He submitted no employment references, but didn't need to, because the Wollongatta Municipal Council employed librarians who spoke only a smattering of English and had spent time in gaol. Near the end of the application was a space for "next of kin" to be contacted in an emergency. Blank. Strange.
She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes gone; maybe five left. She closed the personnel file, returned it to the filing cabinet and was about to leave when murder dropped out of her mind and Tom Birkett popped in. Maybe she should look in his personnel file to see if he was married or in a relationship. Who was his "next of kin"?
Despite the pressure of time, she had to find out. Hands shaking, breathing hard, she thumbed through the hanging files, looking for his personnel file and didn't find one. Bronwyn obviously hadn't opened one yet. Damn. She closed the drawer and locked it.
Maybe his file was in a desk drawer. She skirted around behind the desk and quickly rummaged through the drawers. Nothing. Double damn.
No time left.
She slipped out of the office and found the library still shrouded in gloom. She flicked on the lights, went over to the borrowing counter and sat down.
Still a bundle of nerves, she turned on the computer. Time hobbled on crutches while it booted up. Then she surfed the net until she found a photo of the Oxenfeld Public Library in Manchester, a boring grey concrete building adorned with metal-framed windows. It was obviously designed by a long-dead architect who thought there was too much style and beauty in the world, and nobody would notice him if he gave it more.
She also googled the Coxwood Public Library in Adelaide and located a photograph of the library or, at least, what was left of it, because it was a burnt-out ruin. Shit. She did some more net-surfing and clicked on a newspaper story from The Adelaide Advertiser dated about a year ago.
The headline said: "POLICE SUSPECT ARSONIST STARTED LIBRARY BLAZE."
Wow.
The four-paragraph story said that police strongly suspected that, shortly after the library closed in the evening, an arsonist started a fire which gutted the whole building. The mayor of the local council said the library was not insured against arson and it would cost at least $3 million to replace it.
She surfed the net for follow-up newspaper stories and found none. Certainly, no sign the police caught the culprit.
Jesus. It looked like Mr Cheshire left Adelaide and came to Sydney because someone torched the library he worked at. That raised the obvious question: was he responsible? Normally, she wouldn't have entertained that notion. However, she now knew that arson destroyed the previous library he worked at and there was a murder at the present one. When she factored in his general spookiness and recent behaviour, she was surely entitled to suspect he committed both crimes.
He had intimated a few times that he didn't like being a librarian and felt trapped in the job. Maybe burning down one library and murdering an old hobo in another, was his way of expressing his frustration. Bloody hell.
A small part of her wished she hadn't uncovered this information, because of the trouble it would cause her. Events were dragging her into deep water. But most of her buzzed with excitement. Now, instead of just shelving books all day, she was doing something worth putting in a book.
The heavy front doors creaked and gave her a jolt. Tom Birkett entered. Once again, he wore a black-leather motorcycle jacket and jeans and, once again, looked smoking hot. His appearance was enough to boot Mr Cheshire - and the suddenly unimportant question of whether he was a murderer and arsonist - from her mind.
Tom stuffed his gloves into his motorcycle helmet. "Hi."
"Hi." She casually clicked a button to dismiss the web browser she was using.
"I understand Bronwyn won't be here today?"
"She's attending a librarians' conference at the Casino. Mr Cheshire's also rostered off."
"So who's in charge?"
"Me, I'm afraid."
A sweet smile. "Good choice." He held up his helmet. "I'll put this in the workroom and then you can put me to work."
When he left, her mind immediately returned to the possibility Mr Cheshire, the man she frequently saw pushing a book trolley around the library, was a super-violent criminal. Her nerves tingled. To distract herself, she started checking in a pile of returns.
Her pulse rate had started to flatten when the front doors opened again and Gary sauntered in, wearing a T-shirt, jeans and a smug expression. A khaki knapsack was slung over his back.
He said: "Hi, you the first here?"
"No, Tom's putting his stuff in the workroom."
He leered. "Tom, huh?"
