To Lucy, Bibi, Nina and Lily.

‘A man is never more truthful than when he acknowledges himself a liar.’

— Mark Twain

‘It is always the best policy to speak the truth, unless, of course, you are an exceptionally good liar.’

— Jerome K. Jerome

‘The best liar is he who makes the smallest amount of lying go the longest way.’

— Samuel Butler

‘Truth searches for no one. It waits to be found.’

— Suzy Kassem

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

From a distance it was difficult to tell if the sun was gaining satisfaction from its daily work of bringing light, heat and life, or just going through the motions as it counted down the hours until it could disappear, open a bottle of red and slump in front of the telly. Whatever its attitude, it still did good shimmering. Anyone standing on Bullford Point’s jetty – and there were currently two people, both smiling peacefully as they tried to murder fish – would see rays bouncing and flickering off the water in ever changing patterns that would both intimidate and inspire even the most self-assured landscape artist.

Up the slope a way, the sun attempted to raid a two-storey brick house that nestled into the hillside, surrounded by trees and ferns protecting it like a president’s security guards. Most beams were blocked, but a few were able to sneak across the generous balcony that hung imperiously over a vibrant garden, scuttle through gaps in the blinds shielding the glass doors, and illuminate a tidy, comfortable living room.

Drawn curtains proved a formidable obstacle to the main bedroom, but several of the most highly trained, elite rays slithered through tiny gaps to reach fifty-eight-year-old Barbara Young, lying alone in a bed built for two.

Did they pause to examine her peaceful, sleeping, round face, noting her small nose and slim-lipped, friendly mouth? Did they recognise their creator’s work in her tanned cheeks?

They did not. Travelling at the speed of light doesn’t leave much time for careful observation. They simply barrelled forward, and tapped her eyelids.

Barb’s eyes flickered open. Her arm reached instinctively across to the vacant half of the bed, feeling for someone who wasn’t there. She sighed and ran through the day’s tasks: quick breakfast, two coffees from Sue, pick up Joe, drive to McMasters, oil the Nadans’ front deck.

Barb had worked alone for many years. She liked it that way. However, a few weeks ago, in an effort to support Joe Griffith’s attempt to replace his murky past with a bright future, she had offered him some part-time work as her helper. She was surprised by how much she had come to enjoy his company. She remembered him as a feisty boy, always able to reduce the amount of trouble he was in with his magnetic likeability. She hadn’t seen him during his six years of addiction in Sydney, but the post-jail-and-rehab version of Joe was still likeable, cheeky and funny, albeit more wary, weathered and tattooed.

Even though the life lessons and philosophies he shared – ‘One day at a time, Barb’, ‘Gotta keep busy so my mind doesn’t start wandering’ – sounded like regurgitated clichés, they appeared to be working. It had been six weeks now, and he had been reliable, punctual, engaged and, as far as she could tell, drug free. ‘Mentoring’ might be putting it a bit highly, but helping him restore his life by giving him the opportunity to feel the satisfaction of a hard day’s work made her feel good. And, if she were honest, and she did try to be, his company had come at an ideal time.

She had gradually adjusted, although it hadn’t been easy, when her only child, Julie, moved to Melbourne twelve years ago, firstly to study economics, returning home for ever diminishing periods in the holidays, and now forging a career in the finance industry, whatever that was. The more recent and far bigger surprise had come four months ago when Dennis, her husband of thirty-one years, had told her he had ‘met someone’ and was leaving. She eventually prised out of him that he had met this someone three years ago when she had started work at his accountancy firm, and had actually been ‘seeing’ her for nine months, which probably meant a year and a half. Barb had been completely blindsided. How had she missed the signs?

She was wary of wallowing, so quickly reminded herself that she was alive, healthy and lived in a beautiful part of the world. Surely that was enough. Did it really matter that not much excited her at the moment? Quickly, before she had time to wrestle with that question, she grabbed her tortoiseshell glasses from the bedside table and got up.

**

Eight hundred metres away, on the other side of the bay, the sun faced a far greater obstacle to infiltrate a rented single-storey fibro shack and wake its occupant, twenty-six-year-old Constable Sebastian Baxter – it was blocked by a hill. But where nature failed, technology, in the form of an alarm clock, stepped in. As soon as it beeped, Seb’s hand shot from underneath the covers and, with practised skill, expertly disabled it without his closed eyelids even flickering.

Ten minutes later, the alarm tried again, this time succeeding in prying open Seb’s eyes. Almost immediately, Seb remembered the thing he was scared of and felt the familiar waves of anxiety. He lay there, wishing he could learn how to control them, but he was unwilling to see a counsellor, because who knew what ‘completely confidential’ really meant anymore. He also got up and readied himself for another exciting day pulling over speeding motorists, attending minor accidents and finding missing cats.

*

Back on the sunny side of the bay, the sun’s rays pushed through transparent curtains into another bedroom, illuminating another body on a bed. However, even if they had been able to shine directly into the person’s eyes, they would have been powerless to prise them open, for the occupant of the bed was dead.

Elsewhere, another person awoke and felt safe. They were not proud of what they had done, but there was no regret. It had been necessary. There was danger, and it had to be removed. Isn’t that what every species has done for millions of years? Identify threats and take the necessary steps to protect themselves. Was that natural selection? Or something else? Who cared? They were safe.

Meanwhile, above them all, the sun plodded inscrutably onward, presenting its best self to the solar system, because that’s what one did. What sort of idiot would want the rest of the universe to know what was really going on beneath the surface?

CHAPTER 2

EXCERPT FROM GARY TURNER’S EULOGY AT THE FUNERAL OF SALLY McINDOE, 18 NOVEMBER 2017

At funerals, everyone says nice things about the person, even if they were a complete prick. But enough about my Uncle Peter. Today you’re going to hear about what an amazing person Sal was. And you might think, ‘That’s a bit “funeral enhanced”. She can’t have been that good.’ Well, she was that. She really was.

From the moment she walked into Kincumber High in Year 8, we all wanted to hang out with Sal, to be friends with her, to sit next to her on the bus and at lunch. As we got older, it turned out that some of us wanted to be more than friends with her.

I was lucky enough to be her friend, and sometimes even to sit next to her on the bus, although there was always heavy competition for that. Sal was funny, smart, kind, all of that. She also had this magnetic charisma. Not in a demonstrative, ‘look at me’ way. Unlike some of us – that is, me – she never chased attention or popularity. She just seemed to exude this inner confidence and friendliness that immediately put everyone at ease. When you were hanging out with her it always felt like you were at the very centre of things, even if you were just wandering around Bullford Point trying to work out how to scrounge up enough money to but some mixed lollies from Sue’s shop.

Sal had this incredible ability to get people enthused. Once she told me she had started knitting and that it was fun. Before you knew it, I was over at her place after school, knitting a beanie. Of course hers looked amazing, whilst mine would only have fitted a head that was rhombus shaped.

In Year 10, six of us formed a band called From Afar. Why? Because Sal thought it would be fun and, as always, we were pulled along in her wake. Only Sal could have made it happen. She wrote amazing, beautiful songs that I was so lucky to sing with her onstage. She was a bit pitchy, to be honest. I’m joking. If anyone was pitchy, it was me. She had a wonderful voice.

After school we moved to Sydney to see if our little Bullford Point band could make it in the big smoke and, because of Sal’s drive and talent, slowly things started to happen.

Then Sal left. Vanished. None of us knew why. We still don’t. We don’t know why she left so abruptly or how far our band could have gone if she hadn’t. We didn’t even know where she had gone. All we knew was that we missed her. After she left, it was like the lights had dimmed.

If any of the rest of us had left, the band could have easily continued, but without Sal it was unthinkable. We all knew we couldn’t continue without her …

Excuse me …

What we know now is that Sal went to live in the Blue Mountains. Then in an almost unfathomable piece of bad luck, she became the third victim of the Blue Mountains Strangler.

I still miss her.

EXCERPT FROM SEBASTIAN BAXTER’S EULOGY AT THE FUNERAL OF SALLY McINDOE, 18 NOVEMBER 2017

Gary said it all really, so … yeah, Sal was … amazing. Yeah … Sorry … she was … we all … You could talk to her about anything. I talked to her every day about … everything. We all miss … I miss … sorry, I … sorry.

——

EMAIL FROM EMILY GRIFFITH TO VIV GRIFFITH, 15 MAY 2024

Dear Viv,

Thank you for all your visits and for the muffins. They’re delicious, or so the nurses tell me. They were very impressed when I told them you baked them yourself. Unfortunately, my appetite isn’t what it was.

I meant to talk to you about my will when you were here, but it seems easier to write because I’m not sure how you will take it. As you know, the cancer is spreading and it’s a matter of time now. I’m coming to terms with it and hope you are too.

Pretty much all I have is the house. I know the normal thing would be to divide it equally between you and Joe, but I hope you understand Joe needs it more. When he gets out he’ll be broke, and it won’t be easy for him to get a job with his history.

I worry about him, of course, always have, much more than about you. You have that wonderful career as a lawyer, your own house, and I just feel that I should be helping him more. Not because I love him more, but because he needs it more. I want to make it as easy as possible for Joe to leave Sydney and its temptations, come back here, have somewhere nice to live, and lead a good, simple life, like you.

So – deep breath – I’m leaving him two-thirds of the house and you one-third.

I know what you’re thinking. What if he gets back on the drugs, and sells the house to get money for them? I’m putting a condition in my will that he can only inherit if he completes the rehabilitation program within the next 12 months. If he doesn’t, the whole house goes to you.

Assuming he does inherit, I know it puts you in a bad position if you want to get your money out, because he’ll have a controlling interest. I’m sorry, but this is the best I could come up with. I know things have been strained between you and him the last few years and I know that’s his fault, not yours. But if he stays off drugs, he’ll be our Joe again.

You have a right to feel aggrieved, but please Viv, swallow it and accept this. You have been a great son, and a great older brother to Joe, even when he made it very hard for you. I know you’ll be all right because you’re so sensible, and I so hope that sometime soon you meet someone special and enjoy the wonderful experience of having a family.

Love,

Mum

PS Joe of course won’t have made a will, so if anything happens to him (which is unfortunately something we’ve got used to thinking about) you will be his next of kin and inherit his share.

EMAIL FROM VIV GRIFFITH TO EMILY GRIFFITH, 15 MAY 2024

Hi Mum,

Not sure what to say. Been a while since I’ve been to church but I remember that story about the prodigal son and the fatted calf. Never seemed quite fair to me.

Viv

EXCERPTS FROM PROBATION AND PAROLE REPORT OF JOE GRIFFITH, 17 FEBRUARY 2024

OFFENCE: Break and Enter, Forge Prescription, Steal from Person, Possess Prohibited Drug (heroin)

CRIMINAL RECORD: The defendant has two previous offences for Break and Enter, one for Forge Prescription and two for Possess Prohibited Drug (heroin).

HISTORY: The defendant grew up in Bullford Point on the Central Coast of NSW with an older brother. He was an average student and a talented musician who played guitar in a band in Sydney after leaving school.

He says he started using drugs seven years ago, soon after the disappearance and subsequent death of his ex-girlfriend, Sally McIndoe, who was the third victim of the Blue Mountains Strangler. He has been using drugs, especially heroin, since. All his criminality is drug related.

The defendant has been in prison for five weeks, bail refused, and has now been accepted into a six-month residential program at a rehabilitation facility, The Healing House.

RECOMMENDATION: Cautious optimism. The defendant is an intelligent young man. It is difficult to tell whether he is genuinely enthusiastic about dealing with his addiction and turning his life around, or is just saying that to get out of jail. Given the benefits that can flow to both the individual and society from successful rehabilitation, I cautiously recommend the Court grant the defendant bail to attend The Healing House. He is aware that if he leaves before he completes the program, he would be in breach of bail and likely receive a significant custodial sentence.

——

New South Wales Police: FACT SHEET

Offender: Karen KEMP

Address: 3/18 Mort St, Surry Hills

Nationality: Australian

D.O.B: 31 January 1993

Occupation: Bar worker

Offences: Larceny × 3

Arresting Officer: Constable Shelly Hackett, Bondi

Court: Waverley Local Court

ANTECEDENTS

The accused resides with two flatmates in Surry Hills and has three previous convictions, one for assault and two for larceny for similar thefts from Bondi Beach.

FULL FACTS

On Saturday 14 April 2024, police attended Bondi Beach in response to a call. It was a hot day and the beach was crowded. A lifesaver had observed the accused come out of the water, sit amongst some towels and clothes and extract two phones from the clothes. He indicated she was frequently looking around and observing people coming out of the water. The woman then moved away, carrying the two phones hidden in a towel she took. The lifesaver followed her and observed her sit amongst another pile of clothes and extract another mobile phone and a set of AirPods. The lifesaver called police and followed the accused, who returned to her own clothes, got dressed and walked toward the bus stop.

Police attended and arrested the woman, who denied the offence. Three phones and a set of AirPods were found on her person, and were later identified by their owners. The accused has two prior convictions for exactly the same offence.

LETTER FROM KAREN KEMP TO NAOMI TRAN, 28 JULY 2024

Hi Nom

See! I said I’d write you a proper old-fashioned letter. Only took me a month.

Forget technology. I’m back to nature. Bushwalking, pen on paper and no more than 4 hours screen time a day.

Bullford Point is awesome! You drive over the hill and WOW! A headland with the town and bay on one side, beach on the other and national park in between. You honestly feel the weight lift off your shoulders. Can’t believe it’s only an hour and a half drive from Sydney and I’ve only just discovered it.

There’s one road in, one road out. On the bay side, there’re about a dozen streets with houses on big bushy blocks, most with views of the bay and plenty backing onto the national park. There’s old single-storey fibros and newer, bigger places. Big trees everywhere and bush turkeys wander about like they own the joint. Caught one on our kitchen bench the other day trying to get an apple.

Prime possie is waterfront obviously, Bayside Avenue, about 30 houses, most with private jetties. At the end of it is a small beach where dogs run and kids jump off the public jetty, which pisses off anyone fishing. A ferry comes over from Palm Beach a few times a day, so come visit!

Behind that little beach is an old-style town square and community hall where they have weddings and trash and treasure, plus my new place of employment, the corner shop and take away. The big shops in Woy Woy or Kincumber are 20 mins away. (In the car. A day and a half to walk. Without wheels, you’re fucked.)

Tom’s place is three streets up the hill. Decent balcony looking over the water and backs onto the national park. No fence, and a bush track leads up to the ridge. Walking along the ridge, you look left and see the bay, right and see the beach and ocean. Beautiful.

Things with Tom are great. He’s gorgeous and totally devoted to me. I know I’ve only known him 2 months but it feels like our Fiji holiday romance is becoming something solid. Not only is he hot, he’s also a good, simple, content man, happy being the local plumber. I’m none of those things (except hot!!), but maybe we balance each other. I know you thought I was stupid blowing all that dough on a holiday, but I needed something to cheer me up after getting arrested for the phones at Bondi (lucky they didn’t catch me for all the other times I did it!), and what a good investment it was. Got me a good man.

On the down side, they’re not a young crowd here, but there’s some our age. Mainly those who never left, or did but found the big city too scary and came scampering back. It’s great for kids, not that I’m planning that hellscape. Everyone goes to the local bowling club on Friday night. Met some locals. Decent nice people, a bit dull, but that’s fine after all those double-dealing Sydney pricks.

I think it’s really good for me to be away from Sydney and get my head right, with someone who’s stable. I walk through the bush every day, and I want to start painting again.

I just need to get the court shit sorted out. I know everyone says ‘get it over and done with fast’, but I think my decision to delay it for 6 months by pleading not guilty was smart. I’ll plead guilty on the day (got no choice, they got me cold) and my lawyer can spin all that, ‘moved up the coast, in a solid relationship, changed woman, sorted herself out’ stuff to the judge. Even so, I’m nervous. I’ve made a shitload from the phones, but this is the third time I’ve been caught, and they won’t give me another bond. But I’ve got an idea to get the cops onside.

Gotta go, much love

Kaz

——

HOSPITAL ACCIDENT REPORT

Date: 24 August 2024

Time: 5.50 a.m.

Name: Claire Ellis

Age: 26

Preliminary Diagnosis: Patient admitted via ambulance to Emergency after car accident. External abrasions, hematoma and compound leg fracture of distal femur. Patient confused with post-traumatic amnesia.

EXTRACTS FROM NOTEBOOK OF SENIOR CONSTABLE TRISH GALLAGHER, 24 AUGUST 2024

Interview with Constable Sebastian Baxter, 26, Police Officer at Bullford Point station. He stated that around 7.30 p.m. on Friday 23 August 2024 he attended Bullford Point Bowling Club to meet friends. He met Claire Ellis, a high school teacher, who he did not previously know. He had had ‘one or two beers’ and she had ‘two or three’ gin and tonics. Around 10.30 p.m. they made a spontaneous decision to drive to her parents’ empty house at Avoca. They stayed there till approximately 4.30 a.m., then drove back. Constable Baxter stated his intention was to drop Claire Ellis at her home in Ettalong, and then return to his home in Bullford Point.

Constable Baxter was driving a VW Golf south along Empire Bay Drive at approx. 5.00 a.m. with his lights on high beam, except when approaching other vehicles. Driving conditions dry and good. The road is a secondary main road, good condition, some bends, one lane each way with occasional overtaking lanes.

South of Kincumber in a forested area, he saw headlights approaching, he thinks of a truck. The vehicle was veering from side to side of the road. When the two vehicles were close, the truck swerved toward him. To avoid an accident he swerved left and braked. His vehicle went off the road, down a steep bank, and rolled. When it stopped, upside down, he accessed his phone and called triple 0. It appears the truck did not stop.

Forensics found tyre marks consistent with heavy braking of a VW Golf, heading to the side of the road. Constable Baxter’s blood was analysed and returned a legal alcohol result of 0.02.

He had bruising and cuts, and was discharged from hospital the next day.

•••

Interview with Claire Ellis in her hospital bed. She has a badly broken leg, and cuts and bruising, including to her head. She recalls being at the bowling club, but that’s all. Dr Khoury indicates memory loss after this type of accident is common, and that she might recall more over time. Dr Khoury indicates there is ‘a very good chance her leg will make a full recovery and she will be able to run again, but it will take a few months of rehab’.

•••

CONCLUSION – If the truck driver can be located, there is sufficient evidence to charge him or her with dangerous driving occasioning grievous bodily harm. Enquiries are ongoing to locate the truck and driver, but the only description is ‘a truck’.

——

The Healing House

Certificate of Completion and Discharge

Joe Griffith

CONGRATULATIONS, JOE!

You did it! You bounced back from every setback, and worked on understanding and improving yourself every day. We are proud of you. Keep up the good work. Don’t get back into old habits, and get in touch any time you want support.

Diana Vickers, Manager, Inpatient Programs, The Healing House

——

EMAIL FROM VIV GRIFFITH TO SEB BAXTER, BARB YOUNG, DEV KERALA, GARY TURNER, 25 AUGUST 2024

Hi Everyone,

As you know, Joe is returning to live in my parents’ place. I’m hoping that having completed a full rehabilitation program, he will stay off drugs, but unfortunately the statistics are clear: most who have been addicted to hard drugs for some years relapse.

I hope you will support Joe and I am asking two things:

If you notice any signs of relapse or impending relapse, let me know. Things like if he seems stressed, distracted, doesn’t look his best physically, agitated, hyper, tells lies, asks for money, steals things.

Do not under any circumstances give or ‘lend’ him money. If he says he needs money for a short-term loan or to pay a bill or because his wages are late or anything like that, do not give it to him. Tell him to talk to me. Drug addicts can be incredibly manipulative. It took our family a long time to work out that whenever Joe asked for money, we had to say ‘no’. Joe knows he can talk to me if he has any genuine financial issues. If you pay him for work, do it by bank transfer. No cash.

Thanks,

Viv

——

ANONYMOUS LETTER LEFT AT JOE GRIFFITH’S FRONT DOOR, ON OR AROUND 30 AUGUST 2024

YOU ARSEHOLE JUNKIE. WE DON’T WANT YOU HERE. YOU’VE DONE ENOUGH DAMAGE. GO SOMEWHERE ELSE.

——

LETTER FROM BARB YOUNG TO DENNIS YOUNG, 4 SEPTEMBER 2024

Dear Dennis,

Strange to be writing a letter to you after all this time, but probably easier than talking in some ways.

I understand you wanting to divide things up and move on, I suppose. I mean, I don’t, but I accept it. Can I just ask that we leave it a few weeks? You must have had a long time to think about leaving. You probably planned it all out in your organised way. For me, it’s still a bit of a shock. I still wake up and think, ‘Where is he?’

I’m not going to be obstructionist, but let’s just give it a month and see where we are then. Is that okay?

Are you missing Bullford Point? I know you’re just fifteen minutes away, but I expect you haven’t been here much the last two months. You might think nothing has changed. How wrong you’d be. Sue’s shop ran out of Vegemite, the Davidsons pruned their hedge and I bought a new hammer! And that was just last week!

And we have two new residents, one who you know and one who you don’t. There, you’re intrigued now, aren’t you? Slightly?

Joe is back. All those years in Sydney doing goodness knows what – drugs, break-ins, jail and the rest, causing so much worry to his poor mother. It might have contributed to her early death. Can worry cause lung cancer? I expect smoking was the main cause, but it might have made it worse.

He did six months in rehabilitation, and he’s living in Emily’s house, which is now his and Viv’s, although mainly Joe’s apparently. I saw him at the shops and he said he wants to ‘start again’. He looks healthy, but with a huskier voice and tattoos. I don’t even like those tribal ones, but his are a mess. Words, pictures and symbols crossing over each other on his arms, even the back of his hands. Looks like he did them himself. In the dark.

Sue’s not happy about his return, of course. Still blames Joe for ‘making’ Leanne take drugs, which I understand, but it’s very hard to make anyone do anything. Joe was, no doubt, a bad influence on Leanne, but surely she decided for herself. The poor girl is still in Sydney in that life, so of course Sue feels angry when she sees Joe cleaned up.

It does make you wonder. Joe was a lovely boy. Clever, energetic, difficult at times, as Emily told me more than once, but full of spirit. He was brought up the right way, as far as I can tell. It’s such a shame what happened, but he’s got himself into a position where he has a second chance. I want to try to help, so I’ve offered him work. Only part-time, I don’t have enough for a full-time helper, but with some jobs I could use an extra pair of hands.

I know what you’re thinking. That I remember Joe as an innocent kid, but since then he’s broken into people’s homes and all that – is he really a good person to work with? Well, I won’t put up with him being unreliable. If he is, I’ll show him the door of whoever’s house we’re working in. And I won’t let him near money. I’ll give him a chance, then it’s up to him.

The other new resident is Tom Malone’s new girlfriend, Karen. Good for Tom, he’s a nice fellow. Not the sharpest nail, but he has a good heart.

I’ve seen Karen a few times at the shop and jetty and she seems very Sydney. What do they call that hair that’s dark at the top and light at the bottom? Not that you’d know. A couple of tattoos herself (although a higher grade than Joe’s), and it might be the first nose ring to have made its home in Bullford Point. They seem very happy, by which I mean all over each other, but of course that will fade sooner or later, and then they’ll find out what else there is. As we did. Until you changed your mind.

The other news is that Devina Kerala wants to build apartments and shops at the jetty. Sounds awful, but apparently she’s already got options on two houses on Bayview Drive. Joe’s house is apparently the vital one, because it’s next to the jetty, so I suspect Dev will be batting her very long eyelashes at him in the very near future. Sue is furious and leading a campaign to stop it.

Anyway, there seem to be a lot less chores to do now that you’re gone, which means more spare time. By the way, did you finish watching Broadchurch? We were up to season two episode three when you left. I tried to keep going, but I think it lost its way a little and I gave up. Besides, it wasn’t the same.

Bye for now,

Barb

——

LETTER FROM KAREN KEMP TO NAOMI TRAN, 13 SEPTEMBER 2024

Hey Nom,

Still here. Another quiet day. I’m only working at the shop a couple of times a week, so I have A LOT of free time. Quiet is a good thing, right? Except for the birds squawking all the time, which was nice at first but is now fucking irritating.

Everyone is friendly enough, but it’s obvious I’m different. They look me up and down, all judgey, especially when I wear something low cut and a bit of makeup, just cos I don’t dress dowdy like them. It’s not exactly fashion central here, unless you’re a fan of T-shirts with band names from last century.

Tom is a nice guy, but is that enough? Our Fiji sex fest has morphed into, ‘Hi honey, how was your day unblocking people’s toilets? I’ve made chops.’ All he wants is to live here and be a plumber his whole life. His idea of a big adventure is drinking Carlton instead of VB. I’m sure he wants me to start pumping out babies, but he’s too scared to ask.

He gets uncomfortable when I talk about moving somewhere new, or seeing the world, and we’ve had a couple of arguments about stupid shit. I say arguments, but he doesn’t fire up at all. You know what I’m like, I say what’s on my mind. When I do he just looks hurt and sulks, which is soooo sexy, NOT. Stand up for yourself! Nothing makes you lose the horn for a tough tradie quicker than whining.

The other night I was saying we should go to Sydney for the weekend – stay in a nice hotel, get the spark back, you know – and he goes, ‘I don’t really like big cities.’ Fuck’s sake. Why do men change? Hot AF and sweet when you meet them, then they get weak, pathetic and needy. Be much easier if I liked girls like you do!

