'Oops.'

Makedde hurried to the kitchen and returned with a damp soapy cloth to try to fix the carpet. She got on her knees and scrubbed away at the stubborn mark. Slowly, the pollen's colour faded. Hunched down like that, Mak's eyes were level to the low table, and her focus rested on a small framed photo she liked of her widowed father, Les, and his girlfriend, backdropped by the familiar doorstep of the Canadian west coast home of her youth. At the sight of it her mouth curved upwards in the sad, sentimental smile of those who have strayed far from home.

Dad.

She blinked.

She frowned.

This wasn't how she had imagined things would be when she left Canada. It had been eighteen months since Mak had finished her PhD and postgraduate studies, one of only a handful of PhD grads that year who were already in their late twenties. A slew of personal and family crises had at one point made her feel like she would never get there. However, despite all the obstacles put in her way, she'd made it this far. But this wasn't a practice: this was chatting with an identity-conflicted bondage mistress for an hour a week.

So Mak's existence in Sydney wasn't quite what she had planned-and her being with a cop was not what her father had wanted.

You warned me he'd never be home.

The yellow pollen stain was now more faint, but it wouldn't come out completely. Mak didn't know what else she could do. These little household spills and stains were the kind of things mums automatically knew how to fix, but Mak was clueless in these areas, and she didn't have a mum to call.

Mak wisely sensed that her thoughts were spiralling into unproductive territory. As she often did in such circumstances, she abandoned them in favour of work activity.

Meaghan Wallace.

She made for her laptop, which was plugged in and ready for her on the dining-room table, a spot she often used as an impromptu office. Mak sat down and unbuttoned her suit jacket. She threw it over the chair, unsnapped her bra with one hand and pulled it off from underneath her black singlet. Now comfortable, she got to work.

One of the first things Mak had learned about investigation work was that a valuable part of the inquiry into a person's background could be done online. Some good cyber-sleuthing often saved a lot of field work down the track.

She had three names to check up on: Meaghan Wallace, Simon Aston and Tobias Murphy. And while she was at it, she might just spend a minute or two finding out a few things about her secretive client, Robert Groobelaar, and his company. It wasn't part of her job, but it couldn't hurt to get a better idea of where he was coming from.

These days the vast majority of people under fifty-university students, board members, people in every imaginable type of interest group, bloggers, photo-mad personal website posters and anyone with a passing moment in the public eye-left their mark on the internet. A simple Google search could bring up all kinds of gems.

Mak began with the murder victim, Meaghan.

MEAGHAN WALLACE. SEARCH.

Mak frowned. Google showed remarkably little on 'Meaghan Wallace'.

MEAGAN WALLACE. SEARCH.

The change of spelling showed many entries on various Meagan Wallaces that were sadly nothing near Meaghan's match.

Damn.

She tried again.

MEG WALLACE. SEARCH.

There were a lot of hits. Millions. And most of them looked useless. Mak checked the option for Australian pages only, and that narrowed down the listings, but there were still too many. Mak tried the image search instead. It came up with brunettes, redheads, the wrong blondes, some men, and even a labrador retriever.

On the third page of Meg Wallace image results, the search brought up a single photo of the same Meg Mak was after. She felt a small rush of excitement when her eyes fixed on the familiar face.

Bingo.

The image source was a website for a Sydney nightclub called The Rocking Horse. Mak clicked on it.

The caption read: JAG LESLIE, MEG WALLACE AND AMY CAMILLERI ENJOY THE ROCKING HORSE NYE CELEBRATIONS.

It was definitely Meaghan. She and her friends were sexily dressed in the photo, wearing lycra crop tops and mini-dresses. Meg's tiny shirt had the word 'TRINITY' printed across the chest. It was a photo clearly taken after dark-all three of them had red-eye from the flash. The club was near black behind them, but the camera had picked up a glinting disco ball, some reflecting lights and the backs of various clubbers dancing away, oblivious to the camera.

Jag Leslie and Amy Camilleri. They could be close friends of Meaghan's. Mak would track them down. She had a thought about the T-shirt, too. Maybe it was a company or a club Meaghan had worked for?

TRINITY. SEARCH.

Mak's computer came up with millions of Holy Trinity biblical sites and fan sites for Carrie-Anne Moss's character in the Matrix series.

It's probably nothing.

Mak didn't have access to Marian's professional directories or contacts from home, so she went to her simple dog-eared phone book and looked up Jag Leslie first. Surely there couldn't be that many Jags out there who weren't automobiles. If Jag had been a good friend of Meaghan's, she might know something about who the girl had been seeing and what she had been up to before her murder. Perhaps even more than Meaghan's parents would know, if and when Mak could get them to talk to her.

