‘Then I will not be responsible for the consequences.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Katrina asked.
‘You must tell the police that they are dealing with matters beyond their understanding, matters that will get them killed.’
‘If you give yourself up, you can tell them.’
‘They’ll not believe me. I must remain free.’
‘To kill others?’
‘I must protect you and the others.’
‘What others?’
‘Thousands, maybe millions of people.’
‘You realise that what you are saying sounds crazy.’
‘If I told you, you would not understand. Why do you think I live as I do? Do you think I enjoy it?’
‘I’ve never thought about it. Everyone on the street has a story, the same as you.’
‘No one else on the street knows what I do. I suggest you do not leave here for thirty minutes.’
‘And if I do?’
‘I know where you are.’
Katrina sat on the bench as she watched the unkempt man move away. She could see his head down, his shoulders hunched. The man had sounded serious, as if he knew what he was talking about. He could have just been another crazy on the street, but she didn’t think so. For whatever reason, she’d give him the thirty minutes he had requested.
***
Big Greg knew one thing as he walked away from the woman: he’d need to change. He had given a warning to the police, but no details. And besides, the details would not be for their understanding, and they’d only follow the official procedure of a murder investigation.
He knew that they would not hold back, but he knew that he had to do it, to ease his conscience. He regretted that he had murdered Bob Robertson, realising that taking the notebook and the computer would have been the best solution, but he had been angry that a man he had trusted had betrayed him. It had not been the first time that he had been betrayed, and would not be the last either. His wife had betrayed him with another man, although she did not know that. His colleagues, all those years before, had betrayed him when he had warned them of the consequences of continuing their research, and the young female had betrayed him by coming close to the solution. He regretted that he had killed, knowing that if those who had stolen the computer could be found, he would have to kill them as well. And what did the computer have? Titbits of the solution gleaned from his discarded notebook, useless to anyone who did not understand what they meant or how to link the scribblings to make them complete.
The only problem that Bob Robertson had caused was to let them know that he was still alive. They had traced the computer at the hostel because of a formula entered in the search bar; they would find him.
Big Greg looked at himself in a shop window; saw a man of the street, a vagrant, a person of little worth. He knew it was time. He walked away from the area and headed south. He needed distance, he needed another hostel that would take him in, somewhere that would not ask questions.
***
It was two hours, almost to the minute, before Katrina Ireland presented herself at Challis Street Police Station; two hours too late according to Isaac after she had recounted her story.
He had to admit she sounded plausible in that she had not been looking for Big Greg; he had been looking for her, and there had never been any suspicion focussed on the woman. Quite the contrary, in that even in the short time she had been running the hostel, she had been doing a good job, some said even better than the previous manager who could be prickly with those who did not adhere to the rules. Not that Katrina was a pushover, everybody knew that. Too many years rattling around the underbelly of the city, where she had encountered more than her fair share of gangsters, perverts, and malignant, misogynist men who felt they were doing her a favour when they gave her their money in exchange for using her body however they wanted. Some had wanted straight sex, some wanted to be tied up, some had wanted…
Katrina did not want to think about some of the acts she had been asked to perform, to inflict. Even at her most drugged, she had still known what degradation and abuse and violence were. Not that she had experienced them since she had cleaned herself up, and now with the hostel, they’d be no more. No more of anything, other than a life of contemplation, a life of peace, a life of serving the community. It was a strange feeling to her, and she realised that if Bob Robertson had not died, she may have deviated, ended up on the slippery path back to oblivion and self-loathing. She knew she could only thank the man for what he had done for her.
Visiting the police station where she had spent the occasional night locked up in a cell, to be fined the next day by a local magistrate, was not something that Katrina contemplated as her idea of fun. She’d have preferred to have not been there, but her meeting with Big Greg had left her more than a little disturbed. Whereas the man had not mistreated her, apart from his firm grip on her arm, he had been threatening.
He had a message, she knew she had to pass it on, even if she did not know what it meant.
‘Please take a seat,’ Isaac said as he welcomed her into his office. ‘Coffee, tea?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. I can’t stay long, there’s plenty to do before the nighttime rush.’
‘What is it?’
‘I’ve seen Big Greg.’
‘When?’
Two hours ago, no more than half a mile from here.’
‘You’ve taken your time to
