another angle—a double-edged sword. They called it Terminator Rabbit. Working with rabbit pox in a double-barrelled way. Increasing lethality as well as tweaking the virus genetically to carry a sterilising payload.’

I tried to keep up but Dallas must have sensed my bemusement.

‘You know there’s always this arms race going on between the virus and its host,’ he explained. ‘The virus getting weaker over the generations, the host animal developing immunity. The idea is that any females who survive the initial infection—and that’s generally around five to ten per cent of the population—will eventually breed themselves out of existence because the sterility will be passed on to the next generation as part of the maternal DNA material. So that, one day, the last litter will be born and, after those individuals have all died without issue, that’s the end of the rabbits in Australia.’

And the end of Thomas Austin, Esquire’s experiment, I thought. The wealthy Geelong grazier had imported rabbits to Australia from England in 1859 so as to have a little hunting and shooting.

‘Of course,’ Dallas was saying, ‘it’s still in the developmental stage.’

It had been estimated that rabbits caused trillions of dollars of damage per year to farmers and, in the long run, to the economy. Many countries are plagued by them and a scientific solution to their infestation would certainly be lucrative.

‘So how close were they to delivery?’ I asked.

‘Years away. It was a very long-range project.’

I couldn’t make up my mind about Dallas Baxter. Though he was expansive, almost boasting, about his scientists’ work now, he had been evasive previously and I wanted to know why.

‘I want you to go in there, Jack, and find out what the hell is going on. I’m hoping there’s been some malfunction with Claire’s mobile or even that they
have
eloped .
 
.
 
.’ He paused.

‘Get Hazchem on standby,’ I said. ‘I can’t go in until you do that.’

He seemed reluctant and again I wondered why. But I stood, waiting, until he made the phone call, turning away into a corner as he talked to the chief of the local Fire Investigation Unit.

Eventually he rang off and came back. ‘Ewan Purcell confirmed the protocols state that in the case of a possible biohazard, you’re to go in first.’

‘I’ll bet he did,’ I said. ‘You’ve just spent some time assuring me nothing toxic could be involved. Now you’re behaving as if there’s a risk of contamination.’

‘There’s no risk to humans at all,’ said Dallas, sounding annoyed. ‘I might have been an administrator a long time, but I
am,
first and foremost, a scientist. I’m simply being ultra-cautious. Until I’m sure in my mind that it’s safe in there, I’d rather be too careful than not careful enough. But I can assure you, there’s nothing in the Terminator Rabbit program nor the earlier project that could cause any concern to a human being.’

At this stage, I had to keep my suspicions to myself, but if I’d been a betting man I’d have taken odds-on that Dallas Baxter knew a great deal more about all of this than he was revealing. His unease was obvious as he strode over to the first door.

Once I’d made a last check of my gear—including the respirator, which I was using in case the air was contaminated—Dallas swiped the door free of its locks. I stepped into the clean room, past the shelves of white lab coats, boxes of shoe protectors and face masks. The next door had a cartoon pasted on it—a fierce-looking, AK47-swinging Terminator Rabbit.

Not since my last investigation, involving
Bacillus anthracis—
better known as anthrax—had I worn a full respirator suit on the job. Yet despite Dallas Baxter’s reassurances, I would take no chances. Staying on the side of caution kept investigators alive longer. Accidents in labs were not uncommon and, excluding suicide, every year there was a workplace fatality in a lab in Australia.

I opened the door and stood a moment, taking in the scene. Somewhere a radio was playing. My first impression was how extremely
clean
everything appeared and, for the briefest of moments, I envied Claire Dimitriou and Peter Yu’s neat habits. But hard on the back of that thought came another.
This is not natural.
This didn’t look like a working research lab—or indeed any working lab I’d ever been in. Stepping carefully, I moved further inside.