The last thing she needed was Gary's smart-arsery. "What's wrong with that? What should I call him - Mr Birkett?"
Crossed arms and a lowered voice. "Like I said, there's something fishy about that guy."
"Don't be silly."
He shrugged. "If you don't want to face reality, that's up to you. Anyway, Bronwyn's away today, right?"
"Yes."
"So you're in charge?"
"Correct."
"You can't be worse." He stood to attention. "I await your orders, mein kapitan!"
She wanted to grab his ear and squeeze hard. "Clean out the overnight chute and start shelving."
He jammed his heels together, but his sandshoes didn't click. "Jarwohl."
"Stop being a dickhead."
"Jarwohl," he said and headed towards the chute.
A few minutes later, at nine o'clock, she opened the big front doors and allowed the handful of patrons waiting outside to enter.
For the rest of the day she was able to push Tom Birkett to the back of her mind - most of the time, anyway - while she pondered how to dig up more information on Mr Cheshire. The obviously solution was to talk to librarians who previously worked with him. She couldn't contact anyone at the library in Adelaide because it burnt to the ground and the staff scattered to places unknown. However, she could call the Oxenfeld Public Library in Manchester and try to speak to a former colleague.
That evening, she told Gary and Tom that she would close up and sent them on their way. When they'd gone, she scampered into Bronwyn's office, locked the door and surfed the internet until she found the telephone number for the Oxenfeld Public Library. It was about 9.00 a.m. in England. With a trembling hand, she punched the number into Bronwyn's phone and listened to half-a-dozen dial-tones.
A woman with a chirpy English accent answered. "Good morning, this is the Oxenfeld Public Library."
She tried to slow her racing heart and speak slowly. "Hello, I'm seeking some information about a man called Arthur Cheshire who once worked at your library. Is there anyone there who knew him?"
"Knew Arthur?"
"Yes."
"If you want, I can put him on the line."
That puzzled her. "Put who on the line?"
"Arthur."
"Arthur Cheshire?"
"Yes."
"You mean, Arthur Cheshire still works there?"
"Of course. I'll get him."
"Thank you."
Jesus Christ. Had two men called Arthur Cheshire worked at the English library? Surely not.
A friendly-sounding man came on the line. "Hello, this is Arthur."
"Arthur Cheshire?"
"Yes, of course."
"Hello, my name is Julia Schmidt. I'm a librarian at a public library in Sydney, Australia."
"Oh, really? I've been to Sydney - lovely town."
"Yes, it is. I am calling about a man called Arthur Cheshire."
"I'm Arthur Cheshire."
"I know. But there's a man here, in Sydney, who says his name is Arthur Cheshire."
"So, two Arthur Cheshires?"
"Yes. But this Arthur - the Arthur in Sydney - says he worked at your library."
"He worked here?"
"Yes."
"No. I've been here for twenty years, and I'm the only Arthur Cheshire who's worked here."
"Shit."
"Pardon?"
Her head was spinning. The guy in Manchester had no reason to lie. It looked like Mr Cheshire - the Sydney one - never worked at the Oxenfeld Public Library: he was an imposter who assumed this guy's identity. "Umm, do you know a librarian who's tall, bald - totally bald - and gaunt looking? He's about 57 years old and now lives in Australia."
A long pause. "Louis - are you talking about Louis?"
"Louis who?"
I have a friend called Louis Barker - known him since we were at university together. About three years ago, he was working at the British Library. A couple of detectives from Scotland Yard came and saw me. They said he did some bad things and ran away. They asked me if I knew where he'd gone."
She held the phone so tightly her hand hurt. "What bad things?"
A pause. "Why do you want to know that information?"
"Because I fear that he's done some bad things out here."
A long pause. "OK. The detectives said he was wanted for murder, arson and theft."
An invisible heavyweight boxer hit Julia with a straight jab. It took a while for her brain to stop wobbling. "My God. What did he do?"
