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until they got to Broadway, along Parramatta Road then Ashfield and into the turning lane for the Liverpool highway.
    The blue Mercedes turned, followed by the two cars between them, but the second car had already run the red light and Gemma
     was stuck, forced to watch as the Mercedes disappeared.
    She spent fifteen minutes driving south-west, overtaking and straining to see distant cars, but Angelo and his Mercedes had
     vanished.
    Gemma swore.
    Despite having the key, it would be too risky to snoop around Tolmacheff’s office. There must be a way, she thought, to get
     close to him that wouldn’t make him suspicious. Maybe she could try for a ‘spontaneous’ conversation at one of the Centre’s
     cafes? She had a number of lines she’d used in the past when she was working on Mandate surveillance jobs. It shouldn’t be
     too hard.

CHAPTER 4
    The next morning, Mike had been gone for an hour and Rafi safely delivered to daycare when Gemma tried Janet Chancy’s mobile
     number again, but could only leave another message. A call to the newspaper and a brief conversation with a worried colleague
     confirmed that Janet was still not home and had not contacted the office. ‘Maybe she met some hunk and stayed out all night,’
     joked her colleague, but his laugh was uneasy. ‘At least I hope so,’ he added. ‘I’ve never known Janet not to call in.’
    Gemma rang off, also feeling worried. Maybe she
has
met some hunk, Gemma thought. Some bad hunk. Before she could allow too many frightening scenarios to play out in her mind,
     however, she heard Angie’s voice calling outside. ‘Gem? Gemma! We’re here!’
    When Gemma opened the front door she saw Angie – scrubbed and polished in her smart navy suit, briefcase in hand, auburn hair
     gleaming in a knot, looking every bit of her thirty-eight years – and a stunning beauty standing behind her: luminouseyes, perfectly shaped glossy lips, a straight nose, thick ash blonde hair like a mane and a slender figure. But most striking
     was her pallor, pale skin translucent against the ruby lip gloss.
    ‘This is Mischa,’ Angie said, ushering the young woman through the doorway. ‘Mischa Bloomfield. Mischa, this is Gemma Lincoln.’
    ‘Mischa, Angie, please come in,’ said Gemma. ‘No, not the office, come right through,’ she continued as she led them down
     the hallway, past the heavy door that connected her professional and private lives and into her living room. ‘I’ll put on
     some coffee. Make yourselves comfortable.’
    When Gemma returned, Angie was perched on the edge of the sofa, her laptop on her knees, while Mischa sat awkwardly on the
     seat opposite, her long legs at an angle, adjusting the purple silk scarf around her neck, fiddling with the gold brooch shaped
     like a tiny arrow that fixed it at her shoulder.
    ‘It was my great-grandmother’s,’ said Mischa softly, noticing Gemma’s admiring glance.
    ‘It’s charming.’
    Gemma set down a tray holding three steaming mugs, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar, and there was a silence while they helped
     themselves. Gemma sat on the other large lounge chair, balancing her mug on its arm. On the other she placed her notebook
     and pen.
    ‘Mischa,’ said Angie, ‘let me reassure you. As I’ve mentioned to you, Gemma is my oldest and most trusted friend. We served
     together in the police years ago. Now Gemma runs a successful private security business and she is completely trustworthy.’
    Angie sipped her coffee and then put it down, turning to Mischa again. ‘Can you tell Gemma exactly what you told me?’
    Mischa shifted uncomfortably on her seat, seemingly unwilling to speak.
    ‘It sounds unbelievable,’ she finally whispered, fiddling nervously with the brooch.
    ‘Go on,’ said Angie gently. ‘Gemma will listen to you. It’s okay.’
    ‘I was at the club – Midnight Mirage – and I met this really well-dressed guy, Italian or foreign or something. Here’s his
     card,’ she