I couldn’t hear the hum of the airconditioner over the soft hissing in my ears as I breathed, but I could see it was on. Every surface was sparkling clean, the sinks shone as if brand new, the glassware sparkled. The walls, bench spaces, fridges and feed bins, apparatus covers, enamelled technical equipment all gleamed white and chrome, bright as the day they’d been delivered. The frosted glass of the windows, the light fittings and vinyl floors were spotless. On the bench to my left, an ELISA—enzyme-linked-immunosorbent-assay—machine sat, lights on, ready to go, linked up to the colour monitor and printer. But no assay was in progress—the machine was not loaded with test material. The lab looked as if it had been cleaned by a team of detailers. Then I saw why. Standing near a large stereoscopic light microscope was the portable generator and handgear of an industrial-strength steam-cleaner. The whole lab had been steam-cleaned.

I inhaled deeply, the sound of my breath rushing like surf through the respirator, and relaxed a little, not realising till then how tense I’d been. Somewhere, I considered, there must be test animals. Where were the bunnies faithful or terminating? If Claire and Peter had been working on encoding proteins and receptors, surely they would have animals here?

The answer to this question came as I saw another door right at the end of the L-shaped laboratory. Large red letters commanded
no admittance. highly infectious area
. I was about to return to Dallas and ask him to let me have the electronic swipe card when closer inspection revealed the door was slightly ajar. Cautiously, I pushed it open.

There should have been the sound of negative pressure but there was no need in this room. It was empty. Only a row of benches and several empty food containers indicated it had once been in use. Along the bench on my right, a heavy vinyl hood covered what looked like more lab equipment.

With my gloved hand I lifted the corner to reveal a series of cages, the sort used to house lab animals, stacked on top of each other almost to the ceiling. They too shone spick and span, water bottles and food trays spotlessly clean, nothing written on the whiteboard tags at the front.

I stepped back into the main area and started videoing the laboratory, slowly taking in the ultra-clean equipment and surfaces until I approached the small office annexe glassed-off at the far wall of the laboratory. Inside, lab books and records were housed above a small desk and a filing cabinet.

I walked in, some sixth sense sending my hackles rising.

Claire Dimitriou hadn’t run off with anyone. Her white-coated body lay face-down halfway into the small office annexe, white coat bunched up around her left shoulder. Putting the video camera down, I rushed over to see if there was anything I could do. There wasn’t. Until a proper examination, it wasn’t possible to determine why she’d died like this, in the doorway of the office where the log book and other paperwork would be, one hand reaching towards the desk, the other hidden somewhere under her body.

I stood a moment, memories of other death scenes I’d attended crowding in yet again—suicides, accidents, murders. Claire Dimitriou may have died accidentally or from sudden illness, but there were enough oddities in the surrounds of the laboratory to make me very uneasy. Someone had cleaned this lab as if their life depended on it. It was the sort of job that I’d seen after a toxic spill, or a Level 4 pathogen incident.

Until I had some idea of what had made Claire Dimitriou stop breathing, I needed to keep my face mask and respirator in place. Squatting down beside her body, I hoped there’d be something left in the clothes and hair despite the steam-cleaning.

Gently, and keenly aware of the cold hardness I was touching, I rolled Claire over. Her arm maintained the angle it had been lying in, so that her double-gloved hand remained stiffly raised, as if in protest. The sight of a mass of congealed blood put paid to any notion of accidental death. She would once have been a pretty woman, with fine dark hair and brows, but now her face was distorted from lying squashed on the floor. Her mouth gaped half open and her eyes were dull and drying behind half-closed lids, yet she still had the same expression of surprise that I’d noticed once on a suicide’s face.

I could see from the lividity surrounding the areas of skin that had pressed against the floor that she’d been dead for some time. The front of her white coat had set with blood, crumpled and stiff. When I rolled her over again, I could see a small neat hole that had been hidden at first by the darkening folds of her once-white coat. I peered closer. The entry hole surrounds were discoloured by gunshot residue. Someone had shot her in the back at close range. I couldn’t see the injuries to the front of the body because of the bloody folds in the bunched-up clothing and lab coat, but where it gaped was a dark knitted fabric.

I gently lowered the body back down and it resumed its previous position. I examined the floor area carefully. There had probably been a great deal more blood before the clean-up. Just under the desk and still on its clip lay a plastic ID card with a small photo of Claire Dimitriou smiling. I picked it up and stowed it in a small bag.