"According to the detectives, he was working in the Rare Manuscripts Archive of the British Library and expected to take over when his boss retired. When that didn't happen, he went a bit crazy and started stealing rare books. A co-worker got suspicious and he murdered the poor guy - bashed him to death. Then he started a fire, to make the death look accidental, stole a rare book and went on the run."
"What book?"
"A rare Anglo-Saxon bible. The detectives told me its name, but I can't remember it now."
"Wow." She had trouble breathing. Words kept dying on her tongue and sliding back down her throat. "Did the detectives catch him?"
"I don't think so. He disappeared into thin air. Do you think that your Arthur Cheshire is Louis?"
He obviously was. But she didn't want to confirm that to this guy until she'd worked out her next move. "I'm not sure. I'll check and get back to you. Thank you very much for your help."
She slammed down the phone, brain in tumult. Christ almighty. It seemed Mr Cheshire's real name was Louis Barker and he fled England after committing murder, arson and theft. He ended up in Adelaide, where he impersonated his good friend, Arthur Cheshire, to get a job at a library which burnt down. Now he working at Bradfield Public Library, where a murder occurred while he was on the premises. He was like a hurricane leaving a trail of destruction behind him.
A shiver. If he was a murderer and arsonist - which seemed beyond doubt - and she made one false move, she could easily be his next victim.
She bet that the real Arthur Cheshire was, right now, contacting the detectives at Scotland Yard to tell them about her enquiry, and they would quickly discover she phoned from the Bradfield Public Library. However, she wasn't too concerned about that. It was probably a good thing that the wheels were now in motion.
She considered contacting the local cops straight away. But this was the most exciting day of her life - all her senses tingled - and she didn't want it to stop. Her next target was 'Mr Cheshire's' locker in the workroom, to see if it contained any evidence against him, or maybe the rare bible.
Bronwyn kept the master key in a bottom drawer of her desk. Julia fished it out and strolled around to the workroom where several battered metal lockers stood in a row against a wall. Tremors radiated from her heart as she inserted the key into his locker. She shouldn't be doing this. It was wrong, wrong, wrong.
Shaddup. So was murder. She turned the key with a strong snap of the wrist. The door popped open with a squeak that made her jump. As she expected, the inside was very neat: a couple of shirts hung on coat-hangers and a pair of dark loafers lay in the bottom next to a small pile of papers.
She nervously extracted the papers and leafed through them. A few electricity and water bills - no big deal - then colour photocopies of a dozen pages of an illuminated manuscript. The script was in Latin and there were gorgeous gold and silver decorations in the margins. They were obviously pages from the rare bible that 'Mr Cheshire' stole from the British Library.
Jesus. Her head went light and tight iron bands squeezed her chest. The photocopies shivered in her hand. Bile rattled up her throat. She slumped back against the large table. Stop panicking. Stop, now. You wanted an adventure. Well, this is what happens when you have one - you get scared shitless - so don't complain.
She smuggled air into her lungs and slowly regularised her breathing. A sliver of calm returned and she decided that, before returning the photocopies to the locker, she should make further photocopies for herself. That wouldn't take long.
She rushed out to the photocopier and quickly made her own colour photocopies. Anxious to return what she'd taken from 'Mr Cheshire's' locker, she spun around, bumped into someone and tumbled to the ground. "Shit."
"Sorry."
She looked up, half-expecting to see 'Mr Cheshire's' bald skull and glowing eyes. Instead, she saw Younis, the stocky Afghan who cleaned the library in the evenings. He wore a back-pack vacuum cleaner and held the rod in one hand.
A gold-toothed smile. "You OK?"
Thank heaven he wasn't 'Mr Cheshire'. "Yes, yes, I'm fine."
Younis helped her up and spoke halting English. "You move too quick."
She brushed carpet fibres off her skirt. "Yes, sorry, my fault."
"You work late?"
Somehow, getting knocked over and finding out 'Mr Cheshire' wasn't responsible, restored her calm. But she had to get back to the workroom before Younis entered it and saw 'Mr Cheshire's' locker was open. "Oh, yes, I've got a few things to do. Anyway, have a good evening."