A month ago I was head over heels, now I’m going for walks after dinner to get away from him. I mean, Justin was a dick, and I’m glad I dumped him, but at least going out with a dude in a crime gang was exciting.

Okay, here we go, secrets time. There’s another guy I’ve been seeing. Joe. He comes into the shop, and I’ve bumped into him walking round the bay. He just came out of rehab, so that’s more interesting than fixing dunnies.

One day we saw each other, walked around a bit, ended up outside his place (waterfront!!), he asked me in for a cuppa, and BOOM! The sex is amazing. Always is with affairs cos you know you’re doing something wrong. But if it gets out, this place is so small and gossipy I’ll instantly become ‘that slut’.

Anyway, it’s time to break up with Tom and move on. It was fun, but now it’s over. Usual story. But I don’t want to go back to Sydney. Maybe up the coast? Byron? I rushed into this, and I can rush right out again. I might just wait until the sex with Joe starts to taper (it already has with Tom, in case you hadn’t guessed) and I get court out of the way.

Speaking of good news, I’m talking to a big wheel at the cops next week about some info I have that might get them to go easy on me. Turns out my relationship with Justin wasn’t a complete waste of time after all.

Luv ya babe,

Kaz

——

EMAIL FROM GARY TURNER TO VIV GRIFFITH, JOE GRIFFITH, SEB BAXTER, DEV KERALA, 16 SEPTEMBER 2024

Hi Guys, just letting you know my new game show debuts tomorrow night at 5.30 p.m. I know you’re all crossing your fingers for me. I’m confident it’s a winner and hope you enjoy! I know we were all going to be stars together all those years ago with our band, and whenever I’m on TV I think of that experience and how I’m carrying the torch for all our dreams!

Here’s a SMH article from today, in case you missed it. Got another radio interview in five mins. Hectic! Missing the quiet life already!

Gary

SYDNEY MORNING HERALD TV REVIEW, 15 SEPTEMBER 2024

‘It’s good to be back on the telly,’ says twenty-eight-year-old comedian Gary Turner as he sits, relaxed in T-shirt, sunglasses and chinos looking out over the water, on the balcony of his Central Coast home, the exact location of which I have sworn not to reveal.

Gary, who sprang to fame via comedy panel show Time To Shine, is excited about his return to television as host of Channel Nine’s new game show Which Duck? When I ask him to explain it, his enthusiasm is infectious.

‘There’s ten ducks in a pen wearing jewellery. Necklaces, mainly, not rings obviously because ducks don’t have fingers, but, here’s the twist, only some of the jewellery is real. Contestants have to pick a duck they think has real jewellery, then get the jewellery from that duck in thirty seconds. They get to keep what they get. It’s an absolute riot.’

I gently enquire about duck welfare. ‘The RSPCA are all over it. They’ve approved it and there’s an animal welfare officer on set. Here’s the other twist. Every week it’s a different animal. Dogs, horses, goats.’

‘Crocodiles?’ I ask.

‘Saving them for the final,’ he retorts, before quickly adding, ‘that’s a joke. You’ll make it clear that’s a joke?’

I assure him I will, then ask why, if there are lots of different animals, the show is called Which Duck?

‘It just grabs you. “Which Duck?!” See? It’s just a funny name. It tested great. And the ducks are great. They seem to really get TV. We’ll probably use them the most.’

Gary tells me he developed the show with a production company. ‘It’s high stakes, but I’m confident.’

He says he used his recent time out of the media spotlight for reflection and personal growth. ‘I got out of Sydney, moved back here where I grew up, and it’s been wonderful to reconnect with my roots, and nature. Bushwalking, the beach, going out on the boat. Plus I’m still close enough to Sydney to do comedy shows there. It’s perfect!’

——

EMAIL FROM DOM LOOM, FACE ACHE PRODUCTIONS TO GARY TURNER, 16 SEPTEMBER 2024

Hi Gary,

Great to hear you spruiking the show. We’re all really excited about it. Just one small point. You mentioned you developed the show with us, or at least that’s what the story said. Perhaps the journalist misunderstood or misquoted you? Anyway, it’s definitely no biggie, but as I’m sure you recall we came to you with the idea. Of course your experience and influence have been invaluable, but perhaps next time you could make it clear that it’s a copyrighted concept of Face Ache Productions? Thanks, buddy. Looking forward to the next record on Friday.

Dom

——

EMAIL FROM DEV KERALA TO JOE GRIFFITH, 16 SEPTEMBER 2024

Hi Joe,

Sooo great to talk today and to hear you’re potentially interested in selling. I hope the fact that we’re old friends will make it easier for you, as you know the person turning your house into a block of tasteful apartments is someone you can trust.

Understand you need some thinking time, but we do want to move forward soon. As you know, we have secured options to the two houses to your left as you look into the bay, so either way we will be proceeding.

We’re really excited about this development, which is why we’re prepared to pay you a price well above market value. As discussed, we will demolish nos 24 and 26 Bayside Ave, and hopefully your place too, and then build an apartment and retail hub adjoining the town square, jetty and beach.

If you decide not to sell, 24 and 26 sit to your north, which means the development (proposed at three stories) would unfortunately affect your light, and again unfortunately possibly the resale value of your home. Construction will take around 18 months and you would experience some noise in that period. But you don’t have to worry about any of that if you sell to us!

Joe, please get back to me soon, and hopefully we can do a great deal for everyone and help revitalise Bullford Point, the place we all love so much. See below extract of our submission to council.

Dev xx

EXTRACT FROM SUBMISSION TO CENTRAL COAST COUNCIL FROM INSPIRE PROPERTY, 3 AUGUST 2024

Bullford Point is often described as ‘sleepy’. That sounds nice to some, but is ‘sleepy’ a sustainable economic strategy? Bullford Point has the opportunity to become one of the shining jewels in the Central Coast Local Government area, with a thriving, robust economy, driven by tourism.

By slightly increasing density at the epicentre of Bullford Point, our proposed apartment and retail hub, adjacent to the currently under-used town square, jetty and beach, will provide a focal point for visitors and locals. The building of 12 tasteful, upmarket waterfront apartments, plus a selection of carefully curated, sophisticated retail outlets – for example, an artisan baker, juicery, homewares emporium and hair stylist – will give tourists and locals a reason to flock to the town centre.

That increased activity will create employment, slow the post-school talent drain to Sydney, and stimulate opportunities for more businesses. The currently wasted potential of the sleepy town square will be brought to life, and Bullford Point will become a vibrant, energetic community, attractive to old and young.

——

EXTRACT FROM SUBMISSION TO CENTRAL COAST COUNCIL FROM SUE HITCHCOCK, 23 AUGUST 2024

This proposal is an abomination that will destroy Bullford Point. Your duty as our representatives is to stop it!!! I run the Bullford Point Store, so you would expect me to benefit from this ‘increased activity’, but I, and the majority of residents, DON’T WANT IT! We like our sleepy, quiet town just as it is, thank you very much. Bullford Point is the Central Coast’s best kept secret and we want to keep it that way!! And, we are very curious to know how this monstrosity has managed to get ‘provisional council approval’ so fast!!!!!?????

——

TEXTS BETWEEN TOM MALONE AND KAREN KEMP, 17 SEPTEMBER 2024

1.13 p.m.

TOM: Hey, finished a job early, and postponed another till tomorrow so I can come home and see you. You finished work at 12, yes? Afternoon delight? xx

1.27 p.m.

TOM: You about Kaz?

1.40 p.m.

KAREN: Sorry, was out of range. Bushwalking. Home in a couple of hours

TEXTS BETWEEN KAREN KEMP AND JOE GRIFFITH, 17 SEPTEMBER 2024

1.40 p.m.

KAREN: Hey Joe, just near your place. Want a cuppa?

1.41 p.m.

JOE: Is that what you call it?

——

GARY TURNER RETWEET OF TV REVIEW, WITH COMMENT, 17 SEPTEMBER 2024

‘Thank you, milady!’ 🙇

‘TELEVISION WATCH’ BY JASMIN FLAYGER, SYDNEY MORNING HERALD, 17 SEPTEMBER 2024

This column wishes to apologise for the many times it has maligned the decisions of television executives. I now see that they are far smarter than me. I would never have greenlit LEGO Masters (adults play with kids toys), MasterChef (people cook) or I’m A Celebrity … Get Me Out Of Here! (people who used to be famous lie in bed moaning and occasionally get tortured), but all of them succeeded.

The new Channel Nine show Which Duck? is the weirdest pitch of them all. How did they commission a show about people trying to remove jewellery from animals? It sounds ridiculous. I was absolutely sure it would fail, but Which Duck? is already coming second in its timeslot, and is entertaining and even compelling. Gary Turner is hilariously charming, simultaneously treating the ridiculous premise of the show as important and sending it up, making one wonder why he has been in the television wilderness for the last few years. The show works, it’s rating its bum off, and I should resign.

——

EXTRACT FROM CENTRAL COAST CYCLING CLUB NEWSLETTER, 18 SEPTEMBER 2024

Another great race on the weekend, around the 48-kilometre Brisbane Water circuit, and yet another comfortable win for new member Sam Delaney, making it three in a row for the cheery wunderkind. Is he a machine or what?! He modestly put his streak down to beginner’s luck, but I reckon we might have to drug test him! Although why he’d risk it for a $2 plastic trophy I’m not sure! Just jokes, Sam. Well done.

Second again was club champ Viv Griffith, who now faces quite the challenge to retain the title he has held for the last five years. Don’t write Viv off, though. Unlike the rest of us, he never wastes any of his race energy on talking, joking, smiling or eye contact. Laser focus! We luv ya, Viv.

See you next week for the 50-kilometre Gosford to The Entrance and back!

——

TEXTS BETWEEN TOM MALONE AND JOE GRIFFITH, 21 SEPTEMBER 2024, 2.34 p.m.

TOM: I know about you and Karen you prick. Thought we were mates

JOE: No idea why you thought that

TOM: We went to school together

JOE: I was two years above you. How many times you visit me in jail?

TOM: I only heard about it when you were about to get out

JOE: That probably means we’re not mates then

TOM: Still a low act. Where is she?

JOE: No idea

TOM: I know she was at your place last night, and I haven’t seen her since

JOE: How do you know that? You spying on her?

TOM: Just know

JOE: She left my place about 9 p.m. Haven’t heard from her since

——

CONSTABLE SEB BAXTER DUTY BOOK ENTRY, RECORD OF CONVERSATION WITH TOM MALONE, 18 HOLT DRIVE, BULLFORD POINT, 21 SEPTEMBER 2024

Tom Malone came in to report his girlfriend, Karen, missing. Said he’d last seen her the previous evening when they had dinner, then about 6.45 p.m. she went for a walk, saying she wanted some ‘self time’. He said she had been doing that a bit recently.

He went out to a regular Thursday evening tennis game and afterwards to a pub and ended up staying at a friend’s place in Ettalong because he was over the limit. He got up at 6 a.m., drove home, noticed she wasn’t there, then went to work. During the morning he called and texted her. No reply.

He returned home in the afternoon. No sign of her. Went to the shop where Sue said Karen had not come in for work.

I asked him to go home and check if she had taken any belongings. He said, ‘She wouldn’t have just left like that.’ He said I should ask Joe Griffith where she was. I asked why. He said, ‘Just a feeling.’

——

TEXTS BETWEEN JOE GRIFFITH AND ANDY JOHNSON, 21 SEPTEMBER 2024

ANDY: So?

JOE: G’day mate

ANDY: None of that shit. You owe

JOE: I’m good for it

ANDY: Great. I’ll come now. Where are ya? Three grand

JOE: Whoa! 1800

ANDY: We kindly put your debt on hold when you were inside, then AGAIN when you went to rehab. Interest

JOE: I need some time

ANDY: You’ve had 7 months!

JOE: Jail laundry pays three bucks an hour. Need to get it together. I’ve got a job

ANDY: 2 weeks. Interest means 3200 by then. If you don’t come good … I’m not going to threaten you over text, but you know the drill yeah?

——

CONSTABLE SEB BAXTER DUTY BOOK ENTRY, PHONE CALL WITH TOM MALONE, 21 SEPTEMBER 2024

Tom rang and said Karen’s bag and most of her clothes were gone. I asked how they had been getting on. He said the last couple of weeks had been ‘tricky’. I asked if she had talked about leaving. He said, ‘Nothing serious.’ I asked if while he was out at tennis, she may have taken her bag and got a bus, Uber or taxi to the train station. He said she had left ‘her favourite dress’. On further questioning, he admitted he wasn’t sure it was her favourite, but ‘I bought it for her and she said she liked it’. I asked him if it was possible she might have left without telling him. He said, ‘No way. And she really liked the dress.’

Tom said he believed Karen was having an affair with Joe, so I should ‘ask that prick where she is’. I advised him not to do anything silly. I said I couldn’t launch a missing persons investigation until twenty-four hours had passed, and even then, we needed to have genuine fears for the safety of the person, and at this stage it seemed most likely that Karen had just decided to leave.

He said, ‘That’s fucking fucked.’

I told him that I would make further informal enquiries. He said he thought he had the phone number of one of her friends in Sydney and would send it to me.

CONSTABLE SEB BAXTER DUTY BOOK ENTRY, CONVERSATION WITH JOE GRIFFITH, 22 SEPTEMBER 2024

Called Joe, and asked about his relationship with Karen. He was initially reluctant to disclose but I mentioned Tom had reported her missing. He said he had been ‘seeing’ Karen, and wasn’t surprised she had left. ‘She talked about leaving him. She was bored shitless. Well, except when she was with me.’

In the circumstances there are clearly not grounds for opening a missing persons investigation.

——

EMAIL FROM VIV GRIFFITH TO JOE GRIFFITH, 22 SEPTEMBER 2024

Hi Joe,

Can you confirm when my rent is coming. We co-own the house, not in exactly the proportions I had anticipated, but nonetheless. Can you set up a direct bank transfer for the first of each month?

Mum’s will made it clear your two-thirds of the house gives you a controlling interest in decisions, so whilst Dev’s offer to buy the house affects me, you get to decide. I hope we can discuss and agree on a course of action.

I think we should sell for the following reasons:

Co-owning property with anyone is not my preferred option, as it diminishes the autonomy of both parties.

Dev’s offer is significantly above market value.

If we don’t sell, her development might reduce the value of our property.

If we sell, with your share you could buy another comfortable home here.

Viv

EMAIL FROM JOE GRIFFITH TO VIV GRIFFITH, 23 SEPTEMBER 2024

Probably sell. Let you know soonish.

——

EMAIL FROM BARB YOUNG TO VIV GRIFFITH, 24 SEPTEMBER 2024

Hi Viv,

Just letting you know that Joe has been going very well. He helped me for three days this week, clearing gutters, gardening, cutting bamboo and digging out the roots, fixing windows and painting. He was on time, worked hard and, importantly, when we had a drink at the jetty afterwards, didn’t even glance sideways at my beer as he sipped his lemonade. Good signs!

I’m sure he felt a bit of pride when I handed him his pay, even if it was just a piece of paper with the amount written on it. I was going to give him cash, so he could see a tangible result of his labour, but remembered what you said and did a bank transfer.

Best,

Barb

——

EMAIL FROM JOE GRIFFITH TO GARY TURNER, VIV GRIFFITH, DEV KERALA, SEB BAXTER, 24 SEPTEMBER 2024

Hi guys, thanks for your support since I got back. I know I’ve said it before, but this time I’m going to sort myself out!

With my history I’m not going to walk into a job as involving and rewarding as the ones you guys have worked hard to get, but I’ll get there eventually, and am looking into studying part-time. Meanwhile, I’ll keep working for Barb, but she only needs me part-time, and I want to keep busy. At rehab they always said, ‘Find hobbies you’re interested in. Don’t have lots of unstructured time. When you’re not interested in anything else, your addiction gets interested in you.’

I’ve thought about playing music again, and I might, but there’s another project I’m really excited about. Here goes. I’m doing a true crime podcast about Sal and her murder, and the killer they never caught.

I hope it will be a therapeutic way for me, and perhaps all of us, to work through the pain of her death. In rehab they make you delve into why you take drugs, and the shock of her murder was definitely something that pushed me closer to making bad decisions. They also tell you not to hide from the feelings that unpleasant events caused, and I’ve certainly been guilty of that.

Anyway, the podcast will be a creative outlet for me. Plus, I might catch the bastard. I’ll be asking you all to do an interview with me about Sal, and what happened. Seven years on, I hope it’s not too painful for you. It might even be nice to reminisce about those crazy days when we were all in a band, trying to take over the world. I’ll treat all interviews sensitively and can stay off any topics you don’t want to revisit.

Thanks in advance,

Joe

EMAIL FROM VIV GRIFFITH TO JOE GRIFFITH CC GARY TURNER, DEV KERALA, SEB BAXTER, 24 SEPTEMBER 2024

Joe,

We want to help you, but I think this is a bad idea for the following reasons:

It dredges up bad memories.

If Sal’s murder prompted you to use drugs, maybe dredging it all up will do it again.

The police couldn’t find Sal’s killer, so what hope have you got?

I don’t like podcasts. I prefer listening to music.

Maybe you could learn French instead?

Viv

EMAIL FROM JOE GRIFFITH TO VIV GRIFFITH CC GARY TURNER, LEANNE HITCHCOCK, DEV KERALA, SEB BAXTER, 24 SEPTEMBER 2024

Understand your concerns. I’ll be fine. Back then, I was an accident waiting to happen, but now I understand why I went off the rails, and how I can stay on the straight and narrow. The podcast will help. I want to know what happened. It infuriates me that someone killed Sal, and two other women. Just because the cops didn’t solve it doesn’t mean I can’t. I know firsthand how hopeless cops can be. I did heaps of stuff they didn’t catch me for.

True crime podcasts are popular, and lots of unsolved murders have been solved by podcasters. I’ve listened to a few and I reckon I can do it. You need a microphone and a bit more equipment, but it’s not too expensive and pretty technically simple. Gary is a media slut expert, so he can help me.

At rehab they said you need to take out the things that hurt you and hold them up to the light, not hide them away. Hiding painful things away causes people to ‘act out’ with drugs, alcohol, violence, anger etc.

Joe

EMAIL FROM GARY TURNER TO JOE GRIFFITH CC VIV GRIFFITH, DEV KERALA, SEB BAXTER, 24 SEPTEMBER 2024

Seems like your mind’s made up and we all know how hard it is to get you to change it. I’m happy to help. I know a bit about putting a narrative together, so can listen and give you feedback. And Viv can give you legal advice so you don’t defame anyone!

EMAIL FROM VIV GRIFFITH TO GARY TURNER, 24 SEPTEMBER 2024

Why are you encouraging him? It’s a terrible idea.

EMAIL FROM GARY TURNER TO VIV GRIFFITH, 24 SEPTEMBER 2024

He’s decided. You know how stubborn he is. The more anyone tells him not to do it, the more he’ll want to do it. Don’t worry, he’ll probably realise it’s harder than he thought and lose interest after a week and start those French lessons.

——

EMAIL FROM SUE HITCHCOCK TO VIV GRIFFITH, 25 SEPTEMBER 2024

Hi Viv,

I’m leading the campaign to stop the terrible development at the jetty. The original plans were bad enough, but imagine my horror when I discovered they want to add your dear parents’ house. Shops and a giant apartment block next to the jetty will destroy our peaceful paradise, and once they’ve got one through, the floodgates will open, and our sleepy home will become the Gold Coast.

As you know, Joe and I aren’t on good terms, so I’d prefer not to discuss this directly with him, but I can’t believe you and he would sell to these vandals, so please tell me you won’t. Let’s keep Bullford Point the special place that it is.

Sue

EMAIL FROM VIV GRIFFITH TO SUE HITCHCOCK, 25 SEPTEMBER 2024

Hi Sue,

Understand your concerns, but Joe has the controlling interest in the house. He is the decision maker, and I understand why someone offering to buy the house for more than it is worth is appealing. He has a high-value asset, but little income. If he wants to sell, there’s not much I can do about it.

Viv

——

EMAIL FROM DEV KERALA TO SUE HITCHCOCK, 26 SEPTEMBER 2024

Hi Sue,

It’s such a shame that you and I, who both love Bullford Point and are part of the community, are on opposite sides regarding Inspire Property’s proposed development. It would be lovely to sit down with you and try to work out a win-win. After all, we both want the same thing – what’s best for Bullford Point.

Would it help if we could guarantee that none of the shops in our retail hub would, in any way, be in competition with yours? If we did that, our modelling indicates the extra trade would give you a 30 to 35 per cent increase in turnover!

We are also looking for someone who can take on an ambassadorial role and be the link between us and the community. A trusted voice who can explain the benefits to residents. You would be amazing! It’s a paid role. Shall we talk?

Dev

EMAIL FROM SUE HITCHCOCK TO DEV KERALA, 26 SEPTEMBER 2024

How dare you try to bribe me! Stop trying to destroy our community, which you are NOT part of. You live in Ettalong, nearly 15 minutes’ drive away.

——

EMAIL FROM DEV KERALA TO GARY TURNER, 27 SEPTEMBER 2024

Hi Gary,

Great to catch up at the club and congrats on the new show!! It’s amazing. So fun. I loved it!! I always knew you’d make it. Sooo much talent!

As mentioned, there is a great opportunity for investors in our development at Bullford Point. We have two houses near the jetty, and are just waiting on the third owner – Joe – to commit. I’m confident he will, and then away we go.

Because you’re such a dear friend, I wanted to give you the opportunity to invest before we open it up more widely. Moneywise, it’s as close to a sure thing as you can get. Our conservative estimate is that you’ll make a shitload!

I’ve attached a prospectus with all the deets.

Dev xx

EMAIL FROM GARY TURNER TO DEV KERALA, 27 SEPTEMBER 2024

Hi Dev,

Thanks for the kind words and for thinking of me. As it happens, my new TV show is paying rather generously and I am looking for investment opportunities, especially those that return a shitload. Definitely interested. Give me a call.

Gary

——

EMAIL FROM JOE GRIFFITH TO VIV GRIFFITH, 28 SEPTEMBER 2024

Hi Viv,

I’ve decided to sell. It’s a great offer and I’m broke. What’s the point of living in a million-dollar house if you’re eating baked beans? I’ve got plans. Businesses I want to start. No one is going to take a punt on me given my background, so I need the money.

Joe

EMAIL FROM VIV GRIFFITH TO JOE GRIFFITH, 28 SEPTEMBER 2024

Joe,

Good decision. Will it be dangerous for you to have a couple of million dollars, though? I can set up a trust for you to provide some checks and balances on your spending.

Viv

EMAIL FROM JOE GRIFFITH TO VIV GRIFFITH, 28 SEPTEMBER 2024

How would that work? You decide how much pocket money I get every week? No thanks.

——

EMAIL FROM JOE GRIFFITH TO DEV KERALA, 29 SEPTEMBER 2024

Hi Dev,

Yes, I’m happy to sell at that price.

Joe

EMAIL FROM DEV KERALA TO JOE GRIFFITH, 29 SEPTEMBER 2024

Joe, that’s wonderful!!! Brilliant. A very smart decision. This will be fantastic. I’ll get the paperwork prepared and away we go!!!

Dev

——

TEXT FROM JOE GRIFFITH TO ANDY JOHNSON, 29 SEPTEMBER 2024

JOE: All sorted. Will have money soon

——

JOE GRIFFITH, CATCHING THE STRANGLER PODCAST, INTRODUCTION TRANSCRIPT

Hi, I’m Joe Griffith, and welcome to Catching The Strangler. Seven years ago my friend Sal McIndoe was murdered, the third and final victim of a killer dubbed the Blue Mountains Strangler. The victims, it seems, were randomly picked. The only thing connecting them is that they were women living in the Blue Mountains in New South Wales. The Strangler was never caught. This podcast will re-examine the case, the police investigation, search for new information and, I hope, uncover the identity of the Blue Mountains Strangler.

One of the unusual things about the Blue Mountains Strangler is that they struck three times in just eight days, and then stopped. Usually killers like that keep going. Did their impulse to kill subside? Were they able to control it? Did they fear the police closing in and move elsewhere? Did they continue to kill, but hide their tracks better by varying their method? Did they die? Suicide, a heart attack, a car accident?

And what of the victims? Who were they? An eighty-six-year-old woman living alone, a forty-seven-year-old woman with terminal cancer, and my great friend Sal, just twenty, a university student and talented musician.

——

TEXTS BETWEEN JOE GRIFFITH AND FORMER DETECTIVE JOHN MAYNE, 30 SEPTEMBER 2024

JOE: Thanks for agreeing to see me tomorrow. Should be in Katoomba about 11

JOHN: Goodo

——

TEXTS BETWEEN JOE GRIFFITH AND LEANNE HITCHCOCK, 30 SEPTEMBER 2024

JOE: Hey Leanne, long time. You’ve probably heard I’m back in Bullford Point, living in Mum and Dad’s house. Are you coming up to visit your mum anytime soon? Can I interview you for a podcast I’m doing about Sal? Ideally face to face

LEANNE: Okay. Be good to see you, talk about old times. I can get the train up but can you pay expenses plus a bit more? Say $100?

