Thompson found the address. It was on Burton Street, past Thomson Street, on the opposite side to the National Art School. A single-fronted workers’ cottage. Rent would be expensive, the rooms small. In the car he decided to call the so-called best friend, Annie.
A tired sounding voice answered his call. ‘Hello, yes, who is this?’
‘Annie, my name is Thompson. I’m a private investigator hired by Tanya’s father. Did he tell you I would call?’
‘Yes, oh, I’m so glad something is finally happening with my baby girl. She’s beautiful but fragile. But she shouldn’t make her dad worry.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She’s beautiful … but a little fragile maybe.’
‘Can we meet later today?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where? I’m in Darlinghurst now.’
‘I’m in Bondi.’ She told Thompson the address on Sir Thomas Mitchell Ro
