Thompson drove to Kings Cross. Parked. Walked to the main drag. Started doing his version of knocking on doors, by hitting up the strip club spruikers, who were cautious at best, unhelpful at worst. He stuck his head in at The Carrington. Told the girl on reception who he was. Her name was Andrea, a big fat babe, flabby arms, blond hair, maybe forty, tough lines around her eyes.
She said when he told her he was from the Prosecutors Office,
‘Not talking to you.’
A straight shooter. In a calm voice he explained what it was he wanted. He saw her mellow a bit.
‘You can call me Andy, babe,’ she said, winking. Thompson smiled despite himself.
‘You know this girl,’ he said, showing her the photo of Rhia.
‘No, but nothing sticks out with her does it, nothing catches your eye. That mousy hair