JOE: Understand it’s time out of your busy schedule but I’m pretty skint at the moment. I’d offer to come down to Sydney but better for me to stay away at the moment. Return train ticket is $16 and I’m sure your mum will pick you up from the station. How about $50?

LEANNE: Okay, sure Joe

——

EXTRACT FROM DIARY OF LEANNE HITCHCOCK, 1 OCTOBER 2024

On the train heading home to do an interview for Joe’s podcast. At least that’s what he said. Maybe he just wants to see me!

Apparently he’s done rehab and it’s sticking. Good on him, I spose, but I feel kind of jealous, and also pissed off. Why does he get to escape, parachuted into that beautiful house where we had so much fun as kids, while I’m still stuck in the mud, on the same fucking merry-go-round? Working to buy the drugs and booze I need to forget about the work. How’s that fair?

Maybe when I see him I’ll pull out a bag of coke and see how different he really is. Anyone can say ‘never again’ when you haven’t got any.

Wish I could meet someone who’d make me forget about Joe, but I never do. Just losers who have to pay for sex. Even when they want to get chatty and get a crush on you, it’s all bullshit. They’re just lonely. And if you meet someone decent outside work, how long can you avoid, ‘So, what do you do?’ You can lie for a while, but not forever, and none of them like the truth.

But here I am running back to the prick who got me into sex work. ‘Easy money,’ he said. It was for him! Prick. But when he texted me, like an idiot, I instantly got excited. I tried to make myself wait ten minutes before I replied and couldn’t even make five. Pathetic. At least I got some money out of him.

Last time I saw him was maybe a year ago at a party. He was with some bitch. He was polite and distant to me for about two minutes before he made an excuse to get away. The love of my life, who fucked me over and dumped me. Twice! Dumb old me.

Typical he’s doing a podcast about Sal. Still obsessed with her. Everyone was. Fuck knows why.

But I wonder … am I stupid to hope that when we talk about old times, we might recapture the ease and fun we had together before it all got messed up? Maybe he might even say, ‘Look, I’ve landed well here, and it’s partly my fault that you’re where you are. Come and stay here with me, and we’ll stay clean together.’

Is it mad to imagine that? That he’ll be a supportive friend and help me get clean and back on my feet? That things might build from there, that our familiarity, in-jokes and shorthand could return, and he’ll be kinder than before, and I will too, and then one night we’ll be drinking tea – herbal cos we’re all in on the clean-living shit – and he’ll take the cup from my hand and put it down and take my hand and it’ll all start again, but better this time, and it’ll last. Is that mad to hope for?

——

TEXTS BETWEEN GARY TURNER AND LEANNE HITCHCOCK, 1 OCTOBER 2024

GARY: Hey Leanne, long time. Heard you were on your way up. I’m in Woy Woy today so happy to give you a lift to Bullford Point. When do you arrive? BTW, have you caught my new show, ‘Which Duck?’ 5.30 weekdays Ch 9?

LEANNE: Thanks Gary. 3 p.m. I think. Haven’t seen show yet but I will

——

TEXTS BETWEEN BARB YOUNG AND JOE GRIFFITH, 3 OCTOBER 2024

BARB: Joe are you at home? Do you know why all those police are heading up the hill?

JOE: Apparently someone found something in the bush

BARB: Trees?

JOE: Body

BARB: Human?

JOE: Don’t think cops would come rushing for a dead wombat

BARB: Lost bushwalker?

JOE: Pretty hard to get lost twenty metres from the path. Even for a tourist

——

CONSTABLE SEB BAXTER NOTEBOOK ENTRY, 3 OCTOBER 2024

Received call from Belinda Alldice from the ridge track. Said she was walking her dog off leash along track (illegal) when dog raced down the far side of the hill. She followed and found dog inspecting a dead body.

I attended, met her on path and she led me over the ridge down to a short gully and pointed out the body. Female, decomposed, and clear that animals, insects, birds etc had eaten. Shirt and jeans, and two sandals.

There was vomit near body, which Belinda confirmed was hers.

I radioed for forensic support, and secured scene with tape.

——

EMAIL FROM CONSTABLE SEB BAXTER TO DETECTIVE DAN SIMMONDS, HOMICIDE, 4 OCTOBER 2024

Hi Dan,

Just wanted to suggest you do a match with Karen Kemp. She is not officially a missing person, but disappeared from Bullford Point three weeks ago.

Seb

——

EMAIL FROM DETECTIVE DAN SIMMONDS TO PATHOLOGIST DR BEA CLEMENT, 4 OCTOBER 2024

Bea, what have we got? Layman’s terms please. Last report I got from your offsider contained the word ‘choledocholi’.

EMAIL FROM DR BEA CLEMENT TO DETECTIVE DAN SIMMONDS, 4 OCTOBER 2024

Aren’t detectives supposed to be the smart ones? I’ve attached my report but here’s the dumbed down version. Human female, hair both natural brown and dyed blond, i.e. ombré. Following your tip-off, teeth were successfully matched via dental records with Karen Kemp. It’s her. Well done, Columbo.

Bones most likely there approx. 2 weeks.

Cause of death – broken neck.

Million-dollar question – did she break it accidentally by tripping or falling, or did someone do it for her? Accidental death is unlikely, but not impossible. If she tripped, fell and hit the ground in exactly the wrong way it could happen, but you’d be extremely unlucky. And – not my department, but still – why would she leave the track? Can’t rule out accidental death, but if I were you I’d open a file.

Non-technical enough? I’ve done my job. Time to do yours, Hercule.

Bea

——

EMAIL FROM DETECTIVE DAN SIMMONDS TO CONSTABLE SEB BAXTER, 5 OCTOBER 2024

Please forward all information and documents you have regarding Karen Kemp.

EMAIL FROM CONSTABLE SEB BAXTER TO DETECTIVE DAN SIMMONDS, 5 OCTOBER 2024

So the body is hers?

EMAIL FROM DETECTIVE DAN SIMMONDS TO CONSTABLE SEB BAXTER, 5 OCTOBER 2024

We don’t share investigative details. Please forward immediately.

EMAIL FROM CONSTABLE SEB BAXTER TO DETECTIVE DAN SIMMONDS, 5 OCTOBER 2024

I’m not the Daily Telegraph. I’m the cop who told you it might be her. Is it?

EMAIL FROM DETECTIVE DAN SIMMONDS TO CONSTABLE SEB BAXTER, 5 OCTOBER 2024

We manage the flow of information in our investigations, not you. Just forward the documents.

——

TEXT FROM DETECTIVE DAN SIMMONDS TO SUPERINTENDENT JACK MULVANEY, 7 OCTOBER 2024

Sir, last person to see Karen Kemp alive was Joe Griffith, who according to her boyfriend Tom Malone was having an affair with her. Griffith has a significant criminal record, got out of jail recently, and is a former (he claims) heroin addict. Only other suspect is the boyfriend, but he has a strong alibi. Can we apply for a warrant to seize Griffith’s phone and computer?

TEXT FROM SUPERINTENDENT JACK MULVANEY TO DETECTIVE DAN SIMMONDS, 7 OCTOBER 2024

Yes. Copy contents and return them to him within 24 hours, and we’ll track his calls and emails. You know what they’re like. Can’t stop thinking about what they did, sometimes they talk about it, sometimes they type about it. And search his house, obviously

——

EXTRACT FROM DIARY OF LEANNE HITCHCOCK, 8 OCTOBER 2024

The fucking, fucking, fucking prick. I go to Joe’s house for the podcast interview, he was all polite and formal, asked me the bare minimum of ‘how you been?’ questions, deadbatting all my attempts to start a convo. Even so, me, idiot me, is still all smiles and giggles, setting myself up to get shot down.

He had set us up in the lounge room with microphones and headphones, we start and of course it was all about Sal. God I’m a pathetic idiot. Somehow I had it into my mind that it was going to be about us, that he was going to apologise and then … But no, of course, even seven years after she died, he’s still obsessed by Sal.

He says, ‘I guess you must have felt a bit angry at Sal after I started seeing her,’ like he was trying to set me up as a suspect! Like he wanted me to say, ‘Yeah, I really hated her. I felt like strangling her.’ Fucking prick.

For once I took the high road. ‘No, Joe. I was angry at you. Not even angry. Just hurt.’

On and on he went, all these questions about what Sal did, whether she was happy or sad, even what she was fucking wearing!

He’d done his research, though. Somehow he’d found out something I’d kept secret all these years. Kind of awkward.

Eventually it ended. I was pissed off, but even so, I knew the cops had been hounding him about that woman who got killed in the bush, WHO HE’D BEEN FUCKING!!!!! and I very nicely asked him how he was going with it all.

‘It’s nothing. It’ll blow over,’ he said. That was it. Walls up. Giving nothing. I’d forgotten how he could close off like that. Lovey dovey when he wants something, then cold as.

I left and felt like shit. He’s got no interest in me. I couldn’t face going to Mum’s so I went up into the bush and off the track, found this big rock and sat on it and bawled my eyes out, wondering, as I’ve done so often, what the fuck happens next. As usual I have no idea and it scares the shit out of me.

Then I came back down and asked Mum for a lift to Woy Woy. Told her I had to go to the chemist but she could tell what I really wanted and refused. So I’ve just ordered an Uber.

Fucking Joe.

——

RECORD OF INTERVIEW BETWEEN DETECTIVE DAN SIMMONDS AND JOE GRIFFITH, 11 OCTOBER 2024

SIMMONDS: Joe, for the record, state your name and address.

JOE: You came to my house, so you know my address. (SIGHS) Joe Griffith, 28 Bayview Avenue, Bullford Point.

SIMMONDS: Occupation?

JOE: Part-time handyman.

SIMMONDS: Joe, I’m investigating the death of Karen …

JOE: I know, you said that.

SIMMONDS: Can you describe the relationship between you and Karen before she disappeared?

JOE: We were friends.

SIMMONDS: What sort of friends?

JOE: We’d had a couple of encounters.

SIMMONDS: For the record, do you mean romantic encounters?

JOE: Not really. No flowers were exchanged. Sexual.

SIMMONDS: You say ‘a couple’ of encounters. How many?

JOE: Times we met up, or had sex? Cos, not boasting, but the second number is a fair bit bigger than the first.

SIMMONDS: How many times had you met up?

JOE: Five, I think.

SIMMONDS: For how long?

JOE: Again, I don’t want to boast but …

SIMMONDS: I mean, over how many weeks?

JOE: Oh. About three.

SIMMONDS: Where?

JOE: You really want to know that?

SIMMONDS: (SIGHS)

JOE: At my house.

SIMMONDS: When did you last see Karen? Was it the day she disappeared?

JOE: Yep. She came to my place in the evening, sevenish, left about nine.

SIMMONDS: And in that time what did you do?

JOE: Really? (PAUSE) We chatted, had sex, had a cup of tea.

SIMMONDS: How would you describe her demeanour while she was at your house?

JOE: Umm, enthusiastic. She was an enthusiastic participant in all activities, including drinking tea.

SIMMONDS: Okay, I mean, when you were talking to her – let’s focus on the talking – did she seem happy? Anxious? Distracted?

JOE: She seemed fine.

SIMMONDS: Did she discuss anything she was worried about?

JOE: No.

SIMMONDS: Did she say anything about Tom?

JOE: Nothing good.

SIMMONDS: Did she seem concerned about him? Did she mention any violence?

JOE: The opposite really.

SIMMONDS: How do you mean?

JOE: She called him a pussy. Like, she thought he was a wimp, that she had all the power in the relationship. He was devoted to her, but she wasn’t that keen.

SIMMONDS: Did she mention leaving him?

JOE: Yes.

SIMMONDS: Had she made a plan to leave him?

JOE: Not that I knew of. It was more an intention.

SIMMONDS: You liked her a fair bit. Yes?

JOE: You answering questions as well as asking them now?

SIMMONDS: Did you like her a fair bit?

JOE: I liked her, sure. She was nice. But it was mainly … physical. I didn’t really mind what happened.

SIMMONDS: You sure about that?

JOE: Yep.

SIMMONDS: The day before she disappeared and, we believe, was murdered, do you agree you had this text exchange:

You: Can you come over this evening?

Karen: Might be tricky. Tom about.

You: You sure you want to stay in that relationship?

Karen: No!

You: Well then?

Karen: Give me time.

You: Want to see you now.

JOE: Yeah, something like that.

SIMMONDS: Do you agree that gives a different context to your relationship than, ‘I didn’t really mind what happened’?

JOE: I didn’t mind what happened long term. Those texts indicate my state of mind at the time, which I would describe as ‘horny’. It had been a while since I had a partner, but I wasn’t in love or anything.

SIMMONDS: But you did want her to leave Tom?

JOE: Not so we could set up house together. Just so we wouldn’t have to sneak round behind his back. No one likes having an affair with someone else’s missus.

SIMMONDS: When she left your house that evening, did she say where she was going?

JOE: No. I assumed back to Tom’s.

SIMMONDS: You are aware that no one saw her leave your house, and no one saw her alive after you saw her?

JOE: What about Tom?

SIMMONDS: He was out playing tennis, and stayed the night at a friend’s. Solid alibi. Did she leave your house on foot?

JOE: Yep.

SIMMONDS: What did you do after she left?

JOE: Nothing. Watched TV.

SIMMONDS: What was on TV?

JOE: Dunno. It’s weeks ago.

SIMMONDS: How tall are you?

JOE: Umm, about one hundred and eighty-six centimetres, I think.

SIMMONDS: Would you agree you are of solid, muscular build, not overweight?

JOE: This a chat up? (PAUSE) Spose, yeah.

SIMMONDS: Do you agree that Karen was about one hundred and sixty centimetres?

JOE: Maybe, yeah.

SIMMONDS: And slim?

JOE: Sure.

SIMMONDS: You understand her bones were found one hundred and seventy metres from your place?

JOE: And from about fifty other houses. I didn’t …

SIMMONDS: I’m just asking if you agree that’s the case.

JOE: Oddly enough, I haven’t got a tape measure out to work out the exact distance, so I don’t know.

SIMMONDS: Did you kill Karen and then carry her body into the national park and dump it?

JOE: Fuck me. No!

——

EMAIL FROM CONSTABLE SEB BAXTER TO DETECTIVE DAN SIMMONDS, 12 OCTOBER 2024

Hi Dan,

Hope the investigation is progressing well. If there is any local information you need, let me know. I grew up here, and know most people, so if I can assist with any background about location, suspects, witnesses etc.

Seb

EMAIL FROM CONSTABLE SEB BAXTER TO DETECTIVE DAN SIMMONDS, 14 OCTOBER 2024

Hi Dan,

Just checking you got the email I sent. Here to help if you need anything.

Seb

EMAIL FROM BARB YOUNG TO VIV GRIFFITH, 15 OCTOBER 2024

Hi Viv,

I just wanted to let you know I’m worried about Joe. You probably know he is concerned the police think he killed Karen, which I think is ridiculous. He is still working, but is much quieter, and seems pensive and anxious. The pressure he is under would, I imagine, increase the chances of a relapse. He has not missed work, or acted unusually, so I don’t think he has done anything silly yet, but we should all give him what support we can. Hopefully the police will realise he is innocent and find the real culprit soon.

Best,

Barb

EMAIL FROM VIV GRIFFITH TO BARB YOUNG, 15 OCTOBER 2024

Hi Barb

Yes agree on all points.

Viv

——

CALL FROM CONSTABLE SEB BAXTER TO DETECTIVE DAN SIMMONDS, 15 OCTOBER 2024

SIMMONDS: Yep?

BAXTER: Oh, hi, it’s Constable Seb Baxter here from Bullford Point.

SIMMONDS: Yep?

BAXTER: I just ah, well, I had some thoughts on the murder you guys are investigating here. (PAUSE) Of Karen Kemp.

SIMMONDS: Yep?

BAXTER: I sent you a few emails.

SIMMONDS: Yep.

BAXTER: Am I correct that Joe is your main suspect?

SIMMONDS: I can’t say, especially as you live in the area. You understand. Don’t want people getting tipped off.

BAXTER: I wouldn’t tip anyone off. I’m a police officer.

SIMMONDS: (LAUGHS) Righto then, good for you.

BAXTER: I know the area and the people, so I thought maybe I could help.

SIMMONDS: I’ll be in touch if we need anything.

BAXTER: It’s just … I don’t think Joe did it. He’s previously been addicted to drugs and committed property offences, but never any violence. We grew up together and there was never any whisper of him being violent with girlfriends, or anyone. He’d only met Karen a few weeks ago, and almost all domestic murders happen in longer relationships, right? Usually with a pattern of gradually escalating violence. Not as a one-off after three weeks.

SIMMONDS: Fuck me. That it?

BAXTER: Also, with most of these types of murders, the killer’s been drinking. Since rehab, there’s no evidence Joe has relapsed on drugs or had alcohol. I’ve seen him at the pub twice, both times on soft drinks. I know it’s none of my business, but I presume the scenario you’re running with is that they quarrelled, he lost his temper and there was violence that led to her death.

SIMMONDS: You’re totally correct.

BAXTER: Right. So …

SIMMONDS: About the first bit.

BAXTER: Huh?

SIMMONDS: The bit about it being none of your business. So you know Joe pretty well, hey?

BAXTER: Yeah.

SIMMONDS: He’s your friend.

BAXTER: Not really friend.

SIMMONDS: Really? You said you grew up together. Sounds like a friend. Also sounds like you’re trying to influence my investigation. Steer it away from your friend.

BAXTER: No, no, not at all.

SIMMONDS: He’s your friend so you don’t believe he could have killed someone. Fair enough. Happens all the time. But to ring me to try to push me off him. That’s not fucking on, son.

BAXTER: I’m just trying to give you extra info.

SIMMONDS: If someone tells you they killed Karen, then you can fucking call me. That’s new information. But telling us that we have misinterpreted the facts that we have? Your job’s to pull pricks over when their brake lights aren’t working. We do this every fucking day, so excuse me if we’re not going to take direction from someone who spends their life looking for Volvos doing 68 in a 60 zone.

BAXTER: I’m just …

SIMMONDS: If you want to be a detective, take the fucking exam. Till then, fuck off.

——

TEXTS BETWEEN JOE GRIFFITH AND ANDY JOHNSON, 16 OCTOBER 2024

ANDY: Need that money, prick

JOE: Will have the money in a couple of days

ANDY: Heard that before

JOE: Will text when I have it

——

EMAIL FROM DEV KERALA TO JOE GRIFFITH, 17 OCTOBER 2024

Hi Joe,

Just wanted to reach out and see how you’re travelling. Sorry to hear about your friend dying, and it’s so terrible that the police are hassling you. If you need a shoulder to lean on, I’m just a text away.

Feel terrible asking at this time, but can I bring a contract over to you to sign, so it’s all sorted? It’s not the proper, final contract to sell the house. You’d need a lawyer to look at that one. This is just a very simple, straightforward binding option, so we know we can buy the property from you at that very high, above market value, price we offered. How’s tomorrow? When’s a good time?

Dev xx

EMAIL FROM JOE GRIFFITH TO DEV KERALA, 17 OCTOBER 2024

Hi Dev,

Sorry, but I’ve decided not to sell. I’m starting to feel settled here and think it’s probably best for me to stay. Good luck with it all, and tell the builders to keep the noise down.

Joe

EMAIL FROM DEV KERALA TO JOE GRIFFITH, 17 OCTOBER 2024

Hi Joe,

Can we meet to discuss? We may be able to sweeten your offer, and even arrange some attractive alternative accommodation. Perhaps you’d like to purchase one of the apartments? You could do that and still have a handy sum left over. When can I pop over?

Dev

EMAIL FROM JOE GRIFFITH TO DEV KERALA, 17 OCTOBER 2024

Dev, I’ve made up my mind. No point meeting. Good luck with it. Joe

FIVE MISSED CALLS FROM DEV KERALA TO JOE GRIFFITH, 17 OCTOBER 2024

——

EMAIL FROM JOE GRIFFITH TO VIV GRIFFITH, 17 OCTOBER 2024

I’ve decided not to sell. I want to stay. Pretty sure the value of the property will keep going up.

EMAIL FROM VIV GRIFFITH TO JOE GRIFFITH, 17 OCTOBER 2024

Joe, you can’t keep yo-yoing with big financial decisions that affect other people. First you tell me I can rely on getting $1,000,000, now you tell me it’s not happening.

——

TEXTS BETWEEN DEV KERALA AND VIV GRIFFITH, 17 OCTOBER 2024

DEV: Do you know Joe’s changed his mind about selling?!

VIV: Yes. I’m not happy about it

DEV: He told me he was selling and we have gone ahead on that basis. Can you persuade him to change his mind?

VIV: I’ve been trying to change his mind since he was 4 years old without success so I very much doubt it

PART 2

CHAPTER 3

Oh fuck, there it was again! Wonderful warmth, rushing contented excitement, secure adventure, powerful peace. It picked him up and rocked him like a baby, taking him away from all the shit, telling him, promising him, that every little thing was going to be not just all right, but fan-fucking-tastic. Better than good, beyond best. Fuck, he’d missed it.

No levelling out yet. It kept on coming, crashing in, more and more, wave after wave rushing through him, carrying him along, so strongly he could hardly stay on top of it. How big was this fucking wave? Was he going to slip off and get smashed? It was too much. He wanted to keep going but he needed it to stop, keep going and stop, stop fucking stooooppppppp now, get off me, let me go, you fucker, STOOOPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP …

*

Barb wasn’t one to honk, but she did appreciate punctuality, and as she sat in her car outside Joe’s house, she was sorely tempted. 7.33 a.m. It wasn’t like him to be a minute late, let alone three. At least, not recently. She imagined in his old life he hadn’t exactly been an ornament to punctuality. However, in the last month, whenever she had texted him a pick-up time, he had always been waiting outside when she arrived. Sometimes he even held two coffees he’d bought, which was no small thing. Given the frosty reception Sue would have given him, Barb was surprised they weren’t iced.

To make room for Joe, when he eventually decided to honour her with his presence, she reached over to the passenger seat, grabbed a corn chips packet and juice bottle and threw them into the back to join what looked like an untidy collection of service-station food wrappers and drink containers. After work she liked a snack on the way home, and couldn’t always be bothered unloading the rubbish. What was wrong with that? Tidy house, messy car.

Barb had told Eliza Cummins they would be at her place at Copacabana to tame her garden by eight and she didn’t want to subject herself to the polite passive aggressiveness that would follow if they were late: ‘I was going to bring you out a cold drink after an hour at nine, but I suppose now we should make it nine sixteen?’

She had a quick look in the mirror. Her short brown hair looked neat enough, without suggesting she had been anywhere near a hairdresser recently. She adjusted her glasses, opened the car door and pushed down on her seat to give her some momentum to exit.

Barb felt pretty good, considering she was in her late fifties and her husband had just left her. Being a gardener and handyperson kept her healthy. Sue had recently called her ‘sprightly’, which she was happy with, although one traitorous knee had started to get irritated whenever it was asked to do anything more challenging than walk in a straight, flat line.

She strode along the stone path, which happily was a straight flat line, toward Joe’s house, plants and ferns on either side. Emily Griffith had loved her busy garden and given it regular haircuts, but Joe was less interested in it than his mum had been and it was starting to get shaggy.

Barb knocked three times, trying to convey the right mixture of politeness and slight impatience. Nothing happened for a bit, and then for a bit more, so she tried again, this time increasing speed and force, and doubling the number of knocks to six. Still, no sound inside.

How on earth did you oversleep when you have commitments? She always awoke before her alarm, as if it were her job to rouse it. She stepped off the front deck and made her way down the side of the house along a rough path covered in twigs and leaves. He should clean it up. Bushfire tinder. It was unlikely any fire from the national park would make it this far, but even so, everyone should do their bit.

She came to the window of what used to be Joe’s parents’ room and was now Joe’s. The blind was down, but the window was open a few centimetres.

‘Joe,’ she called.

No response.

No flyscreen either, so she reached in and lifted the blind.

Barb’s family had occasionally gone skiing when she was young. One day it was snowing, her goggles fogged, and she had stopped halfway down a run to wait for her parents and sister. As she stood, the earth had started to slide beneath her. What was happening? Earthquake? Avalanche? After a few seconds, it stopped. She was shaken, until she realised it had not been the earth that had moved. It had been her. She had been sliding slowly backwards on her skis, her fogged goggles had caused her to lose perspective, and it had felt as if it was the earth that was shifting.

She felt the same sort of incomprehension now. Joe lay on his side in bed, in shorts and T-shirt, covers pushed against the wall, a belt tied around his upper arm. On the floor was a syringe. His skin was pale with a bluish tinge, his chest still. His eyes bulged as they stared lifelessly at the window, almost, unnervingly, meeting Barb’s gaze, and a semi-circle of dried vomit and spittle surrounded his mouth. His face was contorted in what looked like pain, but couldn’t be, because to feel pain you have to be alive.

*

‘Skim flat white,’ called Sue, wrestling with the lid. They could invent iPhones. Why not a lid you could easily get on a Styrofoam cup?

‘There you go, Dave,’ she smiled, handing it over. ‘You don’t need skim, darl.’ To be honest, he could lose a bit, but it’s nice to be nice.

‘Thanks, Sue. I’ll tell Diane you said so.’

