Legacy. Jeff Edwards

to him.

      What appeared to be the office’s most junior clerk lost the battle with her fellow workers and reluctantly ambled to the counter.

      ‘Can I help you?’ asked the seventeen-year-old.

      ‘I’m sure you can,’ Sam said, producing his usual charming smile along with his identification.

      The girl’s face went white as she read his identification. ‘I’ll just get my boss,’ she squeaked as she ran off.

      Her reaction had attracted the attention of the rest of the staff, who looked up to see what was happening. Sam smiled at them and their eyes immediately dropped back to their screens.

      The girl returned with a middle-aged woman who identified herself as the deputy of human resources. Sam showed her his identification, and requested the home address for Hannah Post.

      ‘I don’t think we can give that information out. It’s private.’

      Sam again produced his most winning smile.

      ‘I think Mr Potter might see it differently. I’ve just been talking to him. Would you like to ring his office and confirm that?’

      The woman didn’t know what to do. Should she ring the new managing director and ask him, and possibly make him upset, or did she just give out the information? What if Sam were lying?

      Opting for a safe approach, she rang Potter’s secretary.

      ‘I have a gentleman from Inland Security down here. Has he been to see Mr Potter?’

      ‘Why yes. I just had a lovely talk to his assistant as well. They’re very nice people,’

      Relieved, the human resources woman returned to Sam, and said: ‘Did you say Hannah Post? Wasn’t she Mr Potter’s secretary?’

      ‘That’s the one.’

      Consulting a nearby computer, she made a note. ‘I’ll just go and get her file.’

      Returning a short time later, she placed a binder of documents on the counter. The front page gave Hannah Post’s full name as Hannah Jordan Post and her personnel number as 345765F.

      ‘What information are you after?’

      Taking out his notebook, Sam noted down her full name and asked: ‘What is her current address?’

      ‘That should be easy enough,’ replied the deputy as she turned over several pages. She paused, reread some notes, and turned back to Sam. ‘We don’t know where she lives.’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘We don’t know where she lives. According to our records, she simply walked out. No notice was tendered. We waited for a month to see if she would contact us, for her to explain her actions, but she never did, so we were forced to terminate her. All her entitlements were calculated and a cheque was posted out to the home address recorded on her file. The letter and the cheque were returned by the post office, marked ‘no longer at this address’. We still have her money here, waiting to be collected.’

      Bells were ringing in Sam’s brain. This was too much of a coincidence.

      ‘What was her last address?’

      Turning to the documents, she read: ‘145 Chisholm Street, Orangegrove.’

      ‘Who’s listed as her next-of-kin?’

      ‘It looks like her husband, Dr Simon Peter Post, also of the same address.’

      ‘Are there any other relatives referred to in her documents?’

      ‘No nothing. No parents, nor children,’

      ‘Thank you. Do you have a phone number that I can contact you on in case we have some further inquiries?’

      The deputy supplied those details. She couldn’t wait for Sam to leave so that she could get on to the phone. This bit of juicy gossip would be spread throughout the building by the end of the day.

      Sam met Bree back at the car. She noticed his serious expression.

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘We now have a secretary who quits her job under suspicious circumstances and promptly disappears.’

      Driving off, Sam elaborated while Bree consulted the street directory and gave him directions to Chisholm Street, Orangegrove.

      Chapter Eight

      Orangegrove proved to be a middle-class housing development less than ten years old. It had all the markings of a Briscoe Corporation development project. Built on a long disused military airfield, it comprised the usual shopping centre surrounded by a suburb of medium priced housing and was located relatively close to public transport

      ‘I wonder if she got a staff discount when she bought the property,’ mused Bree.

      ‘She certainly seems to have been a loyal employee. Supporting the company with her hard earned money.’

      They turned into Chisholm Street and parked outside number 145.

      A compact Japanese sedan was parked in the drive, while the scattering of toys in the front yard indicated the presence of a child of preschool years.

      The door was answered by a harried looking female about thirty years of age wearing a rumpled track suit. A small boy with a runny nose peeped from behind her legs.

      Bree asked: ‘Are you Hannah Post?’

      ‘No I’m not.’

      ‘Do you know Hannah Post?’

      ‘No I don’t. I think she and her husband own the house. We rent it from Blacks Real Estate in the shopping centre.’

      ‘So you don’t know where we could find Hannah Post.’

      ‘Not a clue. We just pay the rent to the real estate.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      Sam and Bree split up and called to the adjoining houses. Their efforts were equally fruitless.

      Hannah Post and her husband Simon had been very religious, very upright citizens. No one had been able to form a close friendship with them. They attended a church in a nearby suburb called the Church of the Risen Christ. Neighbours knew this because of the many religious tracts placed in their letter boxes by Hannah and her husband.

      The Orangegrove Village Shopping Centre was built to the usual formula – a supermarket at either end with arcades of lesser shops between. Blacks Real Estate was one of the shops whose entrance faced directly on to the surrounding car park.

      Sam and Bree showed their identification to the receptionist and asked to see the person in charge of lettings. The girl rang through immediately.

      A male appeared, curious as to what Inland Security would want with their agency. ‘I’m the owner, George Black. Can I help you?’ He led them down a hall to a small office.

      Bree explained that they urgently needed to contact the owners of 145 Chisholm Street and requested their current address.

      ‘I’ll bring up the file. I think that’s a funny one.’

      He tapped away at his computer and opened the Posts’ file.

      ‘Yes. I thought so. We’ve never had any contact with the actual owners.’

      ‘So how was the rental arranged?’ asked Bree.

      ‘We have a copy of a letter from Simon and Hannah Post giving