One identified as the financier Alexander Kristich, police treating the deaths as suspicious, a task force formed to investigate. She pulls into the kerb and checks the news feed on her phone. There is nothing more. She swears softly to herself. It was only two days ago that Harry gave her Kristich’s name. After their meeting she did a search and came up with the link to Bluereef Financial Services and an address in the Gipps Tower. She’d been planning to go there, try for an interview, maybe trap Kristich on his way in or out. The paper wanted her at the trial of a teenage car thief in the local magistrates court, then the opening of a new wing in an Islamic primary school, and she’d left Kristich till later. Now this. It’s as if she’s caught up in a firestorm, with things exploding all around her, unable to see where any of it’s coming from. Tomorrow the big dailies will have profiles of the dead man, maybe dig up a few angles, but they won’t know what she knows, all those tantalising connections—the couple at Balmoral Beach, the Creek, the homicide detectives sniffing around.