‘Make sure you make it clear it was said in a friendly way, Dave.’ Last thing she wanted was for Diane to think she was flirting. Even worse, for Dave to.

‘Leanne, is that bacon and egg roll for Sam ready?’

There was no reply.

Sue turned to see an empty stove. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ she muttered. She cracked an egg onto the fryer, laid two bacon rashers beside it, and cut open a roll. Saturdays were always busy; it was only nine o’clock and she was over it already.

At least her daughter was home. Not in the best of health, not in the best state of mind, unreliable in the shop and with the concentration span of a can of tuna, but she was here. She had gone AWOL for two days after bloody Joe interviewed her for his stupid podcast, eventually returning bedraggled, exhausted and off her face. But at least she had returned, and since then hadn’t lapsed again.

Naïve, vulnerable Leanne, following Joe to Sydney eight years ago like a dog chasing a stick, where he had emotionally entrapped her, got her into drugs and led her on a merry waltz into hell. It still made her blood boil, which was why …

‘Morning, Sue.’

She turned, automatically plastering on her ‘Happy Shopkeeper’ face. ‘Hello, Gary. Usual?’

‘Of course. That’s why it’s the usual.’ He smiled. A proper, warm smile, not like the fake ones some customers plastered on.

Why couldn’t Leanne have fallen for him, instead of Joe? Gary was tall, slim and handsome, with a straight nose, gentle eyes and Hugh Grant hair. Most importantly, he wasn’t a junkie.

Sue grabbed a felt-tipped pen and wrote ‘Sk Cap’ on a lid. They were hard to write on, too. Ridiculous.

‘Going out on the boat?’ she asked.

‘Not today, sadly. Recording the show on Monday, so have to do some prep. It’s not all talent and charm, you know.’ The twinkle in his eye made his words more self-mocking than conceited.

‘Well, you better make the most of our beautiful little bay before it gets destroyed by that horrible development.’

‘I know,’ replied Gary, shaking his head. ‘Terrible thing. But I also know you’re fighting hard. If anyone can stop it, you can. Um, know why there’s a police car outside Joe’s? Seb’s, I guess.’

‘No.’ Sue came round the counter, past Gary and outside, where she peered across the square to Joe’s house.

‘Hope it’s nothing serious,’ said Gary, appearing at her shoulder.

‘Never know with Joe. Could be anything.’

‘Not your favourite person, I know, and of course understand, but he’s been going well.’

She repressed a scoff, and walked across the square toward the house. An ambulance appeared around the corner and drove down Bayview Avenue. Not racing. No siren. Was that a good or bad sign? It stopped next to the police car, and two paramedics emerged and walked to the front door, not, it seemed, in a rush. They knocked and were let in by Seb.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Gary, who had caught up to her again.

A wash of fear enveloped Sue. She suddenly felt off balance and self-conscious, and wondered if her hands were trembling. She didn’t want to draw attention to them by looking, so she jammed them into her pockets.

‘You okay?’ asked Gary.

‘Yes of course. Just … worried, you know.’

*

As the paramedics pushed the sheet-covered body out of the bedroom on a gurney, Seb tried to pull himself together. He had known Joe since they were zero. Now he was dead.

Be a professional. Do your job.

He heard the door and turned to see a fleshy man with a buzz cut – in maybe his late forties – and a loosened tie and grey suit, stride into the lounge room like he owned the place.

‘Hey,’ he greeted the paramedics. ‘Simmonds, Homicide. Quick look if you don’t mind.’ Without waiting for permission he whipped back the sheet and peered at Joe’s face, then arms. ‘Looks like a one-off, yeah?’

‘No other track marks we’ve seen,’ said a paramedic.

‘Heroin?’ asked Simmonds

She shrugged. ‘That’d be my guess. Autopsy will tell the tale.’

‘Won’t tell us if it was accidental or on purpose, unless they can autopsy what he was thinking just before he pushed it home. Still, doesn’t matter much.’ He dropped the sheet. ‘Ta.’

The paramedics wheeled out Joe. Was it still Joe, Seb wondered, or just his body? He had seen a few bodies in his time on the force, but never anyone’s he had known so well before. He gathered himself as Simmonds descended five stairs into the open plan kitchen and dining area.

‘Hi, I’m Sebastian—’

‘Right. The keen bean.’

‘Just trying to help.’

‘Sure. Great. Looks like we got ourselves a confession, signed in needlepoint. Leave a note?’

‘No.’

‘Check his phone for one?’

‘Um, not yet.’

‘Like I said, impossible to tell if he OD’d accidentally or on purpose, but he was the last person to see Karen alive, he was our main suspect, and he’s gone back to drugs and taken enough to kill him. After all his years using, he must be a fucking dosage expert, so I reckon he probably deliberately took enough to check out.’ He paused, looking meaningfully at Seb. ‘He made a big mistake: lost his temper, killed the girl he was screwing, and knew we were closing in on him. Feels guilty, scared of going back to clink, this time for a decent stretch. Easy way out.’

Seb tried not to sound tentative. ‘I just can’t see Joe killing Karen.’

Simmonds nodded. ‘Cos he’s your mate. Might have been an accident, but. They argue, one pushes the other, the other pushes back, she trips on something – coffee table, carpet, those stairs I just came down – she lands the wrong way, unlucky, breaks her neck. We’ll never know. Anyway, she ends up dead, he panics and hides her body. If he’d pleaded guilty, said it was an accident, probably would’ve got manslaughter. Out in six.’

‘That’s one theory, but—’

‘It’s the theory. Her body’s found one hundred and seventy metres from his house. Those in a sexual relationship with the victim are the statistically most likely category of killer, and the boyfriend, Tom, is alibied tighter than a jar of fucking pickles. No one else has any sort of motive. He knows we’re closing in on him. Last night Joe panics and …’ Simmonds mimed injecting a needle into his arm.

‘I just wonder if—’

‘You’re going to hit your quota of speeding fines this month. If it’s any consolation, we have KPIs in Homicide, too. Just one, actually. Murders solved. And we just solved one in the best possible way. No year-long wait for a trial, no preparing all the evidence, no getting cross-examined by some shiny-shoed smartarse shitfuck defence barrister, no possibility of a miscarriage of justice cos the jury are morons. Good fucking result. And, to be honest, not bad for him, when you consider the alternative. That’s how he figured it too, I’m guessing.’

‘But …’

Simmonds took a couple of steps toward Seb in a way that was less ‘taking the relationship to a more intimate level’ and more ‘menace’. ‘You know, when I see a vehicle driving fast, I clock their speed, then I pursue the vehicle until I’m about fifty metres behind it. I then activate my lights and siren. After the vehicle pulls over … Oh, wait, am I telling you how to do your job? Sorry. No one likes that, right? Take my meaning? We do this every fucking day.’ He took a step back, and his face softened. ‘Look. There’s no doubt Joe killed Karen. We spoke to the head of his rehab. He said Joe was difficult, rebellious, ill-disciplined and, get this, quick to anger. They nearly kicked him out a couple of times for getting aggro. Maybe he was nice when you were growing up, but years on dope and crime changes people. I’ve seen it plenty. Their impulse control goes. They get angry quicker, violent quicker.’

‘What about Karen’s missing clothes and bag? Doesn’t it suggest she had left Tom? That was the main reason why I didn’t open a missing person file on her.’

‘We thought about that. Tom says he doesn’t lock his back door. We think Joe snuck in there that night or next morning when Tom was out and took her stuff, so it looked like she’d left him and delayed any search. Alternatively, Karen did decide to leave Tom, packed a bag earlier in the day, hid it outside the house, then took it when she went to Joe’s. That might have even led to the argument between them. Perhaps he didn’t want her to leave town, or perhaps she thought she was going to move in with him, and he wasn’t keen. Then after her death he disposes of the bag.’

Simmonds turned and headed toward Joe’s room. ‘I’m gunna have a quick look at his phone, download the contents – got this nifty new gizmo that does it in about eight seconds – and piss off.’

‘But I just think—’ began Seb.

Simmonds stopped, his back to Seb. ‘Mate,’ he said forcefully. ‘It’s case. Fucking. Closed.’

CHAPTER 4

TRANSCRIPT – EP. 4 WHICH DUCK? OUTRO, 21 OCTOBER 2024

GARY TURNER, HOST: Before we go tonight, friends, please indulge me. This episode of Which Duck? is dedicated to my dear friend Joe Griffith, who sadly lost his brave battle with addiction this week. You are at peace now, sweet prince.

Please tell those special people in your life that you love them. Or if that’s too confronting, that you like them a lot. Goodnight.

EMAIL FROM BARB YOUNG TO VIV GRIFFITH, 21 OCTOBER 2024

Dear Viv,

Hope you are doing okay. What a terrible tragedy. I was wondering if you’d like me to clean up 28 Bayview? I could tidy Joe’s belongings into bags if you like?

All the best,

Barb

EMAIL FROM VIV GRIFFITH TO BARB YOUNG, 21 OCTOBER 2024

Thanks, that would be good. Can pay your normal hourly rate. Key should be in usual place.

Viv

EMAIL FROM BARB YOUNG TO VIV GRIFFITH, 21 OCTOBER 2024

Viv, Don’t be silly. No fee.

EMAIL FROM DEV KERALA TO VIV GRIFFITH, 21 OCTOBER 2024

Hi Viv,

I am so sorry to hear of the passing of Joe. He was such a great guy. High-spirited, fun, full of mischief. I guess that mischief led him into trouble, but from my dealings with him recently it seemed he was getting his life sorted out. Addiction is a beast and it is such a shame.

It would be lovely to see you and catch up in this difficult time. This is when old friends really need each other.

Obviously, this is not the time to talk about the future of 28 Bayview, which, without meaning to pry, I’m assuming you now own? When you do feel ready to discuss it, I’m here.

No pressure at all, but we do have some time issues at our end.

Best,

Dev XXX

EMAIL FROM VIV GRIFFITH TO DEV KERALA, 21 OCTOBER 2024

Hi Dev,

Coffee tomorrow? I can come to you. 11 a.m. at Ringo’s?

Viv

CHAPTER 5

Barb lifted the third stone along the low rock wall that separated Joe’s front porch – Viv’s now, she reminded herself – from the tangled front garden. No key. Odd. The spare key to 28 Bayview had been kept under that rock since she was a girl.

She looked closer, as if that might reveal it. It had been there a week ago. She and Joe had had lunch at the jetty between jobs, and whilst Joe ordered the burgers, she’d asked him if she could pop into his house and get a couple of glasses for the lemonade.

She picked up the second stone along. No key. The fourth. There it was.

Inside, she gazed into the living room. When Emily and Pete lived there, the old-style sofas, carpet and drapes, lino kitchen floor, shelves and mantelpieces crammed with photo frames, even a teaspoon collection mounted in an ornamental frame, seemed to fit. Now, three days after Joe’s death, the house seemed plain, even shabby. And so empty.

She moved through the living area and kitchen and slid open the back doors to disperse the musty smell. Had the house not been lighter and warmer before? Less gloomy, more welcoming? No it hadn’t. The house was the same. It was her perception that was different. It wasn’t the house that was grieving. People died in houses all the time.

She could hardly believe Joe’s fatal relapse had come just hours after they had tidied the Simpsons’ garden in Kincumber. Yes, he had been nervous about the police investigation, but he had seemed confident he would soon be cleared, not desolate or desperate. Not suicidal.

‘They always hassle anyone who’s been, you know, seeing someone who gets killed. They’ll move on soon and find the prick – sorry, but prick’s the word – who did it.’

A few hours later, he had accidentally or deliberately overdosed. Had he bought the drugs that day, after work? Or earlier, as a ‘just in case’? As they pruned, was he deciding to take them?

Soon after they had started working together, Joe had said, ‘If you catch me doing anything that looks like I’m getting close to a relapse, stop me.’

‘Like what? I don’t have much experience in that area, I’m afraid.’

‘If I’m agitated, twitchy, pissed off, late, ask to borrow money, disappear with a suss excuse, wear long-sleeved shirts when it’s hot, rob you … I won’t do that.’

‘What if I do notice something? Would I really be able to talk you out of it?’

‘Dunno,’ he said cheerfully. ‘No pressure, but I really hope so.’

She prided herself on being good at reading people, but she hadn’t seen anything in Joe that made her concerned. There must have been a sign. What had she missed? He’d seemed fine that final day, telling her he was meeting Leanne, Gary, Seb, Dev and Viv in the evening at the club. He had done that, apparently, and then come home and overdosed. Meanwhile she had spent the evening telling herself what a good, worthy person she was for helping him get his life back on track. Seems she hadn’t been doing that good a job after all.

She sighed, and tried to focus on the task at hand. Joe had hardly left a mark on the lounge room. Once she had removed his hoodie from the sofa, straightened the cushions and given it a vacuum, he might never have been there.

The kitchen revealed more evidence of his presence. In the pantry were provisions for someone whose primary aim was to avoid starvation, rather than enjoy tasty, nutritious meals. Pasta, Weet-Bix, vegemite, peanuts, several bags of corn chips. Should you re-use the food of a dead man? It was still food. She ripped a garbage bag from a roll she had brought and placed the unopened food in it. She would offer it to Viv. If he didn’t want it, she would eat it herself.

From the fridge, the milk, bread and eggs went into another bag, to be thrown out. She wiped down the benches, then turned to several days’ worth of dishes. Tut tut.

As she washed, she mused. How well could she really claim to have known Joe? They had worked side by side for several weeks. She was his boss, which meant he had been putting on his best face, trying to make a good impression. If you only see someone at their best, how can you know what they are like at their worst? She couldn’t imagine him stealing, taking drugs, or lying or cheating money out of parents and friends, but he had done all that in the past.

Apparently, according to the police, he had also killed Karen Kemp. Word had it they had concluded their investigation and officially marked Joe as a murderer. Surely not.

Some of the work he had done with her had been difficult and frustrating: cleaning gutters you could hardly reach, unjamming swollen and rusted windows. Sometimes she had issued orders to him. She had never intended to be bossy, but she might have sounded so on occasion. She had never seen a flash of anger, or even frustration, from him.

Surely, if he was the type who could lose his temper and kill Karen, she would she have seen at least a sliver of it. Surely, if he had been contemplating a drug relapse or deliberate overdose, then when they had worked together just a few hours beforehand, she would have picked up something.

CHAPTER 6

As he drove into Gosford, Seb wondered if he was being naïve in thinking Joe couldn’t have killed Karen. He’d found it hard to imagine decent old Ken, the electrician, sneaking into his neighbour’s garden and poisoning the tree blocking his view, but he had. It had been hard to imagine Pamela Turner skimming the school’s charity fund to feed the pokies, but she had, or mild-mannered landscaper Bob Wilson hitting his wife, but he did. People did stuff. Then they tried to cover it up.

He came around a bend and saw Gosford Hospital. Immediately, anxious thoughts started scuttling around his head. He felt jittery, as if he had just sculled three short blacks. Inside the car park, he tried to slow his breathing and unclench his jaw, but navigating the tight turns wasn’t ideal conditions.

When you approach danger, look calm, even if you’re not. Look like you’re in control.

Police training.

Move slowly. Speak slowly and clearly.

He squeezed into a spot. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Repeat till bored, because bored is better than anxious.

He got out and tried to walk with an easy gait, dropping his shoulders.

Don’t have to be calm. Just have to look calm.

Inside, he bought overpriced flowers. Soon they would die and be in the bin. Happy thought. He wished he had brought something more imaginative and less disposable, but what do you get someone who lies in bed all day? Did she like books? What sort?

He waited a minute for the lift. Wished it was longer. The doors opened and an elderly man in spotty pyjamas with bed hair emerged. Was there a faint whiff of piss, or was he projecting?

On the fifth floor, he smiled as he passed the young nurse he had seen last time and, thanks to his uniform, got a respectful nod in reply. Nurses and cops were on the same side, sorting out the messes other people made, rescuing them from misfortune, evil and their own stupidity, while at the same time trying to avoid being strangled by their bureaucracy’s forms, procedures and ever changing, but rarely relevant, KPIs.

He slowed as he reached her room. He didn’t like the situation, but he did like her. He was glad to be seeing her, but wished it wasn’t here.

He ran his fingers through his thick brown hair, draping it across his head to try to re-establish the part he combed in each morning and then ignored for the rest of the day. He was okay-looking, wasn’t he? In decent enough shape? He walked to and from work each day, didn’t drink too much beer, and had done that body mass index thing recently and come up as only a bit above ideal weight. Or had it been a bit above that? On the negative side, he never quite got around to running or going to the gym, ate too much red meat and not enough vegetables, and there were probably those who would disagree with his view that the amount of beer he drank wasn’t too much.

Fuck it. Whatever. He took another deep breath and walked in.

CHAPTER 7

Barb walked into Joe’s bedroom, dragging the vacuum cleaner behind her like a reluctant dog.

By the window stood a functional plastic desk. On it sat a laptop, lid open, surrounded by a notebook, bills, a microphone on a small tripod and a phone still plugged into the wall, a digital dog on the tuckerbox forlornly awaiting its master’s return. The bed was in the corner, a built-in wardrobe ran along a wall, and a pair of jeans and two T-shirts lay unconscious on the floor.

She ripped another two garbage bags from her roll. Cupboard first.

Joe didn’t have a lot of clothes, and they prioritised function over fashion. She felt confident Viv wouldn’t want them, so she shoved them all in the ‘out’ bag, checking the pockets as she went. At the back of his sock drawer she found a plain white envelope, without stamp or postmark. On it ‘Joe’ was written in anonymous blue pen. It was unsealed, almost inviting her to open it, so she did. Inside was a wad of fifty- and hundred-dollar bills. Three thousand dollars in all. Curious.

Underneath the envelope was a piece of lined paper, torn on one side as if ripped from a notebook. On it, in thick black block capitals, perhaps made by a felt-tipped pen, was:

YOU ARSEHOLE JUNKIE. WE DON’T WANT YOU HERE. YOU’VE DONE ENOUGH DAMAGE. GO SOMEWHERE ELSE.

She put both in her pocket, wondering who they had come from. The money was Viv’s now, she supposed.

Next, Joe’s desk. A water and electricity bill to go to Viv. Beside them was an A4 notebook. She opened it. What was the harm? On the first page, at the top, ‘SAL PODCAST’ was written, followed by a few pages of scrawly handwriting. She shut it and put it, the laptop, phone, charger, bills and microphone into the ‘keep’ bag.

On his bedside table, poignantly, was a book titled The End Of Addiction. Keep. Then again, Joe’s fate was hardly a ringing endorsement. Out.

Next to it an eye mask – out – and a brown, shabby, worn-down mouthguard. She and Joe had bonded over the fact they were both grinders and wore guards at night to protect their teeth. She picked up the mouthguard with forefinger and thumb, walked down the hall to the bathroom, where she found its blue plastic container, then dropped both in the ‘out’ bag. No one keeps their dead brother’s mouthguard for sentimental reasons. She stripped the sheets and was about to wash them before she reconsidered. Would Viv want to sleep on the sheets his brother had died on? Out.

Suddenly, she wanted to be away from the house. She looked back into Joe’s lonely room. No, she corrected herself, it was just a room. She had brought the loneliness herself.

CHAPTER 8

Claire was sitting up reading a book, Eleven by Mark Watson. Seb filed it away for next visit’s present. Like last visit, she was the sole occupant of a two-bedroom ward. What hospital bed crisis?

‘Hi,’ he said, smiling, and then wondered if that was appropriate. He didn’t want to trivialise the gravity of her injuries. Should he rearrange his face into something more solemn? Or was he overthinking it? Didn’t people hate being treated like victims? He let the smile stay.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said, also smiling – which, he supposed, meant she wasn’t pissed off that he was. Her brown hair was pulled back from her face, giving him a clear view of her wide, inquisitive eyes, button nose and full – and, in his opinion, perfectly shaped – lips.

‘More flowers,’ Seb said self-consciously, looking around her room at three full vases. ‘Not sure what they are.’ He approached her bed and held them out.

‘Thanks. Just put them there.’ She indicated a table. ‘I’ll get them to bring another vase.’

‘You’re probably sick of flowers.’

‘No, no,’ she said automatically, then, ‘a bit.’

‘I could chuck them out the window if you like. All of them.’

Claire laughed. He relaxed a little.

‘What should I bring next time?’ he asked.

‘Food,’ she said immediately. ‘Everything they give me’s very functional. Major food groups, protein, all that rubbish. Not bad, but when you sit about all day, a treat’s nice.’

‘Can’t eat flowers. Chocolate?’

‘Lollies. I’m like an eight-year-old with lollies. Sit,’ she commanded, indicating a straight-backed chair next to the bed.

He obeyed. ‘How is it all going?’

‘Lots of rehab. They tell me to do something and then, when I can’t, they’re all soothing and encouraging. “Well done, great effort.” Makes me want to kick them. Which I can’t, obviously, because …’ She waved at her legs. ‘Although, if I ever do, they’ll say, “Well done, great effort.”’

At the mention of her legs, Seb suppressed a wince. Mercifully, the blanket covered them, so he couldn’t see the damage. In a just world, the driver in an accident would have the worst injuries, but he had escaped with only minor cuts to his face and a few bruises, and been released from hospital the next day. He had given his account to Gosford police, and been congratulated for steering the car off the road, a course of action they said had probably saved both their lives. He knew the doctors had told Claire she would walk, and even run, again, but it would take months of hard work.

‘Maybe they’re pushing you too hard,’ he said.

‘That’s how it works. The more work you do, the quicker you get better, go home, run marathons and give an inspiring TED Talk.’

He asked her more about rehab, what the doctors had told her, and hospital life. As she answered, he both listened and assessed. She seemed cheery enough – considering – and open. Last visit, she had thanked him more than once for saving her, which had made him feel even worse, and her attitude to him today seemed unchanged.

At first he had visited out of obligation – it was the decent thing to do – as well as an anxious need to monitor her memory. He still needed to come for both those reasons, but now there was a third. He liked her. His attraction on the night they met hadn’t just been the beer talking. He wondered if it had just been the gin and tonics for her.

He had first visited six days after the accident. Claire had little memory of what had happened that night, but had been told that she was in the passenger seat of his car when he swerved off the road to avoid a truck coming toward them on the wrong side of the road.

Understandably, she’d wanted to know what she was doing in his car at five in the morning.

‘I was driving you home,’ Seb had said.

‘From?’

‘From your parents’ house.’

Her face creased in puzzlement. ‘But they’re in Queensland.’

‘I think that was the point.’

‘Huh?’

‘Do you remember being at the club? Bullford Point Bowlo? There was a group of us. You came with Dev?’

Claire had frowned. ‘Some vague images, but nothing specific. Like after being super drunk. Wait. Was I super drunk?’

‘No. We went to your parents’ place because it was somewhere private. You said you had flatmates.’

She’d stared at him in confusion, then realisation dawned. ‘Oh. We …?’

He’d nodded.

‘Shit,’ she’d said. ‘All the way? Sorry, we’re not in high school. We had sex?’

‘We did, yes. I swear you weren’t drunk.’

‘I decided to have sex with you when I was sober?’ She’d stared at him, blank-faced, then smiled. ‘Sorry. Couldn’t resist.’

‘Right. Good one.’

‘Why didn’t we go to your place? Are you homeless? Are cops allowed to be homeless?’

‘I have a home. In Bullford Point.’ He wanted to live alone and didn’t earn a huge amount, so he rented a shabby fibro that, after rain, smelled of damp. That day it had been raining, plus his bedroom had been untidy. He’d known Roger, his poodle shih tzu something something mix would be fine alone until morning.

‘You suggested your parents’ place and it sounded … exciting, I guess. Then … afterwards you said you had to get home, so we drove back at five a.m., and that’s when it happened.’

‘Were you single?’

‘Yep.’

‘I … um, wasn’t. I’m … not.’

‘I know. You told me. That’s why you wanted to get back.’

‘Right. I must have been worried about my gossipy flatmates. I guess I could have told them I’d stayed at Dev’s, but they know Dev, so … There had been some problems with Craig. The boyfriend. Although he’s being very nice to me now. Would he know about you? He hasn’t said anything.’

‘I told the police what happened and they might have told him. Even if they didn’t … five a.m. You and me in the car. Is he a man of some intelligence?’

‘He’s a real estate agent, so draw your own conclusions.’ Her face fell. ‘That was mean. You shouldn’t have told me we had sex, then I could have denied it without lying. Anyway, apparently you saved my life. Both our lives. Thank you.’

His guts had churned as he’d plastered on a modest smile.

On his second visit they had got beyond the accident and talked for an hour about all sorts of things – movies and music, living in Sydney versus the Central Coast, plans for the future. Claire had grown up in Sydney, got her first job as a high school English teacher at Kincumber High, been there four years and wanted to stay. He hadn’t enquired further about the boyfriend, although he wanted to. After he left, he kept thinking about her.

Now, on his third visit, he was finding that the alcohol-enhanced attraction he had felt the night they met was not, as it usually did, diminishing into something awkward and embarrassing that he wanted to run away from. For the first time in a long time he had met someone he really liked, which made the lie at the heart of it even worse.

‘I think I’ve started to remember fragments of being at my parents’ with you that night,’ she said. ‘Were you wearing a denim jacket?’

A shiver of fear pricked his neck. ‘Yeah.’

‘I must have liked you to get past a denim jacket.’

