Tropic of Death by Robert Sims

heavy presence. A reminder of global conflict on your doorstep.’
    ‘To be honest,’ said Bryce, ‘I try not to think about it. And as long as the GIs behave on leave, I don’t have to.’
    ‘And what about the Whitley Sands research base?’
    ‘What about it?’
    ‘Do you have a hands-off policy there too?’
    ‘Ah, surprise, surprise.’ Bryce turned to her with a sour smile.
    ‘Jarrett has been grumbling to you.’
    ‘You don’t think he’s got a point?’ Rita queried. ‘From my initial assessment it’s clear that people on the base could provide material help to the investigation.’
    ‘I’ll repeat to you what I told him,’ said Bryce, straightening up. ‘The base and its personnel are none of our business. It’s a highly sensitive establishment run jointly by the government of the United States and the Commonwealth of Australia. Whoever and whatever are deployed there fall under national security restrictions.
    In other words, we have to consider it out of bounds.’
    ‘Like foreign territory.’
    ‘Exactly. All the military land south of the town, including the war games reserve and the research base, comes under the jurisdiction of the defence department.’
    ‘A modern occupation force.’
    ‘That’s how the land rights activists see it, not to mention the greens and the anti-war demonstrators. But these issues don’t fall within your remit as a criminal profiler.’ Bryce tapped the display of crime photos. ‘We’ve got a serial killer on the loose.
    That’s the issue to focus on. That’s why you’re here, Van Hassel.
    I don’t want you getting sidetracked by peripheral controversies.
    Understood?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Good. I’ll let you get on with it.’ Bryce opened the door to leave. ‘Though I must admit I’m a bit mystified as to what profilers actually do.’
    ‘We think a lot, sir.’
    Bryce looked at her askance, as if not sure whether that was a good or bad thing, nodding dubiously as he went out.
    He was right to worry because what Rita was thinking was the very opposite of his advice. She was now even more convinced that what went on behind the gates of Whitley Sands was worthy of scrutiny.

13
At quarter to three Rita walked into the saloon bar of the Steamboat, an old-fashioned pub decorated with a jumble of maritime antiques. The brass bell that Steinberg had mentioned was mounted on an end wall between sepia photos of paddle-steamers. An assortment of lanterns, anchors and ensigns continued the theme throughout. A TV tuned to the Discovery Channel prattled above the bar. Rita ordered a lime and soda and sat at a table near the ship’s bell to wait.
    The pub was busy but not crowded, with a scattering of tourists, kids thumping away at slot machines, and a handful of regulars, by the look of them, leaning on the mahogany counter and putting the world to rights. At a corner table American sailors were drinking bottled beer. It had a relaxed feel and nobody bothered her.
    Rita had done as Steinberg suggested, checking his website and finding a photo of a balding middle-aged man who looked like the archetypal scientist - dome-headed with a studious face and dark eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, and a hint of scepticism in his smile. At precisely three o’clock he walked in and looked directly at her. A tall man with shoulders slightly stooped, he was easily recognisable from the website image but, on this occasion, he wore no trace of a smile. In his checked shirt and cream trousers there was almost an air of formality about him, given the surroundings.
    After a cautious glance around he approached.
    ‘Dr Steinberg,’ said Rita.
    He sat down, his hostility undisguised. He gave her a look as heavy as a lead cudgel.
    ‘I don’t appreciate coercion,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The only reason I’m here at all is because you’re Byron’s friend.’
    ‘Well, thanks for coming.’
    ‘You gave me little choice. Hardly the way to treat the friend of a