In the sink in the office, a few drops of pinkish water remained but there was no sign of any dishcloth or towel. I opened the cupboard marked ‘Cleaning/Disinfection Station’ but apart from large containers of bleaches, solvents and a bottle of antibacterial liquid soap, there were no cloths there. Whoever had cleaned up had taken everything away. Crime scene would have to dismantle the drains to see if they could find any helpful residues. Killers often mopped up after themselves in an attempt to reduce evidence, so maybe this was nothing more than that. But did such thoroughness point to another scientist? Either way, two women dead in suspicious circumstances in one day had to be some sort of record for the nation’s capital.

Making my way carefully back to the crash doors, I opened them and retraced my footsteps. I had to push the door closed against the negative pressure to get to the small area where Dallas was waiting for me.

‘Well?’ he asked as soon as he saw me.

I switched off my air supply and unfastened my mask. Then, smoothing the small plastic bag that held the ID card, I held it up to him. ‘Is this Claire Dimitriou?’

He peered through the plastic and nodded, his face showing raw fear. Every instinct in me said the man was withholding something. Something big. And important.

‘Then I’m afraid it’s bad news,’ I said, lowering the bag.

‘What is it?’ he asked, his face turning white. ‘Did someone—is she dead?’

Wondering at the change of direction mid-question, I replied carefully. ‘I’m no pathologist, but I’d guess she’s been dead for quite some hours.’

‘How? What killed her?’

‘Looks like a gunshot injury but I’ll need a pathologist to confirm that.’

Dallas stared at me. ‘You mean she’s been shot? Someone’s
shot
her?’

Though his questions were typical of the things people say when they’re shocked, not wanting to believe the worst has happened, there was always the possibility it was feigned.

‘That’s what it looks like,’ I said, pulling off my gloves. ‘And the whole area is very clean. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble.’

Dallas looked away, blinking with apparent bewilderment. ‘I don’t understand how something like this could have happened.’

‘This place must be kept sealed until the local detectives arrive. I take it they’re on their way?’ I said, brusquely.

‘I haven’t called them, yet.’

‘Do it now,’ I ordered. ‘The first twenty-four hours of a case are vital. We’ve already lost too much time.’ Claire Dimitriou could have been dead since yesterday.

‘But, Jack, that’s the reason I called you in. I want
you
to do the whole thing from start to finish. Gathering any physical evidence.’

‘Not on your life,’ I said, wondering if he was aware of the significance of what he’d just said. ‘The local detectives must handle this. Any trace evidence they find will be sent back to our lab and we’ll deal with it there, as usual.’

This was the closest involvement I wanted with the incident. So far today, I’d been running from one job to the next, like in the old days. Now I was anxious to get back to the cottage. I was already in strife with Iona and I wanted to spend some time with her, Greg and Charlie before sundown. Once, obsession with a local case like this one would have closed down all thoughts of family, but now, with Iona in my life, things were different.

‘It would be so much better if we could keep this quiet,’ said Dallas.

I stared at him, wondering if he could possibly be serious. A murdered scientist in a laboratory under his administration kept quiet? Even the current Tory government wouldn’t be able to manage that. Seeing the look on my face, he rushed to clarify.

‘Of course there must be a full investigation. But if the media could be kept at bay—’

‘I’ll call Brian Kruger,’ I interrupted. ‘Maybe you should sit down,’ I added, aware of his pallor.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said, and made as if to head back the way we’d come. ‘I’m shocked. Not thinking straight.’

Dallas Baxter had been rocked right down to his designer socks, I knew. But he was also behaving like a man with a secret and I was determined to find out what it was.

In the small change room I discarded the suit and placed the respirator tackle in the relevant bin, ready for sterilisation.

‘Better organise for Harry Marshall to come ASAP,’ I said. ‘Give him the chance to take a look at the body
in situ
while everything’s still quiet.’

Despite Dallas’s wishes, it would only be a matter of time before the press got wind of this second violent death and we’d be reading headlines about a crime wave. I looked at my watch. It was already after two. Although I’d missed lunch on the river bank, there was still a chance I might redeem myself if I picked up afternoon tea from the French patisserie.

I rang Harry and gave a brief description of what I’d found.

‘I’m going to need some names, Dallas,’ I said, after ringing off. ‘And no one must leave 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 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.