‘I try not to use fashion as a leg up. I want to be liked for me.’

‘Did we … have a shower?’

‘Ah, yeah.’ He felt acutely embarrassed.

‘There you go. At the club, you were drinking beer?’

‘Yep.’

She shot him an accusatory look. ‘Did you drink much? Were you drink-driving?’

‘No, no. A couple, that’s all.’ More like four, but they had been there three hours so he was probably under, and he definitely was on the way back. ‘We didn’t drink at your parents’.’

Her brow creased. ‘That’s all I’ve got so far, but the doctor said more might come back. Hopefully.’

When you approach danger, look like you’re in control. Don’t have to be calm. Just have to look calm.

‘Yep,’ he said, smiling, heart pounding. ‘Hopefully.’

CHAPTER 9

Barb sat on her back deck, topped up her glass and looked out over the bay. She never got sick of that view. The bottle was more empty than full, which was unlike her. Or at least, it was before Dennis left.

She thought about Joe. A little boy, a teenager, an adult, now a corpse. She missed him. Constantly pushing his too-long hair out of his eyes, his attempts not to swear in front of her, his enthusiasm and plans, his hopes of a fresh start. All gone.

Bullford Point had experienced a decade’s worth of drama in a month, although admittedly, it had come off a low base. The last dose of excitement had been that business with the bush turkey managing to get onto the ferry a couple of years ago. That had caused quite the stir, but didn’t begin to compare to the last few weeks: Karen Kemp’s disappearance, the discovery of her body, a murder investigation, Joe’s overdose. Now, it seemed, it was all over, tied up in a neat little bow. Joe had killed Karen, then overdosed. Nothing more to see here.

She took another sip of chardy, following the progress of a pelican gliding across the bay.

She sat still for some time, her brow slowly furrowing.

What about Joe’s teeth? Technically a mouthguard to prevent grinding while asleep, but she had always called hers ‘teeth’. Before Dennis left, she had always found it tricky to work out when to put them in. After lights out, of course, but they often chatted, and if she talked with her teeth in, she sounded drunk. Sometimes she would think the conversation was over and insert them, only for Dennis to add another carefully considered point. It could be hard to tell the difference between one of his lengthy conversational pauses, and him going to sleep, especially in the dark, so sometimes the teeth went in and out several times.

When you worked with someone doing tasks that didn’t require much brainpower, you ended up chatting about all sorts of things, and one day as they oiled a deck, she and Joe had discussed bedroom routines.

‘I clean my teeth,’ he said (meaning his real teeth), ‘then last thing get my mouthguard from the bathroom, put it in, then lights off.’

He kept his mouthguard in the bathroom, and didn’t get it until he was about to go to sleep. Why then, had it been on his bedside table? Surely, in the moments before he relapsed and took heroin again, after all those months and all that effort, he must have been in turmoil. Anxious, excited, a dozen other emotions. Would he really have thought, ‘Oh, and I better get my mouthguard from its case in the bathroom and put it on my bedside table, just in case I don’t feel like getting up and getting it later.’?

She heard a ping and checked her phone. Nothing. She went inside to the bag she had left on the kitchen table, rummaged for Joe’s phone, and saw a text.

ANDY: Got it, prick? In the area soon

Andy, whoever he was, obviously didn’t know Joe was dead. What was the ‘it’ he wanted? A spade Joe had borrowed? A toaster? Money? Barb thought of the envelope containing the three thousand dollars she had found in Joe’s sock drawer.

Who was Andy? The only one Barb knew was Andrew Davidson, the retired headmaster of the primary school, who was as likely to use the word ‘prick’ as he was to miss a day’s kayaking.

She could forget all this. It was none of her business.

But that was the trouble. There really wasn’t much that was her business anymore. Husband gone, daughter in Melbourne. She wasn’t one to get down on her work, but you could only get so much satisfaction from repairing windows and pruning trees. Yes, it was good for her physically. Mentally and emotionally, not so much.

Why had Joe put his teeth on his bedside table before injecting drugs?

She picked up Joe’s phone. If she wanted to find out more, she might as well start.

CHAPTER 10

On Seb’s way out of Claire’s ward, a wiry man with a thin, lined face and a straggly beard, wearing T-shirt and jeans, was arguing with the nurse.

‘I’m not family, technically. Like, not blood family, but I’m her boyfriend so, yeah, I’m family.’

The nurse asked for his name, then looked at a list. ‘I’m sorry. Because she’s in a serious condition, there’s limited visiting. Family only.’

‘Like I said, I’m family. I’ve got to see her.’ He leaned in, eyes sharpening.

Seb slowed down.

‘I’m sorry, but if you’re not on the list …’ the nurse began cautiously.

‘That’s fucked! I gotta see her!’ The man grabbed the counter with both hands, leaning over as far over as he could. ‘Need to fucking see her!’

Seb stepped up to the desk. ‘Hi, I’m visiting Claire Ellis.’

The nurse looked like she’d just got a present. ‘Let me look her up.’

As she tapped the computer, Seb turned to the man, who side-eyed his uniform then stared resolutely ahead, in the same way drivers avoided making eye contact with him at traffic lights when he was on patrol.

‘Hi,’ said Seb with a big smile. ‘Couldn’t help overhearing that you’re not on that list you need to be on to visit the person you want to visit.’

‘Been a mix-up,’ the man mumbled sullenly, still looking ahead.

‘Reckon this nurse might be too busy to fix it right now.’ He turned to the nurse. ‘You’re pretty busy, right?’

‘I am, yeah.’

‘There you go. So not much point hanging about, is there?’

The man stared at Seb, furious, then at the nurse, then turned and stormed off toward the lift.

‘Thanks,’ said the nurse. ‘You can tell the ones that are going to be trouble.’

As he drove home, he realised she was right. You can tell the ones that are going to be trouble. Seb knew as soon as he pulled someone over if they were going to be apologetic and compliant, or get aggro. Just like the nurse, he had learned to sense anger and resentment, and to know when it might bubble over into aggression. They had both known, almost instantly, that the guy in the hospital was going to be trouble.

He pulled over to the side of the road. There was no way Joe killed Karen. Joe could be a prick, but he wasn’t that sort of prick. He could be cunning, calculating and manipulative, but unlike the guy in the hospital, Joe had impulse control. Joe had got himself into a world of trouble over the years, but Seb had never heard a whisper of violence about him, even from Sal and Leanne, both of whom Joe had been in relationships with.

Homicide had him tagged as a hothead who had flown off the handle and lashed out, but that wasn’t Joe. He’d never had a hair-trigger temper. He assessed, he worked out what would most benefit him, and acted accordingly. Seb had seen Joe several times since his return to Bullford Point, and notwithstanding his years of hard living, there were no signs that his temperament had changed.

Why would Joe, just when he was getting his life back together, throw it all away by lashing out at a woman he had just met? Yes, domestic violence could rise up suddenly; Seb had interviewed victims and perpetrators who had said the cause was someone forgetting to buy milk or not doing the washing-up, but the specific incident had always been just the spark that had ignited the tinder of years of built-up resentment. Joe had only known Karen weeks, wasn’t living with her, and had only seen her half a dozen times. There was no tinder to ignite.

Seb could very easily imagine Joe plotting a crime that would advantage him. In fact, he knew Joe had done that. Many times. But not this. It was too senseless, too self-defeating.

He was sure Homicide had got it wrong. Joe hadn’t killed Karen.

CHAPTER 11

These days, Barb supposed breaking into someone’s phone was more intrusive than going through their bedroom drawers, but something felt off about Joe’s death, and a trawl though his phone was the best way to find out what had been going on in his life before he died.

First she had to get past the lock screen. How many guesses did she get? She had seen him open his phone many times, unusually with his face, but one morning they had been removing mould from Judith Delgety’s basement with bleach. Facemasks were required, and he had punched in his code. She was pretty sure he had banged the same number six times. Ten options then. And if he was lax enough to use the same number, he would probably go for a corner.

She started with 1. Fail. 3 and 7 the same, but six 9’s did the trick. She opened Andy’s text message.

Got it, prick? In the area soon

Barb scrolled up to their earlier messages.

ANDY: Need that money, prick

JOE: Will have the money in a couple of days

ANDY: Heard that before

JOE: Will text when I have it

Charming. Joe had never spoken like that around her. She supposed everyone adjusted their speech in different company, but it did make her wonder. There was clearly a side to him she had not seen.

She typed Got it and pressed send. Soon there was another ping.

ANDY: About time, cunt. Tomoz?

Barb’s eyebrows rose.

Yes. 2 p.m. suits. And mind your language.

Soon, another ping.

ANDY: You’re one to talk

She took a chance.

Remind me how much?

ANDY: 3200

The envelope she had found in Joe’s room held three thousand dollars. She typed See you tomorrow, hesitated, then added: fuckface.

When in Rome.

CHAPTER 12

Seb huddled over his crowded desk, typing up a morning’s haul of speeding tickets plus, for excitement’s sake, a failure to indicate. He should have added a loading for being dumb enough to do it with a police car right behind him.

Bullford Point was a small station – technically two person, but he had been the only occupant for nearly a year – and whenever he bothered to check his emails he half expected to discover it was being closed. NSW Police were gradually ‘rationalising’, or some word like that. He wouldn’t lose his job, but he would be shunted off somewhere, probably Gosford, and wasn’t looking forward to it. Working on his own could be lonely, but the alternative was being in a big station surrounded by dozens of people, most of superior rank. Currently, he was supervised only when he asked to be. Help was just a phone call away, but it was up to him whether he called, and he rarely did. If loneliness was the price of autonomy, he was happy to pay it.

‘Good morning, then.’

Seb looked up to see the top half of Barb, in a collared white shirt, smiling over his counter. ‘Hi, Barb.’

‘Busy?’

‘There are things to do, yes, but fire away.’

She looked around. ‘Is there somewhere private we could chat?’

‘There’s only us here. The very definition of private.’

‘Do you have an office?’

He spread his arms, indicating the station. On his side of the counter were two desks. The other looked occupied, but wasn’t. He just dumped stuff on it that he couldn’t be bothered to put away. When he had transferred to Bullford Point from Blacktown three years earlier, the desk had belonged to his boss. He had retired last year and his position hadn’t been filled yet. Seb suspected it never would be – part of the rationalising – which effectively kind of made him, in all but title and salary, the boss. Behind him was the back wall and door. To his right, Barb’s left, along the wall was what head office would call a breakout area and he would call a tattered couch. Beside it was a kitchen the size of a toilet cubicle, and just as inviting.

He usually talked over the counter to people, or ‘customers’ as management preferred, but it sounded like this might be something sensitive, so he raised the drawbridge near the wall, motioned Barb through, and pulled up a chair to the other side of his desk.

Having someone on his side of the counter made him realise how shabby and cramped the space was, full of filing cabinets and crammed shelves. It more resembled a storeroom someone had dumped some spare desks and chairs in than the ‘state of the art law enforcement delivery infrastructure’ head office boasted of.

He edged between his desk and a set of Meccano-like shelves to sit behind it. Despite the force’s claim that it was going paperless (Seb had been informed of this via letter), his desk contained piles of the stuff, loose, stapled, and in binders and folders. The things paper needed to survive – paperclips, stapler, envelopes, in and out tray – bumped shoulders, competing for space.

‘I have a crime to report,’ stated Barbara formally.

Seb looked for a notebook and pen, and found them hiding under an ‘Occupational Health and Safety’ folder he had been browsing through for comic relief.

‘Traffic? Dishonesty? Violence? Drugs? Or … the other?’ he asked.

‘What’s the other?’

‘You know, sexual.’

‘Oh, no. Does violence include … well, if you poisoned someone, arsenic in the soup or what have you, that’s not really violent, is it?’

‘It’s categorised as violent.’

‘I see. And would running over someone come under violence or traffic?’

‘I think if accidental, traffic, but if deliberate, violence.’

‘That seems odd.’

Seb thought about it. ‘Agreed. It’s a loose classification.’

‘What if you took cocaine and then ran someone over? Violence, traffic or drugs?’

‘Umm … is that what happened?’

‘No, just curious. I want to report a murder.’

His eyebrows went up. ‘A murder?’

‘Of Joe.’

‘Joe? Joe died of a heroin overdose.’

‘Did he though?’

‘Yes. The autopsy was clear. A large dose of heroin mixed with liquid morphine. The two combined magnify each other’s effects, possibly suggesting he deliberately, not accidentally, overdosed.’

‘If you wanted to murder someone, wouldn’t it be clever to make it look like they weren’t murdered?’

‘It would be, yes, but that doesn’t mean that’s what happened here. Joe was a recovering heroin addict. Unfortunately, they tend to relapse.’

‘I think he was murdered. Can I tell you why?’

Seb sighed. He had always thought of Barb as a calm, sensible woman. No doubt she’d been lonely since Dennis left. She had employed Joe, probably saw herself as something of a parental figure or mentor to him, so he guessed she viewed his relapse as a personal failure and had gone fishing for another explanation.

He supposed he should at least listen to her. ‘Sure’

‘Firstly, the location of his teeth. Don’t say, “in his mouth”. I mean the mouthguard he wore because he ground his teeth. Do you remember where it was?’

He pretended to consider this carefully by looking above Barb’s right shoulder and squinting. ‘Not exactly.’

‘His bedside table,’ said Barb in the way a Grandmaster might say, ‘Checkmate.’

Seb stared blankly at her.

‘Joe and I discussed evening routines. I won’t go into mine, but it does involve some light stretching. Joe told me the last thing he did before bed was to get his mouthguard from the bathroom. The last thing. Now put yourself in Joe’s shoes. After six months of rehab and two months here drug free, you’re about to relapse. How do you feel?’

‘Um, excited. Stressed.’

‘Exactly. Maybe add depressed. Anxious. Agitated. Conflicted. In turmoil. Wanting it, but not wanting to want it, yes?’

Seb nodded.

‘Do you really think that before he injected, he would have got his teeth from the bathroom and put them on his bedside table?’

Seb considered this. ‘Maybe he left his mouthguard on his bedside table that morning. He might have been in a hurry.’

‘He wasn’t. I picked him up for work at nine thirty. Pruning at Killcare. He told me that every morning when he got up, he put his teeth back in their container in the bathroom. Morning habits are very strong. I do things exactly the same way every morning. I bet you do too, yes?’

Seb tilted his head. ‘Up, shower, dressed, egg. I suppose.’

‘It’s almost automatic, isn’t it? Point two. He had a belt tied around his upper arm, correct?’

‘Yes.’ Seb tried not to sound too schoolteachery. ‘Heroin users use belts to make their—’

‘Veins stand out. I know that. I’ve been researching. On the internet.’ She rolled up a sleeve and looked at her forearm. ‘I wouldn’t need one. I can see my veins.’ She proffered her arm toward him, blue-green veins visible beneath the skin. ‘Show me yours.’

Seb reluctantly rolled up his sleeve, exposing the inside of an arm.

‘See,’ said Barb, pointing. ‘Veins.’

He nodded, impressed. Visible veins, just like the iron pumpers, despite him never following up on any of his ‘must go to the gym’ intentions.

‘But when people inject a lot,’ he said, ‘their veins start to collapse. Tying something around your arm makes them stand out.’

‘Exactly! When you are injecting a lot. Joe wasn’t.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He wore T-shirts at work. I would have seen. When you found him, were there any other marks on his arms?’

He had looked. ‘No.’

‘He was reliable, punctual, worked well, didn’t take fifteen-minute toilet breaks and emerge with a stupid grin on his face, never stole my power tools. I’m sure this was his first relapse. So why would he use a belt?’

‘Habit. You said yourself how strong they are. People develop a ritual with drugs. He used to use a belt, so he automatically used it this time.’

‘Which way do you travel to work?’

‘Huh?’

‘Like everyone, you walk or drive the quickest, most efficient way. We do everything the most efficient way. If you have to use a belt to get a vein, you do. If you don’t have to, you don’t. Using a belt when you don’t have to doesn’t make sense.’

Seb uncrossed his legs, then re-crossed them the other way, as if directing traffic using only his lower half.

‘Where did he inject?’ asked Barb.

‘Let me check.’ He flicked through his phone, found one of the photos he had taken. ‘Crook of his elbow.’

‘That’s the most popular place, according to my research, because veins are easy to find there,’ said Barb. ‘But if you inject there too much, those veins get overused and you have to move elsewhere, up or down your arm, or even to your hands or legs. Some people even inject into their privates! Can you imagine? That’d only be men, surely?’

Seb tried not to imagine.

‘This is the important bit. Joe said his arms scabbed up badly and he never wanted people to see them if he could avoid it,’ continued Barb, ‘so he always tried to inject above the elbow.’

‘He told you a lot.’

‘Sometimes people want to talk. You just have to let them. So, why wouldn’t he have injected in his usual place above the elbow?’

‘Because if he was deliberately overdosing, it wouldn’t matter if anyone saw.’

‘But again, habit. Inject in the usual place. When you found him, he was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, yes?’

He didn’t love her habit of making statements with a ‘yes?’ at the end.

‘Joe didn’t own pyjamas,’ continued Barb. ‘I looked in his wardrobe.’

‘Your point being?’

‘Shorts and a T-shirt were his pyjamas. He was going to bed. He put his pyjamas on, got his mouthguard and went to bed. You wouldn’t do that if you were about to inject your first drugs for nine months. You just wouldn’t. The sheets were bunched next to him, yes?’

‘Um …’

‘Have you got photos?’

He nodded, and scrolled his phone as she walked around the desk.

Seb held the phone against his chest. ‘Before you look, it might be …’

‘I saw him first, Sebastian. I’m not going to start crying.’

Nonetheless, as she looked, Seb could see she was upset. He was, too.

‘You okay?’ he asked gently.

She clenched her jaw. ‘Look,’ she said, pointing. ‘The sheet and blanket are over on the side of the bed, pushed against the wall. If you were taking drugs, you’d lie on top of the sheets. He wasn’t doing that. He was in bed.’

‘Or,’ countered Seb, ‘he liked the cosiness of being tucked up, and then as he overdosed, he thrashed about and pushed the covers off.’

That stopped her for a moment.

‘Then there’s the spare key.’ But only a moment. ‘Did you use it the morning he died?’

‘I looked for it, but it wasn’t there, so I went around the back and got in the laundry window.’

‘When I cleaned the place yesterday I found the key under the wrong rock. I asked Viv and, as far as he knows, no one had used the key since Joe died.’

‘So?’

‘So, how many you times have you put your spare key back in the wrong place by mistake?’

Seb said nothing.

‘One scenario is this,’ she continued. ‘Despite successfully resisting drugs for eight months, and being incredibly determined to stay drug free, Joe decided to use again. He gets ready for bed, puts on his pyjamas and gets his teeth. He gets into bed, under the sheets, then decides to make things more complicated than he needs to by wrapping a completely unecessary belt round his arm. Then he injects in his elbow, even though he always injects in his upper arm. Oh, and at some point he puts his spare key back in the wrong place.’

Seb didn’t want to say the next word, but couldn’t help himself. ‘Or?’

‘He went to bed that night as usual. Teeth in, light off, pyjamas on. Someone who knew where his spare key was – that narrows it down to everyone in Bullford Point – lets themselves in, injects him with an overdose of heroin, watches him die, then takes his teeth out so it didn’t look like he was asleep, puts them on the bedside table, ties a belt round his arm because that’s what they think users do, pushes his sheets to the side to make it look less like he had been in bed asleep and, as they quickly leave in the dark, accidentally put his key under the wrong rock.’

He stared at her, narrowing his eyes, because that was supposed to help you think, and tried to puzzle it all through. Could it have happened that way?

Eventually, he leaned back, reopening his eyes. ‘Nope.’

‘Why not?’

‘If you were asleep, and someone stuck a needle in your arm, you’d wake up and jerk your arm away before they could push enough heroin into you. Also, you don’t just jab an arm. You need to find a vein. To do that you need light. If you were asleep and someone was standing over you, shining a light on your arm, you’d wake up.’

As he spoke, Barb impatiently played bongos on her knees. ‘I’ve thought of all that. Liquid morphine was also in his system, yes? What if he’d had that earlier? What would it do?’

‘Stop him worrying about the police investigating him for murdering Karen Kemp.’

‘And?’

‘Make him sleepy.’

‘Exactly. Very sleepy. Joe was at the club earlier that evening.’

‘We all were. Friday night drinks.’ Seb had arrived about five thirty. Joe, Dev, Gary, Leanne, even Viv had been there.

‘If Joe had decided to take heroin again, why would he go to the club first? In any event, if someone slipped enough liquid morphine into his drink, as anyone could have, it would have knocked him out, yes? Take maybe half an hour to work?’

‘Yeah. How do you know that?’

‘The internet. Literally everything’s on it, and I’m using “literally” correctly.’

‘Shit.’

‘What?’

‘He was drinking lemonade and he complained about the taste. He was telling everyone. Even complained to the barman. Said it tasted off. And he left early. Said he was tired.’

‘Bingo,’ said Barb softly.

‘But a lot of people are tired at the end of the week.’

‘He only worked for me two days that week.’ Barb rubbed her chin. ‘So he feels tired, staggers home, bedtime routine which everyone does automatically, out like a light. Later someone comes in. They turn on, or shine, a light to find a vein, knowing he won’t wake up. How big an overdose was it?’

Seb stared at his computer screen, clicked and moused. ‘Let’s see. Whoa. Big. Very big.’

‘If you wanted to kill someone with an overdose, you’d make sure it was a big one. I found an envelope with his name on it and three thousand dollars inside at the back of his sock drawer.’

Seb shrugged. ‘So he was saving money. Putting it in an envelope.’

‘As far as I know, I was his only employer and I never gave him cash. And I hadn’t paid him that much anyway. And if you were putting your savings in an envelope, would you really write your name on it? Just in case you forgot whose money it was? No. Someone gave him the envelope. Plus, it turns out Joe owed someone three thousand, two hundred dollars. Don’t know why. Perhaps from before he went to jail.

‘I was paying him two or three hundred a week, but he had to pay Viv rent for Viv’s third of the house. And Viv had told everyone not to lend him money. So where did that three thousand dollars come from? Joe was anxious about money. That’s one reason he was going to sell the house. But then about a week ago Joe told me he’d changed his mind and he was going to keep the house.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Well, it’s suspicious. Three thousand dollars in cash. Even I don’t use cash anymore. I think he was desperate for money to pay his debt. Maybe it was a drug debt, he couldn’t get the money, he was going to sell the house, then he came up with some scam, probably illegal. Remember he spent years scamming and stealing. The scheme works, he gets some cash, he can pay his debt and he changes his mind about selling.’

‘You sure Viv didn’t lend that money to him to pay this possible debt?’

‘There is no way Viv would have given Joe cash. It’s a temptation to buy drugs.’

Seb stood. ‘Lots to think about, Barb. Coffee?’

‘Tea. White with none, thanks.’

He entered the tiny kitchen and prepared mugs, as the kettle upped its ante from low whine to aircraft take-off. It looked older than the internet, but improving water-boiling facilities at Bullford Point was not high on the priority list for NSW Police.

He did tea and coffee things, returned with the mugs and sat. ‘Barb, what you have is a theory. You can come up with alternative theories for lots of deaths. If someone falls off a cliff, maybe they were pushed. If someone overdoses on pills, maybe someone was pointing a gun at them and forced them to swallow. I agree there’s a few unusual things here, but no way is it enough to open a murder investigation.’

‘But if he was going to take drugs, why would he put his teeth next—’

Seb held up his hand. Surprisingly, it worked.

‘You cared about Joe. He seemed to be going well. Is it, perhaps, easier to believe that he didn’t relapse? That he was a victim? Parents do that when a child commits suicide. Convince themselves it was an accident.’

Barb pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘No. I mean, yes, I understand, but there were no signs. And his teeth. And the belt, and the key, and where he injected, and the pyjamas. It doesn’t make sense. I’m not saying he was definitely murdered. What I’m saying is that it’s suspicious. And the job of the police is to investigate deaths that are suspicious. Homicide? Is that what they’re called.’

Seb snorted. ‘They won’t help you. I already approached Homicide about Karen’s death when I didn’t think Joe killing her added up. Joe was never violent, and they’d only known each other a few weeks. That’s really unusual for a domestic murder. Plus, if Joe did it, why carry her body eighty metres right up Arden Street, Bullford Point’s steepest road, then into the national park up the hill, to the path, and down the other side? Why wouldn’t he have walked down Bayview Avenue forty metres, then up that track that goes into the bush? The ridge is lower so he wouldn’t have to climb as far, plus he would only have to walk past eight houses, not thirty. And there’s only one streetlight, not four. Sure, he would have been panicking, but Joe was smart. He would have worked out the safest way to get a body to the bush.’

‘I can’t imagine Joe killing her. Or anyone, in fact. You told Homicide all that?’

Seb cheeks burned with the memory of the humiliation. ‘They didn’t want to know. They want it tied up. Murder solved. Big tick. Which is why you approaching them with your theory about Joe’s death is a waste of time. They are not going to shift Joe into the unsolved murder pile because of a mouthguard and a belt.’

‘And a key. I have to try. Unless … what about you? If Homicide got it wrong about Joe killing Karen, that means the person who killed her got away with it. Are you happy about that? Maybe whoever did it lives in Bullford Point. And with Joe, are you a hundred per cent sure he wasn’t murdered? Because if he was, Sebastian, that’s two unsolved murders on your patch.’ Her eyes bored into him. ‘I remember how proud your mother was when she told me you were becoming a police officer. She said you wanted to become a detective.’

