Blindside - By Gj Moffat Page 0,44

tomorrow at the earliest before the forensics lab would be able to create a DNA profile from the semen sample and check it against the national database.

‘What do you want to do this afternoon?’ he asked.

She told him about the accountants who appeared to own the Lewski/Murray flat.

‘So let’s go talk to them.’

‘Should we give them a call in advance?’

‘Nah. I mean, if they are scumbags it’ll be best to catch them on the hop. Did you run the names to see if anything came up?’

‘No prior convictions.’

‘There’s a first time for everything.’

Armstrong drove them to the office of the accountants Marshall Scott, picking his way through the city traffic and treating every amber light as an invitation to accelerate. Irvine tutted a few times but he didn’t seem to hear. Either that or he was ignoring her.

‘Which division were those guys from?’ she asked him.

‘Which guys?’

‘The uniforms we spoke to about Lewski.’

‘Stewart Street.’

Irvine called Pitt Street from her mobile and asked to be connected to the Stewart Street station. The duty sergeant came on the line and told her that the two officers were out on patrol.

‘I’m looking for information on some working girls,’ Irvine said. ‘Who’s the Super there?’

‘Neal Pope.’

‘Can you connect me?’

The line hummed and then another man spoke.

‘Pope.’

‘Sir, this is DC Irvine from CID.’

‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’m looking for some information on a couple of working girls in your division. Other girls they know, who their handler is, that kind of thing.’

‘What’s this about?’

‘It’s a murder inquiry, sir.’

‘Who’s the stiff?’

Charming.

‘Joanna Lewski.’

‘She one of the prozzies?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s the other one called?’

‘Suzie Murray.’

‘Right. Give me your number and leave it with me. I’ll have someone call you back.’

‘This is urgent, sir.’

‘I appreciate that. We’ll get right back to you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Armstrong was smirking when she looked at him.

‘What?’

‘Did you write that book? You know, the one about making friends and alienating people.’

‘I just asked him for information. What’s wrong with that?’

‘He’s a Super.’

‘So?’

‘You told him it was a murder inquiry and that it was urgent he got back to you. I mean, I think he would have worked that one out for himself.’

Irvine closed her eyes.

‘You need to relax more,’ Armstrong told her.

The accountants’ office was the smallest of seven two-storey units in a neat commercial park just off the M8. As they pulled into an empty parking space at the entrance to the unit, Irvine noticed two expensive German sports cars with vanity plates.

‘Looks like they do okay for a small outfit,’ she said, nodding at the cars.

Armstrong applied the handbrake and looked over. ‘Let’s not jump to conclusions.’

‘I’m just saying.’

They pushed through double glass doors into the reception where an attractive young woman with a telephone headset smiled and asked them if she could help.

Armstrong took out his gold shield to identify himself. Irvine felt vaguely inadequate next to him with only the standard issue warrant card. That and the fact the woman was staring at the injuries to her face.

‘We’re looking to speak to …’ Irvine looked at the printout in her hand. ‘Mr Marshall and Mr Scott.’

The woman’s smile faltered.

‘They’re both here, right? I mean, we saw their cars outside.’

‘I’ll check if they’re available. Can I tell them what it’s about?’

‘We’ll explain it to them,’ Armstrong said.

They stood in front of the woman’s desk while she called through to each of the men in turn. The conversations sounded calm enough to Irvine from what she could tell from the receptionist’s side of it.

Irvine looked around the place and saw that the furnishings were expensive and that there were original pieces of art on the walls. She couldn’t tell if they were worth anything or if they were junk. But it didn’t look like the kind of place that hung any old rubbish up on the walls.

After a few minutes, a door opened to the right of the woman’s desk and a slim man in his early forties walked over to them and held out his hand. His handshake was firm and he maintained eye contact the whole time. He had neat, fair hair, tanned skin and a navy suit that fitted him very well.

‘I’m Paul Scott,’ he said. ‘Come on through and we can have a chat.’

4

The other accountant introduced himself as Lawrence Marshall. He looked a little younger than Scott, but not by much. He had the same air of health and prosperity about him, dressed in a charcoal pinstripe suit with thinning hair swept back on his head.

The two men sat