She strode into the workroom and realised that, when she removed the photocopies from the locker, she paid little attention to how they were arranged. Damn. She'd also scrunched them up a little, probably when she fell over. She smoothed them out and tried to arrange them in the bottom of the locker as best she could remember. The whine of Younis' vacuum cleaner got louder. No time left. She slammed the locker door shut and prayed 'Mr Cheshire' wouldn't notice anything amiss.
She opened her own locker, took out her rucksack and stuffed the photocopies inside. Then she strolled out past Younis - still vacuuming with his back to her - and into Bronwyn's office, where she returned the master key to the bottom drawer.
On her way home, she passed the police station and was tempted to go inside. However, the Homicide detectives had probably gone home. Best to calm down, collect her thoughts and speak to them in the morning.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Julia slept badly and dreamed that 'Mr Cheshire' was chasing her down a long aisle between high bookshelves, eyes bulging and screaming: "I am not Louis Barker; I am not Louis Barker; I am not ...". She reached a wall at the end of the aisle and spun around, trapped. 'Mr Cheshire' raised massive claw-like hands and reached for her throat.
She woke, gasping for breath, holding her throat. Fragments of the dream clung to the inside of her skull before getting sucked down her central cortex. She recalled the events of the previous day - during which she discovered 'Mr Cheshire' was a murderer, pyromaniac and book thief called Louis Barker - and shuddered. Christ. Did she really wake up or just escaped from one bad dream into another? As morning sunlight streaming into her bedroom, she sifted through her memories of the previous day, carefully examining each one, and realised that they all happened. Bloody hell.
She lay back considered her next move. First, she would visit the police station and tell the cops everything she knew. She'd ask to see Detective Constable Dryden who seemed friendlier than his partner. But should she appear at work after that? Part of her didn't want to turn up and have to pretend to 'Mr Cheshire' that everything was normal and he wasn't a sick puppy. Maybe she should take sick leave until the whole mess blew over. However, she was very keen to see 'Mr Cheshire' unmasked and frog-marched away. There was no way she would miss that, whatever the cost.
She reached the police
station just after 8.30 a.m. and, with mounting excitement, approached the burly uniformed sergeant on duty behind the counter. "Umm, can I speak to Detective Dryden?"
He shook his head. "He's not here right now."
Damn. "When will he be here?"
"Not sure. He's out on the road. He'll probably be back in a few hours. This urgent?"
"Umm, no, I'll pop back a bit later."
"Come about noon - you should catch him then."
Noon seemed on the far side of human history. She considered asking if Cochrane was around, but a mental image of his grumpy face killed that idea. "Sure, thanks, I will."
The burly sergeant studied her carefully. "Maybe I can help you?"
"No, it'll wait - I'd better speak to Detective Dryden. Thanks."
A shrug. "Sure."
She left the police station and felt a stab of panic. Maybe she should go home until Detective Dryden returned. However, she'd never called in sick before and didn't want to start. Further, if she did, 'Mr Cheshire' might smell a rat. No, best to stick to her usual routine and come back to the police station at noon.
She arrived at the library a bit later than usual, only ten minutes before opening time. Tom Birkett was sitting behind the borrowing counter, tapping away on the computer keyboard.
She said: "Hi."
"Hi. You're a little late."
She looked around nervously for Mr Cheshire. "Got caught up. Anyone else here?"
"Bronwyn's in her office, and Gary and Mr Cheshire are on the premises, doing something or other."
"OK, thanks."
Soon afterwards, while Tom turned on the bank of computers available to patrons, she opened the front entrance to let a couple of waiting patrons enter.
She returned to the borrowing counter and sat on a stool behind it. Three hours to kill. A knot formed in her stomach.
To her surprise, the novelist, Tex McMillan, strolled into the library and approached her, wearing a blue blazer and jeans. He looked more spruce than at the Author Talk, and more nervous.
"Hi."
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