‘Come on, that’s not fair.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to prove Homicide wrong? Or shall I go and try to convince them?’

‘They won’t listen.’

‘I’m sure Joe was murdered. I’m going to try.’

After Simmonds had told Seb he considered Joe’s death a ‘confession in needlepoint’ and was closing the case, Seb had felt a weight lift. Now he was torn. Yes, he wanted to find the truth and prove the arrogant fucker wrong. Yes, if someone murdered someone in his territory, he wanted them caught. But if he started poking about, there were things that might come to light that he would prefer stayed in the dark.

What to do? Barb wasn’t going to drop it. Homicide might ignore her at first, but if she kept pushing, maybe she would get somewhere. Far better to keep things close.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘let’s see what we can find.’

CHAPTER 13

Andy exited the car. Never easy from a VW Golf. One of the downsides of bulging muscles. He knew he should probably get something more intimidating, but he liked the Golf’s zippiness and fuel economy. Besides, if it was your car you relied on to intimidate, you were fucked from the start. No one had ever had their arm twisted by a Lamborghini. He’d prefer looser clothing too, but the tight T-shirt, leather jacket, jeans and boots – all black – helped create the right impression. He marched toward the house in his most imposing manner, chest puffed, arms swinging. That was half the battle. Look like you’re ready to smash ’em, and usually you don’t have to.

Nice place. Clean air. Lots of trees. He’d even driven past a pelican on a post. And the house. Nothing too grand but fucking waterfront. Cha-ching. Be worth a coupla, even a few, mill and here they were on the verge of argy-bargy over a few thou. Asset rich, cash poor, boo fuckin’ hoo.

He banged on the front door – again, create an impression – drew himself up to his full, slightly below average, height and put on his steeliest glare, his mouth a serious line. He didn’t mind Joe, but business was business. Once he’d got his money, they could have a laugh and a cuppa.

The door swung open and a friendly looking, brown-haired woman in a blue collarless shirt, white slacks and glasses smiled up at him. ‘Hello, you must be Andy. Do come in. I’m Barb.’

‘Where’s Joe?’

‘Oh dear. Come and sit down and I’ll tell you all about it. Tea? And I’ve made banana bread.’

Puzzled, Andy followed her into a lounge room where he sat on the only straight-backed chair. Sinking into a couch made you vulnerable. Barb disappeared, and soon returned holding a tray supporting two cups of tea, a bowl of sugar, two plates with forks, and sliced banana bread. That freshly baked smell took him right back to London and his dad’s after-school hummingbird cake.

Steady on.

‘You Joe’s mum? He lives here, right?’

‘No. And yes, but actually no.’

‘What?’

‘You see, Joe’s … How well did you know him?’

Andy narrowed his eyes. ‘Why?’

‘Well, I’m sorry, but Joe is dead.’

Andy stared at her, automatically trying to show nothing because impassiveness was part of the job. Usually, if he discovered a debtor had died, and it wasn’t that unusual in his part of the industry, all he felt was disappointment that he wouldn’t get his money. Being a collector of drug debts wasn’t generally conducive to forming close work-based friendships, but he’d liked Joe. Unlike most, he didn’t whine. He bargained, he tried to manipulate, but he didn’t whine. And he could be funny.

Plus, they had history. They had almost been mates a few years ago, before Andy got clean. Both had been users, scamming to get through, and had recognised in each other an intelligence and wit greater that the average junkie. They did a few bonding break-and-enters together, shitting themselves then sharing the triumph of stolen electronic devices. They had bought together, used together, partied on ice together, slumped in the corner on heroin together.

Then, three years ago, a guy Andy knew had, on ice, grabbed a kitchen knife and stabbed someone, nearly killed him and got six years. Thing was, the guy hadn’t been a psycho. Andy had never seem him lose his temper when he wasn’t off his face. He realised then that ice wasn’t like booze. Booze let the anger you already had come out. Ice brought its own. What happened when you were on it was a lottery.

Andy had done karate at school, boxing afterwards, and that put him in more danger of losing that lottery, because most of the useless, skinny pricks who took ice couldn’t punch out a flyscreen. He, however, knew how to inflict proper damage.

So he stopped. Stocked up on chicken soup and wipes, locked himself in his flat, a week of agony, a few more of the world being grey, then smashing it at the gym became his new habit. Whenever he felt twitchy, he’d lift.

The big question was ‘What next?’ Limited options with a six-year sinkhole in his résumé. Thirty-two felt too old to be starting a trade and he didn’t want to be labouring on a building site the rest of his life. He knew the drug world. Why not debt collecting? He was tough and could handle himself. More importantly he looked tough and like he could handle himself. After a bit of practice he got good at intense stares and speaking quietly but with menace.

He had never looked into it closely, but he suspected that what he did – buy debts from drug dealers for fifty cents in the dollar, then try to collect – might not even be illegal. If it was, it was nothing major, except on the rare occasions he had to punch people. It was a power game really. Most debtors started by trying to manipulate him – ‘I’ll have it in two weeks. No stress.’ When that didn’t work they moved on to aggression – ‘Fuck you man. I never even owed that much.’ That never worked. Next was pathetic whining – ‘Please, bruv. Me mum’s just got cancer. I’m falling apart.’

At least Joe told you how much he had, or didn’t have, and was reasonably realistic about when he would get the rest. That didn’t mean Andy went soft on him. If someone was dragging the chain, you couldn’t afford to, or word would spread and before you know it, everyone was taking the piss.

Now Joe was dead. Never a surprise when a junkie dies, but still. He’d liked him.

‘Was he a friend of yours?’ asked Barb.

‘Didn’t mind him. Lot of pricks in my business. Some would argue I’m one of them. He was better than most. What happened?’

‘Overdose.’ She told him about finding Joe and the positive steps he had been making beforehand, and then offered a second slice of banana bread.

‘Shame,’ said Andy, between munches. ‘Not easy to get out of the life. So it was you who messaged me from his phone. “Fuckface?”’

‘Just trying to get into the spirit of it. He owed you money, yes?’

Andy nodded.

‘How much?’

‘Three thousand, two hundred.’ He sipped his tea. Delicious. He didn’t drink enough tea. Again, the straightjacket of his image. Had to be beer, straight scotch or black coffee, especially given the car. He took another bite.

‘What was it for?’ Barb asked.

Andy tried to give her his best ‘don’t-you-be-asking-me-no-questions’ glare, but it didn’t really work when you were chewing a mouthful of delicious banana bread made by the person you were trying to glare at. He settled for, ‘It’s kind of a confidential business. Like a doctor.’

‘Can I guess? Drug debt? From before he went to jail?’

Andy didn’t move a muscle. Again, not easy for someone who had as many big ones as he did, especially as some of them occasionally twitched of their own accord.

‘I found this,’ she said. From underneath a gardening magazine on the coffee table she produced an envelope. ‘Three thousand.’

She pushed the envelope across the table, and he had to stop his eyebrows from heading north. When debtors died before repayment, that was usually it. Hard to make a claim on an estate for a drug debt, especially when the estate usually amounted to a pair of jeans, a couple of flannos and some leaky sneakers.

‘Why are you giving it to me?’ he asked.

‘I found it in his room, and he owes you. His brother inherits this house, so he doesn’t need it.’

‘But if you’d have pocketed it, I’d have never known. No one would have, I’m guessing.’

She considered this. ‘That’s not the point, is it?’

‘Isn’t it?’ He picked up the envelope and put it in his jacket pocket. ‘Well, thanks.’ He put his hands on his knees.

‘By the way, that’s not the envelope I found the money in,’ said Barb quickly. ‘I’ve kept that one as a clue.’

He frowned. ‘A clue to what?’

‘Well, you see, Andy, I think Joe was murdered.’

He leaned back and took a slow sip of tea. Technically, it didn’t matter how Joe died, especially now he had most of the money, but even tough guys were allowed to be curious, weren’t they?

‘Why do you think that?’

She told him about Joe’s mouthguard, belt, injecting site, key, pyjamas and sheets. She had to explain some of it a couple of times, but what she said did make some sense. Placing your mouthguard next to your bed before you shot up was just the sort of sensible forward planning drug users were famous for not doing. And she definitely had a point about the belt. He had never known a junkie to do anything they didn’t need to, particularly if it would result in increasing the time it took to get drugs into their system.

‘But this is all theory, of course,’ she concluded. ‘Maybe I’m wrong. Can you introduce me to the local drug dealer?’

‘You sure that’s the best option, Barb? Been a tough few weeks, has it? Maybe at your age you’re sick and tired of being sensible, playing by the rules. Seen that before. But is this—’

‘My age! How old do you think I am?’

Andy guessed and then, not being stupid, subtracted five. ‘Umm, fifty-two?’

‘Fifty-eight. Not sure I believe you, though. I work in the sun, and I’ve never been one for all those creams. But I’m not asking for me.’

‘Ah. You want me to find out if Joe scored?’

She smiled. ‘Bingo. If he did, case closed. He bought the drugs, used them and overdosed. But if he didn’t buy any drugs …’ She opened her arms.

‘Case open.’

‘Exactly. It suggests someone else injected him. He didn’t own a car, so if he bought them it must have been from someone near. Do they deliver?’

‘Not to people like Joe.’

Barb pushed the banana bread toward Andy. He took a third slice.

After a mouthful, he spoke. ‘I think I know who he would have gone to.’

‘By the way,’ continued Barb, ‘if he was murdered, you’ll be happy to know you’re not a suspect. I’ve officially cleared you.’

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Andy, only half sarcastically, because whatever the circumstances, it was always better not to be on a list of suspects. ‘When you say, “officially’’ …?’

‘I mean unofficially. I’ve cleared you because it would be stupid to kill someone who owes you money, especially when you have no chance of getting it back when they’re dead, and you do not strike me as stupid, Andy.’

‘Right back at ya on that one, Barb.’

‘So what do you say? Will you help me find out if Joe did or did not’ – she made quotation marks with her fingers – ‘“score”? Show me the mean streets of Woy Woy?’

Andy thought it through. ‘No. Sorry. My reputation is that I’m safe. I do a good job, don’t tell no one about it, and keep a low profile.’

‘Understood. I guess I’ll have to go about it another way, then.’

‘Lovely banana bread, though. It really was.’ He started to get up.

‘I’ll go to the police, and tell them what I know,’ said Barb.

Andy slowly sat back down. ‘Tell them what exactly?’

‘I haven’t had many dealings with the police, but my understanding from various books and television shows is that you’re supposed to tell them everything you know.’

‘Including about me?’

‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘I mean, you did say I wasn’t a suspect.’

‘Not to me. Who knows what the police will think?’ She shrugged. ‘You seem like a nice person though, Andy.’

‘Thank you, Barbara. I’m not, though, usually.’

‘I really want to find out what happened to Joe. How about we make a deal? You help me find out if Joe bought drugs before he died, and if at some later stage I do need to talk to the police I’ll leave you right out of it.’

Andy’s usual go-to to ensure people didn’t talk about him was to stand tall, clench his neck, bulge his eyes, tell them never to mention his fucking name, and let fear do the rest. Didn’t quite feel right to do that to a motherly type feeding him homemade baked goods, though.

He had liked Joe. Someone killing him just as he was getting himself sorted out, if that’s what had happened, wasn’t on. Helping uncover the truth wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

‘Deal. On one condition,’ Andy said. ‘Bake me another one of these.’

CHAPTER 14

Seb parked on the side of the road and walked up Tom’s steep driveway. Tom lived in a plain single-storey house with water glimpses. In his carport was his work van, which Seb had seen drive past the station a few minutes before. He knocked. Instantly a dog barked, like a novelty doorbell.

Tom opened the door, his excited labrador jumping beside him. Both were big, strong and blond, but only the dog was nude. Tom wore shorts and a black Nirvana T-shirt.

‘Calm down, Lenny,’ said Tom.

Seb cautiously lowered a hand. Lenny sniffed it, immediately lost interest and padded off.

‘What’s up?’ asked Tom.

‘Just wanted to see how’re you going with … things.’

Tom stared at him.

‘It’s called community policing,’ said Seb. ‘If something bad happens to someone, like Karen getting … you know … Priests used to do it. Call around and see how people are doing. Part of my job.’

Seb had never been a fan of the idea of the local cop as a quasi-parental figure who anyone with a problem could turn to for advice. In fact, he had actively tried to discourage it, but if he wanted information from Tom it seemed the best approach.

Tom made no move to invite him in.

Seb pushed through his discomfort. ‘So, it must have been a difficult time for you lately.’

‘Not the best.’

‘How are you coping?’ Seb really hated this.

‘Fine, Seb.’

Tom appeared to, as well.

‘I mean, you know, mental health and all that,’ Seb went on.

‘Fuck me.’

‘It’s important. Especially for men. We don’t talk about it.’

‘How about we keep doing that, then.’

‘Look, sorry, but I have to do this, then I have to fill out a form, and if I don’t I’ll get in trouble. So if I could just come in and sit down and ask you some nosy questions, then I can fuck off and leave you alone.’

Tom sighed. ‘Fine. Beer? You allowed?’

Seb checked his watch. ‘It’s nearly four twenty, which is nearly four thirty, which is nearly five, so yeah.’

Tom headed inside toward the kitchen. Seb followed him halfway and plopped onto a couch in a tidy, functional lounge room orientated around the shrine of television. Tom returned, passed him a can of VB and sat in an armchair.

‘So … how have you been?’ Seb began.

‘Work. Home. Out with the boys. You know.’

‘Feeling …?’

‘Fine. Ish. I lived alone for a few years before Karen. She came, it was great for a few weeks, shit for a few more, then she vanished. I reported her missing and you told me to piss off.’

‘Well … yeah, sorry about that. We’re actually not allowed to classify someone missing unless … anyway, sorry. You were right. Umm … you knew she was having an affair with Joe before she died?’

‘Yep.’

‘How?’

‘Got suss, looked at her phone. Text messages.’

‘You would have been pissed off at Joe.’

‘Wanted to smash him. Shouldn’t say that to a cop, I spose. But then a bit later I kinda thought, it takes two to tango. Like, I can’t just blame him, can I? She was going off me, fuckin’ obvious now I look back on it, but you don’t want to see it at the time. If it wasn’t Joe, woulda been someone else.’

‘Do you think he killed her?’

‘You’re the cop.’

‘Just wanted your opinion.’

He shrugged. ‘Dunno. The other cop I spoke to seemed to think so.’

‘Simmonds? From Homicide?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Was there anyone Karen confided in? Talked to?’

‘Up here? Hadn’t really made friends yet. She worked in the shop with Sue, but they didn’t get on that well.’

‘Sydney friends?’

‘Yeah, she wrote a couple of letters to … what was her name? Naomi.’

‘Letters or emails?’

‘Letters. Said she was on some digital detox.’

Homicide would have looked at Karen’s emails and texts, but were less likely to have seen her letters.

‘Did you tell the other police about the letters?’

‘Don’t think so. They were asking me what I was doing the night she disappeared, which was a bit scary. Lucky I was with people. Then they asked me a hundred questions about Joe.’

‘Know Naomi’s last name?’

‘Nah, sorry.’

‘Phone number? Do you have Karen’s phone?’

‘I thought you said you came here cos you were worried about me?’

‘I am. But if she’s Karen’s friend, I should make sure she knows Karen’s dead. Homicide never do any of that.’

‘Right. Yeah, I’ve got her phone. Know her passcode. I’ll send you the number.’

‘Thanks.’ Seb got up. ‘Sorry to intrude. Anything you need, just call me.’

‘There is something else I didn’t tell them other cops.’

Seb sat back down.

‘Bit embarrassing. The night Karen disappeared, I umm … I was at Joe’s house. Not inside.’

‘What? You were watching his house?’

‘After dinner, she said she was going for a walk. I was going to tennis, but I followed her, cos I was suss. She walked down the hill. I saw her knock on Joe’s door, kiss him and go inside.’

‘That can’t have been much fun.’

‘Wasn’t fun, no.’

‘And after she went in …’

‘I hid in that clump of bushes between Joe’s house and the jetty. Just stayed there. Felt kind of frozen.’

‘Wow.’

‘Yeah. After a while I left, which was pretty smart for me, cos if I’d been there when she came out, I would have done something stupid. Only missed like the first fifteen minutes of tennis, told the boys I got a flat tyre.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me when you came in and reported her missing?’

‘Cos I didn’t want to say I’d been hiding there, did I? Isn’t that stalking or something?’

‘And when Homicide questioned you, you didn’t tell them?’

‘They suspected me of killing her. I was shitting meself, so no.’

‘Okay. Thanks, Tom.’

‘Wait. Here’s why I’m telling you. I reckon there could have been someone else there, too. Outside Joe’s.’

‘You saw someone?’

‘Not saw exactly. More kind of sensed. Like, it was dark and there’s plenty of places to hide. Trees, the bus stop, bushes. I don’t know. I just reckon there was. And then when I left, if they were still there …’

‘But you didn’t see anyone?’

‘Not specifically. But I just reckon … there could have been.’

*

Driving back to the station, Seb wondered if there was anything in what Tom reckoned he might have not seen exactly, but kind of sensed. Unlikely. He would have been upset and agitated at the time, and probably imagined it.

As Seb pulled into his driveway his phone pinged. Tom, sending him the number of Karen’s friend, Naomi. Perhaps she’d know something useful.

CHAPTER 15

Barb’s guess had proved correct. The nearest drug dealer was in Woy Woy, a flat grid of a town fifteen minutes’ drive from Bullford Point and the closest place for its residents to access a doctor, lawyer or, it appeared, seller of illicit substances. Whilst Bullford Point revelled in its waterside proximity, Woy Woy seemed determined to hide it. It was surrounded by water on three sides, but you would never know it. In an unusual act of planning cruelty, access to the water had been blocked off by a railway line on one side, and roads on the other two. It most resembled a country town that had imported some seagulls. Dubbo by the sea.

Andy drove through the empty streets, past fenceless front yards filled with weeds, boats on trailers and three-wheeled cars sitting on unmown grass.

‘And who are these gentlemen we’re going to see?’

‘Assuming they’re men, are we?’

‘My apologies. Are they not?’

‘The boss is not. Her number two, her son Morgan, is. Just reiterating, she will be reluctant to disclose anything about who purchased from her. Might take more than that.’ He nodded at the tin on Barb’s lap.

‘My carrot cake can be very persuasive,’ she replied. Luckily she had already baked one, intending to give it to Sue, who was having a difficult time. Leanne had disappeared soon after Joe’s death, and Sue was sure she was on a grief-induced ‘bender’. Perhaps they’d bump into her at the drug dealers. Poor thing. Both of them.

‘But understood,’ she added. ‘I guess we’ll just do our best.’

‘We?’

Barb quickly changed the subject. ‘One question I had. How did Joe suddenly get the money to pay you?’

‘I knew he was in rehab and, to his credit, he let me know when he got out. For the first few weeks whenever I hassled him, he was like, “Haven’t got it. Can’t get it.” Then it changed pretty quick to, “Will have it soon.” Then a few days later he had it.’

‘He didn’t say how?’

‘Wouldn’t expect him to. You think him getting the money is connected to him dying?’

‘It’s possible.’

Andy pulled up outside a plain, brown-brick house, heavy curtains drawn. The large front yard was empty but for ankle-high grass.

‘Do they live here?’ asked Barb. ‘It doesn’t seem safe dealing drugs out of your home. All it would take is one person to get arrested and tell the police.’

‘People don’t tend to give up dealers. Consequences can flow. Even if someone did, there’s no drugs inside. You go in, pay, then walk down to the park where someone will hand them over.’

‘Clever.’

‘They’re not clever. If they were clever they wouldn’t be risking years in jail every day. But they are cunning.’

As they approached the front door, it opened to reveal a chubby, sad-eyed young man with a bitsy goatee wearing a baseball cap, flannelette shirt and jeans. Barb could smell something pungent, earthy and sweet emanating from him.

‘Nah, bruh, we paid up,’ he said to Andy.

‘No drama there, Morgan,’ replied Andy. ‘Your mum in?’

Morgan snorted. ‘Never goes nowhere.’

Morgan gave Barb the once over, which she thought was a bit rich, given how hard she had been trying to refrain from doing the same to him.

Still looking at her, he shouted, ‘MUM!’

‘WHAT?’ came a response from inside.

‘ANDY AND AN OLD LADY HERE TO SEE YA!’

Again, a bit rich.

‘STOP FUCKING SHOUTING! FUCK’S SAKE!’

Morgan rolled his eyes, and motioned for them to follow him along a dim, brown-carpeted hallway into a shabby sitting room containing two orange sofas, a giant television showing what looked like a reality show about real estate, and a reclining armchair in which sat an overweight woman in a brown shapeless … sack was too harsh a word, but it had been the first one that came to Barb’s mind. She had sallow skin and lank brown hair. Her slippered feet rested on a footrest and she held a cigarette between two fingers.

‘We’re all paid up, Andy,’ she rasped, muting the television.

‘I know, Tanya. Just looking for some information.’

She gave Barb the once over. ‘Who’s she?’

Barb did the smile she did when meeting new clients and held up the cake tin. ‘I’m Barb. I brought you a carrot cake.’

Tanya looked at the tin as if it might contain a gun.

‘She’s a good cook,’ endorsed Andy.

‘Morgan,’ said Tanya, keeping her eyes on the tin. ‘Plates and a knife.’

Morgan fired off another eye roll and slouched toward the back of the house.

‘Lovely place you’ve got,’ said Barb.

Tanya snorted.

‘Barb wants to show you a few pics, see if you recognise a buyer,’ said Andy.

‘Andy, come on,’ said Tanya. ‘It’s a confidential business.’

‘It’s a relationship business, Tanya. Favour to me. Useful to have a debt collector owe you a favour, isn’t it? No one’s going to know you told us.’

Tanya stared at Barb. ‘She doesn’t look like a cop.’

‘She’s not,’ said Andy.

‘I’m not,’ agreed Barb. ‘I’m a handyperson.’ She pulled a card from her pocket and held it out. Tanya didn’t move, so Barb placed it on the table. ‘If you need anything done.’ She immediately regretted it. She didn’t want to be fixing a drug dealer’s window.

Morgan returned with plates and a knife, and Barb did the honours. The cake met with approval, even from Morgan, but there was no offer of tea. Barb would have preferred a fork, too.

‘What does she want to know?’ asked Tanya.

‘I want to know if any of my son’s acquaintances are supplying him with drugs. He’s supposed to be staying clean.’ Barb had thought of the cover story in the car, and Andy had approved it.

Tanya took a bite of the cake and spoke with her mouth full. ‘But if you stop him, maybe I lose some business.’

‘Not much,’ said Andy. ‘And you do me a favour.’

She considered this.

Barb pulled out her phone, opened a picture of Joe and handed it to Andy, who leaned over the table and showed it to Tanya.

‘Confidential?’ asked Tanya.

‘Of course,’ said Andy.

‘He used to call in now and again,’ said Tanya, reluctantly. ‘Like, a few times for a couple of weeks, then not for a year or so.’

That made sense. Joe lived in Sydney, but made occasional visits back home.

‘Recently?’ asked Andy.

‘Nope.’ She motioned to Morgan, who had a look and shook his head.

Barb tried to look neutral, but this was big news. If Joe had bought from Tanya before, then surely if he had wanted to buy again, he would have returned to her.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Barb

‘We’re not fuckin’ idiots,’ said Tanya.

‘Apologies, Tanya,’ said Barb. ‘You’re quite right. More cake?’

Tanya grunted, which Barb took as a ‘Yes, please.’ She cut a slice and used the knife to lower it onto Tanya’s plate. ‘Can I show you a couple more?’

Tanya gave Andy a ‘Do I have to?’ look. Andy nodded.

Barb pulled up a photo of Tom and leaned across the table to show it to Tanya.

‘Dope, now and again.’

‘Heroin?’ asked Andy.

‘Very much doubt it,’ said Tanya. She looked at Morgan who shook his head.

‘Maybe just once? Recently?’ added Barb.

Tanya stared at the photo again. ‘Pretty sure not.’

‘Is there some way of checking?’ asked Barb.

‘I can look at the spreadsheet where I record the names of everyone I sell drugs to, and check the “Heroin” tab. Morgan, get my laptop.’

Morgan frowned. ‘What …?’

‘You’re joking,’ said Barb.

‘Not just a wrinkly face, are ya?’ said Tanya.

Barb pulled up a photo of Dev she had got from LinkedIn and showed it to Tanya. Dev had wanted to buy Joe’s house for her development, Joe had said yes, and then changed his mind. Now that Joe was dead, Dev had a second chance at convincing the new owner, Viv, to sell. So she had a motive.

‘Think so, yeah,’ said Tanya. ‘Morgan?’

Morgan leaned in and leered. ‘Not gunna forget that, am I? Coke. Not that much.’

Barb fought back an urge to give him some instruction on how to treat women. ‘What about heroin?’

‘Don’t think so,’ said Tanya. ‘Not sure.’

‘Come on, Tanya,’ urged Andy.

‘You ask a checkout chick at Coles what every customer bought, they going to remember?’