L...Leslie...Leslie, J...

It was amazing how many people overlooked the simple, uncomplicated effectiveness of the common phone directory when looking for someone. In fact, a startling number of investigation cases that came into Marian's office were solved by a simple flick through the phone book and a knock on the door. Employers wanted to hunt down rogue employees, mothers wanted to hunt down exes who failed to pay child support, and much of it could be done simply by the phone book and its old slogan, 'let your fingers do the walking'. True to form, in only a few minutes Mak had come up with a number of Leslies: a slew of Jane Leslies and John Leslies, and the ones that looked like her best bet, J Leslies.

Mak phoned the first J Leslie listing, dialling #1 first to ensure that the number she was calling from was safely blocked. She dialled a J Leslie of Rose Bay, whose phone rang out until an answering machine picked up. Disappointed, Mak didn't leave a message. She couldn't leave a return number for this ring-around. She moved on to J Leslie number two.

The phone rang three times.

'Hello?'

'May I speak to Jag Leslie please?' Mak asked politely.

'Jade?'

'Sorry-I'm looking for Jag. Perhaps I have the wrong number?'

There was a dial tone.

Thank you for hanging up. That's very nice.

Mak had been hung up on many times in her work, so she wasn't offended by it-she just wished they'd warn her first. Sometimes a phone slamming down hurt her ears. Undeterred, she lifted the receiver again and called the number of J Leslie of Newtown, New South Wales. If this wasn't her, she would check through the database Marian had access to.

Someone picked up. 'Yeah?' came the answer.

'Hello, is this Jag Leslie?' Makedde asked.

'Speaking.'

Mak smiled. 'I'm calling from The Rocking Horse Nightclub. You've just been nominated for a Gold VIP pass.'

'Really? I haven't been there in like...months.' The woman sounded genuinely surprised, and not as excited as Mak had hoped.

'Well, you must have an admirer. Your nomination has been accepted.' Mak concocted the details as she went along, trying to make the deal sound as exciting as humanly possible. She'd heard enough telephone sales lines to slip into the jargon. 'Your exclusive Gold VIP pass allows you free entry and two free drinks for the next twelve months, including free entry to our next New Year's Eve party.'

'But it's February.'

Come on, a little more enthusiasm, please. I'm trying here...

'Yes. You will get to use the pass all year,' Mak replied patiently. 'Right through to January first. We need to send the pass out to you. What is the best mailing address for you?'

Jag paused. 'Um, this isn't going to cost anything, is it?'

'No,' Mak assured her. It will only cost you a free visit from me. 'This is an exclusive Gold VIP pass. It can't be bought.'

That statement finally seemed to work.

'Okay. Cool. My address is post office box-'

Crap.

Mak couldn't work with a post office box. 'I'm sorry,' Makedde interjected, 'we can't accept PO boxes on our database. Do you have a business or residential address I can type in?'

There was another pause.

'Okay.' Finally Jag gave out an address-hopefully her home address-and Mak gave her a spiel about how exclusive and fabulous the VIP pass was.

Mak wrote down the address, which was different to the one listed in the phone book-the phone book was never as up to date as Marian's full database system. Someone young and unattached like Jag might move every six months.

Mak would attempt to make contact on Saturday. With any luck, Jag knew Meaghan well, and would have a thing or two to say about her friend's murder.

CHAPTER 11.

Damien Cavanagh drove his new black Diablo into the bowels of a private underground car park in Sydney's CBD, ignoring the attendant who uttered some moronic, smiling welcome from the booth as Damien coasted past with the windows up and the stereo on. Engine purring, he reverse-parked into a spot reserved for him alone-a spot that had been vacant for the three weeks since his last visit.

God, I hate coming here.

He cut the engine and stepped out wearing expensive ripped jeans, and Gucci sneakers and cap. He knew he would be the only one in the building not wearing the uniform of business, and the idea pleased him. The vehicle bleeped twice as he clicked the transponder button over his shoulder to lock it.

Damien hated driving here to the 'Cavanagh building', where his father, despite being past retirement age at sixty-seven, still insisted on working. He hated walking through the building, most often at his father's side, suffering all those sycophantic fools who actually thought Damien cared who they were and that he gave a damn about their jobs-or even his own coveted position as a company director. His father liked meeting him here to make him feel guilty about his lack of interest in the family company. He kept that parking spot reserved for Damien even though he didn't want it. He insisted that his son make appearances.

Damien hit the button for the elevator. It soon collected him. At ground level the doors opened again to take another passenger.

'Good afternoon, Mr Cavanagh.'