‘I knew a travel agent who remembered every holiday her clients went on from years ago,’ said Barb. ‘She formed a real connection with them.’

‘You wouldn’t want to form a real connection with most of ours,’ said Tanya.

Morgan barked a laugh. ‘Fuckin’ oath.’

‘You’re selling yourself short, Tanya,’ said Andy. ‘You suss out every customer. Some day they might ask for credit and you need to know whether they’re a good bet. I collect for you when you get it wrong, and you don’t get it wrong much.’ He showed her the photo of Dev again.

Tanya made a face like a four-year-old being offered broccoli. ‘Coke. Nothing else. We done?’

‘Two more, please,’ said Barb. ‘I’m sure they’re not your clients.’

Barb felt bad showing her a picture of Viv – LinkedIn again – but he had gained two-thirds of a house from Joe’s death.

Tanya peered in. ‘Nope. Never seen him. Last one. Hurry up. Hate doing this.’

Leanne or Sue? A positive identification of Leanne wouldn’t tell her anything useful, as Leanne probably bought from Tanya whenever she was in the area. She felt awful pulling up Sue’s photo, but Sue had always blamed Joe for Leanne’s descent into drug addiction, and her anger may have been magnified when Joe returned to Bullford Point drug free, while Leanne continued to struggle. Barb couldn’t imagine Sue actually killing him, though. She was just ruling her old friend out.

She showed Tanya Sue’s photo.

‘You said you was looking for ya son’s friends?’ said Tanya. ‘Bit old, isn’t she? What’s the go? Cradle snatcher?’

‘Just tell her if you’ve sold to her,’ said Andy.

Tanya looked again, quickly. ‘Dunno, sorry.’

‘Come on,’ insisted Andy. ‘You’d remember an older woman. You don’t get many.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ said Tanya, staring at Barb pointedly. ‘Lonely old biddies with nothing going on in their life. It’s either me or the pokies.’

Andy stood, his bulk filling the room. ‘Come on. Do this one, then we’re gone, and I owe you.’

Tanya sighed, beckoned Morgan in and they both peered at the photo.

‘I seen her,’ said Morgan. ‘’Bout a week and a half ago.’

Barb froze. She made herself ask the next question. ‘What did she get?’ she croaked, voice faltering.

‘Heroin,’ he said. ‘Few doses. Four or five.’

*

Outside, standing by Andy’s car, Barb was stunned. Something nagged at her, but the shock of Tanya identifying Sue was muddling her thoughts.

‘That last woman,’ said Andy. ‘Friend, was it?’

She nodded. ‘Known her all my life. There might be an innocent explanation.’

‘Like what? Wants to try heroin for the fun of it? Birthday present for someone?’

‘Her daughter is a drug user, and was coming to stay, so maybe it was for her,’ Barb said, unconvincingly.

‘More likely she’d make a shepherd’s pie, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not going to jump to conclusions.’

‘You right to get home?’

‘Oh, that’s sweet of you to offer—’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘But I’ll get an Uber. I usually sit in the front and chat, but today I might get in the back and have a think.’

‘You be careful.’

‘You have a more dangerous life than me, Andy, so you too. Do pop in if you’re in the area. I owe you another banana bread.’

CHAPTER 16

Sue scrubbed the stove top, cleaning off another day’s worth of fried fish, burgers, eggs, bacon, mince and, of course, chips. Always the chips. Chips with everything. Yesterday Kevin Davis ordered a serve with his flat white at 8 a.m. She was so sick of chips.

Once the shop was cleanish, she wandered out the back to her home. World’s shortest commute, but it didn’t give her much time to stop thinking about chips. In her living room, an old sofa and a comfy chair faced the telly. She looked deliberately past, not at, the photo on the mantelpiece. Couldn’t face it today. Dealing with the reality of Leanne was difficult enough, without reminding herself how angelic she used to be.

When Sue had broken the news of Joe’s death to her, Leanne had screamed and wailed, and then retreated to her room. Sue had been in the shop later when Leanne strode past without a word into a waiting Uber. Sue’s calls and texts had gone unanswered, and she had tried not to imagine what her daughter was doing, or how she was getting the money to pay for it. Yesterday afternoon, after three days, Leanne had returned, dishevelled, vacant-eyed and smelling like a bin, and was now in bed. At least she had come back.

Sue slumped in the chair, wanting a cup of tea but, after serving others all day, lacking the energy to make one. She had hardly slept since Joe died, and it wasn’t from grief. She stared sightlessly at the lifeless television, a black painting, trying to work out whether or not she should feel guilty.

A life for a life. Almost. Leanne was not dead, true, but what sort of existence did she lead? Sex work, buying and using drugs, yearning to quit, sometimes trying, always failing. Sue had done what she could – emotional support, tough love, encouragement, emotional and financial blackmail, anything else she could think of.

They had all had such an idyllic childhood. Joe, Viv, Dev, Gary, Seb and Sal had been a gang that Leanne, a year younger, attached herself to. They were always at the jetty, the park, the beach or the bush, or riding their bikes between them. Leanne idolised Joe, attracted to the disarming recklessness that got him in and out of so much trouble. Nothing major back then, but whenever the group explored a stormwater drain, climbed steep rocks or swum out too far, it was Joe who led them and Leanne who adoringly and unthinkingly followed, while Joe’s older brother Viv fruitlessly urged caution. Apart from non-musical Dev, they had all started a band in the final years of high school. Leanne, who had never shown much enthusiasm for the Beethoven or Bach her piano teacher insisted upon, suddenly became obsessed with mastering the covers the band played at birthday parties and weddings.

Sue had read the books. Lots of them, to try to make up for denying Leanne a dad by deliberately becoming a single mum. Find something your child is interested in and feed it, they said. Leanne wasn’t going to be a doctor or a lawyer, but Sue hoped her daughter would find a more interesting job than hers, and making music was more fun than making burgers. She had wondered, however, whether Leanne’s newfound passion was driven more by her love of music or her desire to impress Joe.

Viv finished school first, then Joe, Dev, Gary, Sal and Seb two years later. They all moved to Sydney to study and work whilst Leanne did Year 12. Sue had hoped their absence might prompt Leanne to focus more on her schoolwork, but she became even less engaged. At home she was withdrawn and monosyllabic, spending hours lying on her bed on her phone. Sue spoke to her GP, who told her depression was common in teens and suggested Leanne come in. Leanne refused. Sue kept urging, Leanne kept refusing and Sue gave in first, something she bitterly regretted later. If her daughter had received treatment then, perhaps things would have turned out differently.

They limped through the year. As soon as Leanne’s final exam was done, she moved to Sydney, re-joined From Afar, got a job in a bar and, it seemed, simultaneously started going out with, and living with, Joe.

‘Joe and I have always liked each other,’ Leanne explained over the phone, ‘but at school everything’s weird. We just needed to get out of here to let it happen.’

Leanne’s ATAR was predictably poor, the ‘holiday job’ at the Glebe pub extended and Sue wondered what lay at the other end of the gap year Leanne claimed to be having. The only bright spot was the band, which had started to get paid gigs. Sue drove down to see them play and, whilst it wasn’t her type of music, she was impressed. Maybe they would make it. Maybe Leanne could be a professional musician.

Sue wasn’t sure about Joe, but told herself that was just a mother’s caution, and for the next few months, when they spoke, Leanne seemed happy. Toward the end of the year that changed. She sounded down and distant, like she had in Year 12. It turned out Joe had dumped her to go out with Sal. That would be the first, but by no means last, time Joe would hurt Leanne.

A couple of months later Sal dumped Joe, and he rebounded back to Leanne who, of course, welcomed him with open arms. Soon after, Leanne sometimes started to sound vague and slurred on the phone, while at other times extremely overcaffeinated. She also started to ask Sue regularly for money.

Sue was no fool. She suspected Leanne was using drugs and it was pretty obvious whose idea it would have been. Leanne was just doing what she had always done: following charismatic, reckless Joe into danger. Stormwater drains, cliffs, drugs.

That was seven years ago. Leanne had been in the pit ever since, because of Joe. Now, it seemed, Sue had got her revenge, and she felt terrible about it.

CHAPTER 17

After Seb left Tom’s, he drove to the park across the road from the bay, then walked around the water’s edge, along the gravel and dirt that served as a path between the uneven edge of the road and the water. He opened the text Tom had sent him and rang Karen’s friend, Naomi.

‘Hello.’ A woman’s voice, thirtyish.

‘Hi, it’s Constable Seb Baxter from Bullford Point. Got a minute?’

‘What about?’

Seb sensed shutters swinging closed.

‘Your friend Karen Kemp. I assume you’ve heard the terrible news about her?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m very sorry about your friend’s death. Have any other police spoken to you?’

‘No, I found out from the news.’

No surprise. Homicide had their headlights on Joe. Why chase Karen’s friends in Sydney when they had their man up here?

‘That’s not good. I’m sorry about that. I’m the local police officer here, but other police were running the investigation. I was just calling to make sure you knew. But that should have been done earlier.’

‘Okay,’ she said.

‘Am I right in thinking you were in touch with Karen while she was at Bullford Point?’

‘A bit.’

‘She wrote you letters?’

‘A couple, yeah. Old-style.’

‘Why letters, not email, do you know?’

‘I think she was getting into the simple country living thing.’

‘Yeah, it’s a bit like that up here. Did you speak on the phone?’

‘Nah. Texted a bit.’

He could sense her softening a little.

‘Can I just ask, was there anything in her letters or texts that was unusual? Did she suggest someone disliked her? Did she seem anxious, or nervous about anything?’

‘The news said her murder was solved.’ Naomi sounded closed off again. ‘That guy up there she was seeing.’

‘It was, but he died of a drug overdose and we just need to cover off any other leads before we can officially close the case. It’s just a formality. That’s why I’m doing it rather than Homicide.’ The prepared lie came easily.

Silence. Then, ‘She said something about the court date she had coming up.’

‘Right. Yes.’ Seb had no idea Karen had to go to court. He should have backgrounded her before calling. ‘Sorry, which case was it?’

‘The stealing one,’ Naomi said matter-of-factly. ‘In Kaz’s last letter she said she was worried about it, but she’d worked out something that might make them go easy on her.’

‘Do you know what?’

‘Just that she was going to talk to the cops about some info she had. That’s all she said.’

‘Okay, thanks for that. If there’s anything else you think of …’ Seb gave her his number and rang off, then drove to the station, where he looked up Karen’s criminal record. She had been charged with stealing three phones and some AirPods from Bondi Beach, and Seb could see why she would have been worried. She had two priors for the same thing. Strike three is usually when jail looms. What was the information she had wanted to trade?

CHAPTER 18

‘Oo-hoo,’ came a familiar sing-song voice from Sue’s back door which, because her front door was the shop, operated as her front door.

Sue put her hands on the chair’s arms, but couldn’t muster the effort. ‘Come in, Barb,’ she called.

The door creaked and Barb appeared from the kitchen. ‘Cuppa?’

‘Thanks.’

Barb disappeared, the kettle whined, then she reappeared with a cup of Earl Grey, milk and sugar, just the way Sue liked it.

‘I had an odd day,’ Barb said as she sat, which was unlike her. She usually asked how Sue was before sharing her own news. ‘I met some drug dealers. Tanya and her son, Morgan. Morgan wasn’t all that pleasant, but it must have been hard for him growing up in that environment.’

Sue looked at her closely, her heartbeat quickening.

‘What did you think of Morgan?’ asked Barb.

Sue said nothing.

‘Tanya wasn’t keen to share details of customers, of course, but arms were twisted – metaphorically, I mean – and eventually she told me that you bought heroin from her about a week and a half ago. They were a bit vague about the date, as they don’t keep records, but definitely before Joe died.’

Sue looked at her hands.

‘You might tell me you bought the heroin for Leanne, as you knew she was coming up, or she was already here and begged you for just one hit. That she was too sick to go herself. But I don’t think I’d believe you. I don’t think, with all the damage you’ve seen it do to her over the years, you’d buy it for her. Plus, Morgan said you bought four or five doses.’ Barb looked at her, friendly and open, inviting her to respond.

Sue couldn’t meet her eye. They sat, frozen, as Sue tried to work out what to say.

‘You have one child and they wreck their lives as thoroughly as Leanne has,’ she tried eventually. ‘I’m just sick of being sad. And for her to do everything she does to keep buying it, it must be pretty amazing. So I thought I’d give it a try.’

‘It was for you? Heroin?’

Sue nodded.

‘How was it?’

‘Excellent. But don’t worry. I won’t do it again.’

Barb studied her, and then pulled a piece of paper from her shirt pocket, unfolded it and placed it on the table between them.

YOU ARSEHOLE JUNKIE. WE DON’T WANT YOU HERE. YOU’VE DONE ENOUGH DAMAGE. GO SOMEWHERE ELSE.

‘I found it when I cleaned out Joe’s room. I suspect it was written with one of those felt-tipped pens you use in the shop to write on the coffee cups, but I suppose the police lab could tell for sure.’

Sue looked at the note, felt Barb staring at her.

‘You wouldn’t try heroin,’ said Barb. ‘Not after seeing what it’s done to Leanne.’

Sue took a long slow sip of tea, then let out a sigh. ‘After Joe got them both hooked seven years ago, Leanne would call and ask me for money. The first time she said her fridge had broken, then a week later that a flatmate had left without paying the rent, then that they were robbed. All lies, I assume. After the third time, I told her, “no more”. She pleaded and begged and sobbed and eventually screamed and abused me.

‘Then I started getting these apologetic emails from her. “You’ve helped me so much and I was so ungrateful.” “I’ve been feeling so down lately.” She didn’t ask for money until the third or fourth, but by then I’d worked out that they didn’t quite sound like Leanne. I realised I wasn’t reading my daughter’s attempts to rebuild our relationship. I was reading Joe’s attempts to manipulate me into giving them more money.’

‘He wrote them?’

‘Yep. Then the following year, he dumped Leanne again. Broke her heart again. I hoped she might come home and get clean then, but … well, it was probably unrealistic to expect her to be able to give up her two great loves at the same time.

‘When he got out of rehab and came back here, everyone, including you, was so “ra-ra!” for him. “Go, Joe!” Rallying round him like he was a returning war hero, not a criminal who destroyed my daughter’s life.’ She shook her head. ‘Why should he get a happily-ever-after while Leanne is still in the pit? I left the note on his doorstep because I wanted him to know that someone remembered what he’d done.’

‘And with the note, the heroin?’

‘That was later. When Leanne came up here two weeks ago she was in good spirits. She spent a couple of days moaning in her room, which was good because it meant she was detoxing. Then I filled her up with healthy food, and we went for walks along the beach. Then she went off to do the interview for that prick’s podcast, returned in a foul mood, obviously upset, and asked me to drive her into Woy Woy. I knew she was going to score, so I refused. She got an Uber. She was gone for two days. Using because of Joe. Again. I guess that was the last straw for me.

‘Gary gave me the idea. Accidentally. He came into the shop, said he was worried that the pressure the cops were putting on Joe might push him to relapse. So, I thought, why not make it easy for him? I’d got the dealer’s number from Leanne’s phone ages ago when I had this stupid idea to pay them not to sell to her. I realised it wouldn’t work because they’d probably take my money and sell to her as well. Anyway, I bought a few doses of heroin from them, enough to get him going again, added a syringe I bought online to make it easy for him, and left it in a bag at his front door.’ Sue realised how callous she must sound. ‘But I just wanted him to relapse, not die.’

‘He obviously didn’t take it straight away,’ said Barb.

She wore the same placid expression she’d had since she’d arrived, but the friendliness had gone from her eyes. It was as if Sue was looking at a sculpture of her face, technically accurate, but lifeless.

‘But he didn’t throw it out either,’ continued Barb. ‘Then he became a suspect in Karen’s death. All that stress. And there it was.’

The enormity of it sat between them on the coffee table.

‘Are you going to tell the police?’ Sue asked.

‘You didn’t murder him. You just handed him the weapon. Buying heroin is a crime, but apparently quite a minor one these days as long as you’re not in Bali. Is leaving heroin on his doorstep a crime? I don’t know.’ Barb stood. ‘I do know that Joe was doing well. It might have been his fault Leanne started using heroin, but it’s not his fault she’s still taking it now. It’s up to Leanne if she wants a second chance, isn’t it? Just like it was up to Joe.’

*

After Barb left, Sue stared at nothing, feeling heavy, empty, worthless. She had killed someone. She hadn’t meant to, but deep inside she must have known it was a possibility. At the very least, she had known that if the heroin she left for him restarted his habit, he would have a vastly increased chance of an early death. Her eyes found the photo she had avoided before. Her holding the hand of six-year-old Leanne as they waded at the jetty. Where had that girl gone? There was no becoming hardened to it when she looked at that picture.

She slapped the sofa cushion. She had been so stupid. Joe’s death had just made everything worse.

CHAPTER 19

His computer told him that the officer in charge of Karen’s Bondi Beach larceny charges was Constable Sandra Hackett at Waverley. Seb looked up her number and rang.

‘Hackett,’ said a busy voice, maybe fortyish.

He introduced himself. Name, rank, station. ‘I’m calling about a matter of Karen Kemp. Larceny.’

‘Umm … yep.’

‘Just letting you know she was murdered up here a few weeks ago. Were you aware?’

‘Fuck. Guess that explains her failure to appear at court last week. Honestly. No one tells me anything.’

‘Yeah, sorry about that. Homicide had the case until last week. I’m just cleaning up loose ends.’

‘Fucking Homicide. Too important to waste their precious time telling us anything. “Keep it tight cos everyone’s a suspect.”’

Apparently, it wasn’t just him who didn’t love Homicide.

‘Who killed her?’ asked Hackett.

‘They zoned in on a local guy who was having an affair with her, which probably explains why they didn’t chase you for info. He died of a drug overdose, so they’ve tied a big “solved” ribbon around it.’

‘Huh.’ There was a long pause that could either have been Hackett thinking, or losing interest and wanting to get off the phone.

‘I understand Kemp wanted to share some information to try to get a sentencing discount?’ said Seb.

‘Yeah.’ Hackett’s bat couldn’t have been deader.

‘Sorry to hassle, but Homicide haven’t done any of the clean-up, so I have to. I just need a quick rundown of the details so I can put it to bed.’ Another lie, but plausible.

‘Sure. She got busted for stealing three phones and some AirPods at Bondi Beach, had two priors for the same thing, so she was shitting herself about jail. A month or so ago she calls and says she has info on someone. I said, “Who?” She goes, “I don’t know.” I go, “How’s that helpful?” She says her ex-boyfriend is Vanessa Pierce’s nephew. Know her?’

‘Not my area, really.’

‘She runs drug distribution and other stuff around Parramatta and the city. I figure that if she wants to give up her ex it must have been a nasty break-up, but she says, “No he’s small fry, I’ve got someone bigger.”

‘She said that before they broke up, she drove Pierce’s nephew – her boyfriend, Justin someone – to a meeting in a park. She was supposed to drop him and go, but he was boasting about the meeting being a big deal, so she got curious. Instead of going home, she drops him off, drives around the park and pulls in where she can see him sitting on a bench. Kemp says an Uber pulls up, a late middle-aged dude, brown hair, glasses, nice suit, gets out and sits next to the boyfriend. The boyfriend pulls out pen and paper and writes some stuff down, short meeting, off they go.

‘The other man walks past her car, and Kemp says she’s seen him before, but doesn’t know where. She reckons – reckons – he looked important. I mean, these days fucking real estate agents look important. Who knows? Maybe it would be useful for us to know who this respectable-looking guy Vanessa Pierce seems to be in bed with is, or maybe it’s nothing. But she says she wants to come in, look at a shitload of photos and see if she can ID him.’

‘But even if she did, what have you got? Meeting in a park.’

‘She’d thought it through, I’ll give her that. She said that if she could identify him as someone who was maybe in government or business, and we know he has a connection with Pierce, then we could get a warrant, bug his phone, look at emails and texts, and maybe get something more. Anyway, that’s all stuff for the bigwigs. My job was just to send it upstairs, so I did.’

‘Who to?’

‘Potential informers on organised crime skip a few levels and get referred straight to my inspector, Adam Drummond. I forgot about it until her court date, when I wondered if she was going to show up with a letter from Drummond saying she helped us. But she didn’t show, apparently on account of being dead.’

‘Do you know if Kemp actually saw the inspector?’

‘Yeah, they sent me a note saying she was booked in.’

‘Do you know the date she was going to see him?’

‘Fuck me! The questions. Hang on, I’ll look up the email … let me see … here. September eighteenth.

‘Just so I can tidy it all up for the file, do you think the inspector’s office would let me know what happened?’

‘Yes, definitely.’

‘Great.’

‘I’m joking. They won’t tell you shit. They treat people who give sensitive info confidentially, for obvious reasons. If they had ended up giving Kemp a ‘Help’ letter they wouldn’t have even told me what it was for. “Information of assistance to police enquiries” is about as specific as they get.’

‘Okay. Thanks for all that.’

‘No problem.’

Seb hung up. He wondered if Karen had spoken to Tom about the person she saw meet her ex in the park. He rang him.

‘Sorry, Tom. Can I ask just one more thing about Karen?’

‘Sure.’

‘Did she mention her court matters in Sydney?’

‘Court? No.’

‘Right. She was charged with stealing phones from Bondi Beach.’

‘Shit.’

‘She was trying to trade some information to police to get a more lenient sentence. She said she had seen someone hanging around with crime figures. Sorry. Must be a shock.’

‘Another one.’

‘Did she ever talk about trying to identify someone, or seeing a clean-shaven middle-aged man with glasses in a suit? Someone she was trying to put a name to?’

‘Nah. Not at all.’

‘Okay. If you remember anything, even a throwaway comment she made, let me know.’

‘Sure. Fuck. You think you know someone …’

After ending the call, Seb wondered what to do next. Before he had worked it out, he got a text from Barb.

Please text me photo of syringe Joe used. Will explain later

Doing so would be a breach of police rules, but he had just told several lies to a fellow officer. If he wanted to find out what happened, it seemed rules had to be broken. He found the photo in his phone and sent it.

CHAPTER 20

After she left Sue’s, Barb walked down to the bay and out to the end of the jetty. The hill behind her hid the late afternoon sun, so she was able to stare out into the bay without squinting.

Had she solved the mystery of Joe’s death? She tried to think it through as a pelican glided peacefully past, unperturbed by the drama that had recently engulfed Bullford Point. Maybe it had its own problems. Relationship break-up, insomnia, fish shortage, aching wing. Who knew?

After a few minutes, Barb texted Seb and waited for his reply. When the photo came, she looked closely at it and then walked back to Sue’s, where she found her friend, still slumped in her armchair, looking exhausted. Having a daughter herself, one who had thankfully had a relatively trouble-free passage through life so far, Barb could imagine how hard the last few years must have been on Sue.

Or could she? Perhaps you could never properly understand the problems of others, because when you tried to, you usually just thought about them for a couple of minutes and then moved on to something else. Whereas Leanne’s problems would be continually running around Sue’s head all day, every day, wearing her down.

‘You said you left Joe a syringe,’ said Barb. ‘Where did you get it from?’

‘Why?’

‘Just tell me.’

‘Online. Can’t remember.’

‘Can you find a picture of it?’

‘Probably.’

‘Quick sticks, then.’

Sue didn’t move.

‘It didn’t happen the way you think,’ said Barb. ‘Joe didn’t succumb to temptation, because that doesn’t explain everything else: his teeth, the belt, injecting into his elbow, his pyjamas, the sheets or the spare key. I think Joe was murdered. Let’s find out if the syringe that was next to his bed was the one you left him, or a different one.’

Sue blinked, heaved herself up and led Barb into a messy cell-like office containing a filing cabinet, chair and desk, upon which sat a laptop and lots of papers. Barb hovered over her as she searched her emails. She opened an order confirmation that showed a picture of a syringe.

‘Can you enlarge it?’ Barb asked.

Sue did, and Barb compared it to the picture Seb had sent of the syringe found in Joe’s room.

‘They’re different. Yours is shorter and wider. The syringe that injected Joe wasn’t the one you left for him.’

Sue looked uncomprehendingly up at her.

‘Do you think Joe didn’t like the syringe you left him?’ asked Barb. ‘So when he decided to use your heroin, he went to all the trouble of getting a different one?’

Sue’s eyes widened.

‘Has Leanne ever been picky about what sort of syringe she uses?’ asked Barb.

Sue shook her head.

‘Getting a syringe isn’t like buying a new shirt, where it has to look just right,’ said Barb. ‘It’s like buying a hammer. Who cares what it looks like, as long as it does the job? He didn’t use your heroin. He saw your welcome home present, he didn’t want it, and he threw it out.’

‘So I didn’t …’

‘You tempted him. But he resisted. I get why you did it, but it was a bad thing to do. Then, later on, someone killed him using a different syringe and different heroin.’

Sue dropped her head and her chest heaved. Barb put her hand gently on her shoulder.

As she walked home, Barb felt relieved Sue wasn’t responsible for Joe’s death. On the other hand, she was back to square one. What next? Joe’s funeral tomorrow. A sad day. She wondered if his killer would be there.

PART 3

CHAPTER 21

Viv hated gatherings, especially when he was the focus. His parents were no longer alive, and he had no other siblings, which meant everyone’s attention would be on him, the bereaved older brother. The funeral had gone well enough, he supposed, but the wake was where everyone would want to talk to him. He steeled himself, took one last, longing look out past the jetty into the peace of the bay, and entered Bullford Point hall.