'Hi, Julie,' Damien said. This was the only perk he saw in his visits. He eyed the young woman with appreciation as she entered the lift and pressed her floor. She worked in marketing or something, and, more importantly to Damien, she looked tidy in a trim grey skirt suit and heels. His friend Simon had said she was looking good lately, and she was. She was part of the local scene; she'd been to the house to party a few times.

'Have you been working out?' he commented with an intentionally salacious grin. He watched her for a reaction.

Julie shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. 'Oh, not really, but thank you.' She stood in awkward silence as the elevator ascended, her left hand scrunched up as she absentmindedly touched the band of her engagement ring with her thumb.

An engagement meant nothing. Damien should know-he had been engaged for the past six months to Carolyn, a pretty but boring young woman of whom his parents approved. The engagement had not even slightly dampened his nocturnal activities; if anything, he pursued his extracurricular games with more relish, the illicit thrill heightened.

'I'm getting out here,' Julie said on the ninth floor. 'It's good to see you, Damien. Take care.'

Damien let his eyes linger over her form as she left. She'd been quite raunchy at one time, he reflected. He wondered fleetingly whether he could get her to sleep with him again.

You are Damien Cavanagh. Of course you can.

The party she'd attended at the house a couple of years earlier had involved a lot of cocaine and a hot tub full of people enjoying one another. He distinctly remembered that Julie was one of the girls he and Simon had had a threesome with. She'd liked it at the time, and from her awkward behaviour in the elevator, she remembered it too.

Soon the doors slid back to the fourteenth floor. Damien Cavanagh frowned.

Grimacing at the disdainful familiarity of his father's office reception, he shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and stepped out.

'Good afternoon, Mr Cavanagh,' came a greeting from one of the inconsequential staff.

'Good to see you, Mr Cavanagh.'

'G'day, Mr Cavanagh. Can I get you anything?'

Oh shut up, he wanted to say. Sycophants, all of you.

Damien sauntered darkly past the reception area and the staff who sang out their greetings to him like their scripted phone greetings.

Cavanagh Incorporated, how may I help you?

He'd hoped some of them would have left work already, but alas, they were still there, slaving away on a Friday afternoon and offering their pathetic greetings. He made his way down a hallway bedecked with sporting memorabilia: a cricket bat signed by fast bowler Brett Lee; a Sydney Swans football jersey signed by the first Grand Final-winning team in seventy-two years. He walked past his father's receptionist Joy, who stood graciously to say hello, and without knocking entered through the open door of his father's spacious office. Hands still in his pockets, he crossed the room without a word and sat in the chair opposite the vast mahogany working desk of his father, the Jack Cavanagh, anticipating his usual lecture about being more productive, more responsible, more befitting the mantle his father was so eager to bestow upon him. As soon as his bottom hit the chair he slid his weight to the edge, slouching casually, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He played with the frayed edge of one of the rips in his jeans.

His dad was on a phone call.

'I have to go. My son is here,' Jack told whoever was on the line. 'Yeah, I will. Say hello to Helen and the kids for me...Yes, we had a lovely time...Yes, we'll do that. Okay, mate, speak to you soon.' Jack hung up.

'Hello, Father,' Damien said to him, not bothering to make eye contact. He looked out the window, already bored in anticipation of their discussion. These mundane 'talks' always began with some cliche like 'With privilege comes responsibility, son', and the retelling of the now-famous story of Jack Cavanagh: how he had built the Cavanagh family empire from the ground up, the son of a mere janitor; how he had bought the very building where Grandfather Cavanagh had toiled away his years to scrape together enough money to send his only son, Jack, to a good school; and how Jack had always done his best to not let his father down, to not ever take for granted how hard he had worked, how hard it was to get to the top, and what a responsibility it was to be there. And then he would tell Damien to get his act together, be more responsible, take more interest in the family company. You are a director of this company, must I remind you? Stop being seen with a different girl every week. Stop having those outrageous parties, and be more cautious for the benefit of the Cavanagh family public image. Be kinder to your mother.

Don't you know how much we care for you?

Damien had studied at Wharton. He'd proposed to his fiancee, Carolyn, just as his parents had wanted. What more could they possibly want of him?

Jack was looking at Damien hard, staring into the side of his head, and Damien could feel it. When he finally spoke to Damien, he was more grave than usual, and impatient. He did not start with any of the usual cliches, or the It's time for us to have a fatherson chat bullshit.

'Damien,' Jack said, then paused. 'We need to talk about something serious. We have to be very open here. This is for you and I to discuss openly right now.' He got up from behind his desk and walked across the room to close his office door. When he returned to his desk, he sat in his creaking leather chair and leaned forwards. His voice was lower than usual. 'Son, a man threatened me today. I need to know what is going on,' he said tersely.

Damien looked back from the window, genuinely surprised. This was not the usual discussion. 'What...what do you mean?'