Inside, there were maybe eighty people, most clumped in groups of four or five around the plain, timber-floored hall, weighted more toward the far end where a makeshift bar had been created with a couple of trestle tables. Next to it was another table overflowing with party pies, sausage rolls and quiches. Nothing fancy, or too expensive. Viv had known better than to ask Sue to cater Joe’s wake, and instead found a company in Woy Woy. When they asked if he was going to pick up the bar tab, he was about to say an adamant ‘no’ before he remembered he had just become the outright owner of a house worth several million dollars, and that Dev wanted to buy it for more than its market value.

‘First thousand,’ he’d said instead. It might make people think he was nice. He was trying to get better at that.

He took a few tentative steps into the throng, already feeling glances in his direction. He had known almost everyone in the room for decades. Thankfully, none of Joe’s junkie mates from Sydney seemed to have made the trip. Perhaps he didn’t have any. He wished he was back on his bike. He had gone for a long ride that morning during which, pleasingly, he had overtaken nine other cyclists and not been overtaken by any. Particularly satisfying had been passing two show-offs with top of the range bikes, wraparound sunglasses and even aerodynamically shaped helmets going up a hill. He had deliberately slowed his breathing as he overtook them so it looked like he wasn’t even trying.

Riding usually helped him clarify things, but not this time. He was supposed to be grieving his younger sibling’s death, but Viv was more angry than sad. Angry at his talented, popular brother for wasting his life by enslaving himself to a drug, angry at him for manipulating and stealing from their parents, angry at him for becoming such a colossal prick.

He had been furious that Joe’s self-destructiveness had caused their mum to leave him two-thirds of her house. Firstly because it was unfair, and secondly because it had placed him in financial jeopardy. It had been Viv who’d visited her regularly, fixed anything that broke, and held her hand as her health declined. Well, held it metaphorically, except for that one time in hospital when she had asked him to. It had felt clammy and awkward, and he’d let go as soon as he could.

Viv knew he was a good lawyer. He never missed a deadline or overlooked an obscure contractual clause. He gave every client excellent advice. The problem was that he was bad at people. He had started at a medium-sized firm, but found the politics baffling and unsettling. Now he worked alone, which was much better, except for the permanent avalanche of admin, and there being no one else who could talk to the clients.

He had slowly worked out that to keep clients happy, you had to do more than good legal work. You had to smile, nod and act sympathetic, almost like you were their friend. He tried, but a peek at his online reviews had left him shaken. ‘Robotic’, ‘No empathy’, ‘Treated my life like a maths problem’. Now he was on the verge of having to close his office to cut costs, and that was a slippery slope. Even he knew that a lawyer meeting clients at home or in a café did not give off the safe, reassuring vibes they craved.

The plan, when his mother died, had been to sell her house and use his share to pay off his mortgage, upgrade his bike, pump some money into marketing and advertising, and even consider getting a client-friendly partner who could do the meet and greet. Mum leaving Joe a two-thirds share and a controlling interest torpedoed that.

He should try and focus on some good memories of his brother, in case anyone asked him for a story about Joe or to share a happy memory. They had definitely played together when young, but in their teens got on less well. For every blurry image he had in his head of them fishing off their jetty or riding bikes, there was another of Joe shouting at him or his parents, sullenly refusing to communicate, or storming out of the house in a fury.

Their relationship improved when they formed From Afar. Viv had liked drumming, and when Joe wrote a tune, Viv could always find the right beat. Keeping time was not dissimilar to the cadence of cycling. Regular. Predictable. Sensible. When they played together, they communicated with glances and nods, which worked much better than words ever had.

For Viv, the band was never more than a hobby, but Joe genuinely believed they had a chance of making it. After Sal vanished and the band broke up, Viv missed playing, but was also relieved that he could concentrate on finishing his studies and beginning his legal career.

A couple of years later, he escaped the city and moved back to live in Bullford Point and work in Woy Woy. Joe stayed in Sydney, took up drugs, and as far as any meaningful relationship between the brothers went, that was pretty much it. Whenever Joe called, ‘just to say g’day’, there would always be a request for money. Eventually, Viv stopped answering.

When Joe called him from jail, bail refused, Viv wasn’t surprised. In fact, it had seriously undermined his faith in the criminal justice system that it had taken so long for his brother to get there. Given Joe’s lack of a stable job, he could only have been financing his drug habit from some fairly persistent crime.

He visited Joe once. He didn’t want to, but his incarceration was the biggest news in Bullford Point since a drunk teenager had driven a motorbike off the jetty, so he would have looked like a prick if he hadn’t. A two-hour drive followed by an awkward chat across a plastic table as Joe slurped the Coke Viv bought him and tried not to look at the musclehead over Joe’s shoulder feel up his girlfriend. After they got through the small talk – ‘Food okay?’ ‘Depends. You like cardboard?’ – Joe had said he wanted to go to rehab. Viv barely resisted scoffing, but, surprisingly, Joe had got himself in and completed the program.

After he moved back to Bullford Point, Viv had given Joe an old computer he had, bought him some equipment for his stupid podcast, even asked him over for dinner, where he made the mistake of offering him wine. ‘I’m off everything, but you have one.’ Viv wasn’t a big drinker, but that night he finished a bottle himself, just to get through the awkwardness of it.

When the development deal was on the table, he prayed Joe would take it. He didn’t want to co-own anything with an ex-junkie who was probably one bad day away from relapsing. More importantly, he needed the money. It was incredibly frustrating to have a million dollars, enough to sort things out, and not be able to get it. Finally, Joe agreed to sell, and Viv started to relax. Then Joe changed his mind, and Viv felt the earth slide.

Maybe that was why he didn’t feel sad. Because he was too busy feeling relieved. Now he was the house’s sole owner. He wasn’t travel-to-Monaco-in-a-private-jet rich or don’t-have-to-work-anymore rich, but he was not-going-to-lose-your-business-and-house-and-be-out-on-the-street rich. Perhaps that wasn’t rich, but it was a lot better than what he had been.

CHAPTER 22

‘And that’s why Barry never worked in television again!’ punchlined Gary, beaming his television smile. As he’d expected, the audience erupted. Not bad, given he was at a wake. That was catharsis for you. As a performer, his role was to help people process the tragedy of death by sharing insights, empathy and funny stories about drunk newsreaders.

He followed the golden rule – leave on a big laugh – gave the semi-circle surrounding him a wave and headed for the bar, feeling impressed eyes on him as he passed. Since his return to television as host of Which Duck? four weeks ago – Channel 9, 5.30 p.m., Monday to Friday – he had noticed more people looking at him as he went about his day, and did not mind one bit.

Were it not for some ridiculous, short-sighted, merit-blind and probably corrupt decisions by various television executives that had sidelined him for several years, he would never have been away. His official line was that his enforced absence from the box had allowed him to ‘get back to my roots’ and play comedy clubs. In fact, he had mainly done corporates, comedy in a suit, as well as the odd guest spot on television panel shows, leaving him with plenty of free time. Too much, really. He had probably wallowed a bit.

Some financial rationalising had also been necessary. Sell the apartment with views of apartments with water views in Sydney, buy a house with an actual water view in Bullford Point, and have enough left over for a decent-sized boat. His parents had retired and moved to the Sunshine Coast, but Bullford Point still felt like home. More peaceful than Sydney, but close enough that he could zoom down the highway for gigs and meetings. All good. More or less. Now he was back with what was already Australia’s third favourite game show and gaining rapidly on second place.

‘Great eulogy, Gary,’ said Bill Hopkins.

He didn’t need people’s compliments to know he had nailed it, but it was still nice to get them. He mouthed, ‘Thanks,’ nodded solemnly back, not slowing down to give the old coot any opportunity to prolong the conversation.

He had been particularly happy with his opening line. ‘I really miss Joe, and not just because he owes me fifty dollars.’ A joke containing a deeper truth that broke the ice, released the tension and let everyone know that he wasn’t going to pretend Joe was a saint.

‘I’m no expert on what drove him, or where his demons came from,’ he had continued, gravitas oozing, ‘but I do know Joe could be friendly, funny and great company. He was spontaneous and full of ideas. Many of those ideas, admittedly, were terrible, but still … And he could be thoughtful and considered …’ That was a stretch, but he probably had been once or twice.

‘He was the life of the party, but that became a double-edged sword. I don’t know why Joe’s life took the course it did, but there was a turning point. Seven years ago we were in a band in Sydney. He loved it, wrote great songs and was excited about the future. Then our band unravelled and that hit him hard. When a few months later our friend, Sal, who many of you knew, was murdered, that hit him harder. After that, things really went downhill for poor Joe.’

Hard truths, but they needed to be said, and he was the guy to say them. Not a bad turnout, either, given the number of people Joe had alienated and pissed off over the last few years.

He reached the bar and grabbed a white wine. More calorie friendly than beer. He had to watch his waistline now he was back in Australia’s lounge rooms.

He had always loved performing. He first got a taste in school musicals, then in the band. He could act a bit, had a decent voice, but his biggest asset was his stage presence. He belonged in front of an audience. When others got nervous, he got excited. Onstage, he was at ease. Not just himself, but a better version of himself: funnier, cleverer, happier, more energetic and alive. All the great performers were different onstage – Elvis, Pink, Steven Wright. They knew how to turn it on (or in Wright’s case, off) and so did Gary.

After school he had moved to Sydney and done communication at UTS, but that was just to do something. What he’d really wanted was to see how far their band could go. They made progress, but bands had a lot of voices, and not just the ones singing. Everyone had an opinion on everything (except Viv, obviously). It took a two-hour meeting to get agreement on buying a new extension cord.

Ideally, Gary wanted to be in charge. One night he and Joe went to a comedy night at The Antler in Glebe, and something clicked. Comedians had total control over what they did. They didn’t have to share decision-making, applause or laughter with anyone.

Some of the comedians he saw that night had good material, but couldn’t sell it, while others had confidence and presence, but only average jokes. He spent the next day watching more on YouTube. There were two variables: stage presence and material. If you lacked one, but had lots of the other, you could go okay, but if you wanted to make it, you needed both.

He knew he had the presence and confidence, so he tried to write jokes. It was harder than song lyrics, where you could get away with lines that sounded deep but didn’t mean anything.

After an hour writing comedy he had some observations about driving in cars, and a true story about being allergic to cats. Were they funny? One way to find out. He rang The Antler and put his name down for open mic night. Turned out they weren’t. He got some chuckles with his charm, but that was it. He tried again and again, without much improvement. It was frustrating. Comedy was a great pipeline to fame. So he kept working until he had his breakthrough.

CHAPTER 23

Viv was at the epicentre of a force field of gloom. Those up the other end of the hall were chatting and laughing like they would at a party, but the closer people were to him, the more solemn and depressed they seemed to feel they had to act. Periodically, they would tap their partner on the shoulder, nod in his direction and slowly, as enthusiastically as if coming to give blood, shuffle toward him and start moaning about how tragic it was. If he was the one who was supposed to be the most bereaved, surely they should be trying to cheer him up, not drag him further down. A few minutes ago Ethel Turner had opened with, ‘Such a shock’. Really? Most addicts relapse. Sometimes they overdose.

When he was racing in a pack with riders who talked too much, he just sped up until they either fell back or didn’t have enough breath to speak. Here, though, he was trapped.

Over by the bar he saw Leanne grab a glass of wine. He’d always liked Leanne. Not in a romantic way. She was just one of the few women he felt relatively comfortable around. They had both been outsiders in the band, her because she was a year younger, him because he was two years older, and because he was him. One of the many reasons he had grown angrier with Joe over the years was because of the way he had dragged Leanne down with him.

Next to her was a group from his cycling club. Why were they here? They didn’t even know Joe. He realised it must be to offer him support. Unless it was to assess his condition before Sunday’s forty-kilometre race from Ettalong to Terrigal and back.

He had been the undisputed champion of the Southern Central Coast Cycling Club for the last few years. He loved racing; working out tactics, hiding in the pack until the optimal moment to make a move, riding hard enough to break away, but not so hard that two or three others couldn’t come with him so they could share the lead, until it was time for him to make another move, usually up a steep hill close to the finish. He was twenty-nine, which he had discovered was two years past his physical cycling peak, but he still won more than he lost. Until recently.

In the last six months his win percentage had dropped from fifty-eight per cent to twenty-one per cent, purely because of new member Sam Delaney, twenty-two, very fast and irritatingly friendly. Viv was training harder than ever, but Sam kept beating him. Worse, Sam was still approaching his peak as Viv slid down the other side.

‘Hey, Viv, sooo good to see you,’ soothed Dev, almost elbowing someone else out of the way and placing her hand on his arm. ‘You poor, poor darling.’

Her dark hair was swept back, and as always her long-lashed eyes, deep red lips, curvy figure and overpowering confidence made him feel unsteady. She smelled of something good. He was just over six feet, but in heels she was nearly as tall. She wore a black pantsuit tighter than some might think appropriate for a funeral, and looked broad-shouldered and gym fit. He quickly raised his gaze. He found eye contact difficult at the best of times, but knew it was important not to glance below neck level.

She leaned in and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘How are you doing?’

He felt her warm, sweet breath.

His mouth seemed to have gone dry.

*

Gary kept moving, flitting from one group to another, staying long enough to graciously receive compliments about both his eulogy and Which Duck?, but not long enough to get sucked into anything boring. It was nice to be back on top. He deserved it. Yes, he had been born with talent, but he had also worked bloody hard. Most comedians were too lazy or too precious to be successful. Or not talented enough.

When he started doing stand-up he had thrown himself into it. He knew how to work a crowd, but struggled writing good jokes. He wrote loads of material, and performed the hell out of it, but he knew it wasn’t quite good enough to get his head above the throng of comics striving for recognition.

Then he had a thought. Yes, comedians were supposed to write their own material, but was that really essential? He knew stealing jokes from other comedians was frowned upon. Every group of backstage comics formed their own unit of the comedy police, naming and shaming thieves. ‘He stole that sports bit off Bill Burr.’ It was a fine line, though. Comics were always looking for material, and there are only so many subjects. As long as you didn’t lift a joke word for word, you had plausible deniability. ‘Bill Burr also does a routine on sport’ was very different from ‘That’s a Bill Burr joke’.

He started watching and listening to comics online, but not the famous ones. More obscure ones, with good material and poor stage presence, ideally with not many YouTube views, sometimes from Europe, Asia and South America with subtitles on. He picked the best jokes, kept their essence but reworked the words, and started to get bigger laughs. He even made a Spanish comic’s routine about siestas work for him. Even if the comedy police caught him, he made his routines different enough to plausibly be parallel invention, not theft.

He started to get noticed. He was booked to do paid spots – fifteen-minute supports at first, then thirty-minute headlines. It happened fast. Other comics got jealous, which he didn’t mind at all. Then a television producer approached him after a gig, invited him to audition to host a new prime-time panel show, and he got it. The big break. He knew television lifted you above the chaff, shone a light and made you a ‘name’ that, even if the show bombed, you could trade on for years.

Now, seven years later, he was a seasoned television performer. A safe bet, in the networks’ eyes. He had worked out fast that in television, compromise was part of the game. Television existed to serve your profile and your wallet, not your art. Take his new show. Many comedians would turn their nose up at hosting a late-afternoon game show. Well, they were welcome to keep trying to get laughs from drunk punters at Toukley RSL for one hundred and fifty dollars a night. Meanwhile, he had a house, a boat and a potentially lucrative investment in Dev’s development, although that depended on Viv now.

He felt fairly confident that Viv would sell, but … what if he didn’t? Could he actually lose money? How much? He scratched his wrist hard. Calm down. Dev would work her magic on Viv. He looked around. There she was, talking to him now. Good. If there was a prize for Hottest Wake Attendee, Dev had it in the bag. Poor Viv didn’t stand a chance.

A late middle-aged woman he didn’t know was eagerly pushing her way through the crowd toward him, eager smile and puppy-dog eyes. He would have to get used to that again, now he was back on the box. Which reminded him, ratings from last night would be in. As she reached him, he pulled out his phone. ‘Sorry, urgent text from the producers,’ he said, rolling his eyes. He turned and fled to an empty corner where he opened his tax-deductible ‘Real Time Ratings’ app.

Down a bit. Fuck. What if this was the beginning of the end? What if ‘down a bit’ became ‘down a lot’, became a trend, became a disaster? What if his re-rising star had reached its zenith, run out of whatever it was that powered stars, and was about to plummet?

He stopped himself. What had the therapist said? Try to relax. But that was a contradiction in terms. Was there a routine in that?

What else had she said? Distract yourself from worrying thoughts by thinking about something else. Something nice, like … pelicans. Not ducks. Pelicans. And have another wine. The therapist probably hadn’t said that, but surely if she was suggesting he relax, it was implied.

He gulped the remainder of his glass, got two more from the bar and, trying to look as if one was for someone else, headed outside and down to the jetty to look for pelicans.

There weren’t any. Plenty of fucking ducks, though, both in the water and paddling around in his head.

When worries come, don’t engage with them. Let them float past. Fuck that for a joke. He rang Dom.

‘Hi, Gary.’

‘Howdy. Just had a quick glance at the ratings. A bit down, but nothing to worry about?’ He tried to phrase it as a statement, not wanting to sound needy, but his voice betrayed him by rising at the end of the sentence.

‘Yes, all good, I think, mate. These sorts of ups and downs are normal in this timeslot. You get the halo effect starting to wear off after about a month. It’s to be expected. We’re weeding out the visitors and building a committed audience.’

‘Great, yes. And the network are good?’

‘They understand. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Yes, I thought that. Just wanted to make sure we were all on the same page.’

He rang off, relieved. Nothing to worry about. Couldn’t get more definitive than that.

But if there was something to worry about, would Dom tell him? No, he wouldn’t, because the first job of a TV producer is to keep the talent happy, even if that involves lying to them. Dom’s words were worthless.

Gary’s stomach started to gnaw again. He finished the first wine and took a gulp of the second. It was lonely at the top, but he really wanted to stay there.

CHAPTER 24

Barb was sure Dennis wouldn’t be here, so why was she looking around the hall for him? He had known Joe’s parents, of course, but they were gone now, and he had never really got to know Joe or Viv. Truth be told, Dennis was quite stiff and reserved with children. Other people’s children, she corrected herself. He had been a good father to Julie. He wasn’t keen to have more than one, though, which had been disappointing, but relationships were about compromise, apparently.

She wondered what would have happened if they’d had a second child. Strange to think of a little boy or girl who never got the chance to exist. Perhaps he or she would have lived closer to her than distant Melbourne, where Julie was. Perhaps he or she might even have stayed in Bullford Point, and would pop in every few days, and …

Barb shook her head sharply. Enough of that.

‘If you’re going to find out what happened, you might as well find out what happened,’ she muttered to herself. If Joe had been killed, it was almost certainly by someone who knew where he kept his spare key, and most of the people who did were currently in the hall.

She scanned the room. Gary came in the door, and was immediately surrounded. Fans, she supposed. To his right, Dev was speaking at, rather than with, Viv, excitedly waving her hands, probably trying to persuade him to sell her the house he now owned outright. Slim Viv, long, bony face as immobile as a statue, appeared mesmerised. He was staring at Dev’s face with such a look of concentration, Barb could almost hear him thinking, ‘Don’t look down at her breasts.’

Leanne walked past the buffet to the bar and lifted two glasses of white wine. She had bags under her eyes, her frizzy blond hair hung limp and she looked ill at ease. Barb wondered if she shared her mother’s fury that Joe had been able to beat his addiction, while she had not. Could Leanne have killed Joe? Love and hate, two sides of the same coin?

Barb noticed Gary detach himself from a group and make his way to the bar. She moved to intercept him.

‘Sad day, Gary.’

‘Terrible. Just as things seemed to be turning for him. Poor bugger. I keep wondering how I could have helped him more. What I missed.’

‘Me too,’ said Barb, surprised by his candour. She had thought him somewhat superficial, but perhaps that was because most of her contact with him in the last few years had been via the television.

‘He was worried about the police investigation,’ he continued. ‘I kept telling him there was no way the police could charge him when he was innocent. He said he knew that, but I just had this feeling everything wasn’t right. But I didn’t do anything about it.’

‘You weren’t to know what was going to happen.’

Barb heard raised voices behind her and turned. It looked like Leanne, carrying a glass of wine in each hand, had bumped into Reg Andrews, who held an empty beer glass and had a wet patch down the middle of his shirt.

‘You walked straight into me!’ exclaimed Reg.

‘Did not. Not my fault you’re clumsy,’ Leanne slurred.

‘I was just standing here.’

‘Who are you, anyway? You even know Joe?’

‘What?’

Barbara started to move toward them, but Gary reached Leanne first and took a firm grip of her elbow. ‘So sorry, friend,’ he said to Reg. ‘Leanne’s been very upset and, well, you know how things get. Let me buy you another drink.’

‘It’s a free bar.’

‘So much the better.’ Gary prised a full wine glass from Leanne and handed it to Reg. ‘This one appears untouched. Bottoms up. Leanne and I are going to look for pelicans.’

Gary steered her outside.

CHAPTER 25

The morning after Joe’s funeral, Barb popped into the police station, where Seb was poking at his computer.

‘I want to report a break-in,’ she said, standing at the counter.

‘Really?’

‘No, but remember last time I was here I said, “I want to report a murder.” That was dramatic, wasn’t it? I thought that every time I came in, I could say I wanted to report something. Just to get started.’

‘Lots of people who come in here start by saying they want to report something, so it’s not that exciting for me,’ said Seb.

‘Understood. Won’t happen again.’ She lifted up the end of the counter and let herself through. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Rhetorical question, was it?’

She pulled up a chair to the other side of Seb’s desk. ‘I went and saw some drug dealers but that didn’t really lead to anything.’ She had decided not to tell him about the false lead to Sue, given it appeared to have nothing to do with Joe’s death.

‘Drug dealers? You realise part of my job is to arrest drug dealers?’

‘Of course, yes. I didn’t even think. They’re not in Bullford Point though, and also I think I’d feel bad telling on them because they helped me. Joe has bought from them in the past, but – this is the important bit – he has not bought drugs from them recently. If he bought the heroin, surely he would have got it from the nearest dealer, one whom he had bought from before? It strengthens the case he was murdered.’

‘Agree.’

‘Also, Tom and Viv didn’t buy anything from the drug dealer. Dev did, but it was only cocaine.’

Seb looked impressed. ‘Well done. I spoke to Tom. He’s got an alibi for Karen’s death. Played tennis, then stayed overnight at a friend’s. But there’s a bit more to it than that.’ He explained how Tom had confessed to following Karen to Joe’s house and then hiding in the bushes.

‘Dear me,’ said Barb. ‘What a state he must have been in.’

‘His alibi still holds, though. By the time Joe said Karen left his house, Tom was having a beer with his tennis mates.’

‘Everyone seems certain Karen was killed that night, but surely the scientific evidence can’t be that precise. What if, after leaving Joe’s, she went back to Tom’s, then next morning Tom returns, they quarrel and … well.’

‘He kills her?’

‘Accidentally, perhaps. That was the theory with Joe, yes?’

‘And then he dumps her body in the bush during the day? Very risky.’

‘Or waits until night.’

Seb drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘But he came into the station to report her missing that day, around lunchtime. It would be pretty reckless to do that if her body was in his house. What if I’d wanted to come and have a look?’

‘What about Joe? Could Tom have killed Joe?’

‘Homicide told Tom that Joe killed Karen, so he’s got revenge as a motive, and he doesn’t have an alibi for that night. But if Tom killed Joe, why would he have admitted to me that he hid outside his house when Karen was there? It just puts the spotlight on him.’

‘I can imagine Tom kicking in Joe’s door and punching him in a jealous fury,’ said Barb, thoughtfully, ‘but would he have been up to planning a heroin overdose disguised as suicide or an accident? Intellectually, I mean. Sometimes people do put on an act to make them appear less intelligent than they really are, but surely he can’t have been doing that since primary school?’

Despite the situation, Seb couldn’t stop a smile.

Barb put a hand to her mouth. ‘That was mean, wasn’t it? I usually keep things like that to myself.’ She brightened. ‘I must trust you.’

If only you could, thought Seb.

‘At any rate, I’ve looked through Joe’s phone. His house was pivotal to Dev’s development. She has options on the two houses next to him, but Joe’s house would open up the development to the town square, beach and jetty. Joe said yes to her, then a week later, I suspect just after he got that three thousand dollars, he changed his mind and told her he wouldn’t sell. Dev pleaded with him via text, and in the two days before Joe died, he had five missed calls from her.’

‘She was desperate.’

‘Dev would have known that if Joe died, Viv would inherit the house. Perhaps she was confident that if Viv did inherit, she could persuade him to sell. If that’s the case she definitely has a motive.’

‘Hard for me to think of Dev as a killer. I’ve known her since school.’

‘It is strange,’ said Barb, thinking of Sue.

‘Having said that,’ said Seb, ‘Dev has been pretty obsessed with that development. She would have a lot riding on it.’

‘Dev wanted the development to happen, but did she need it to happen? People want lots of things. I want to solve Joe’s murder. You want to be a detective …’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Of course you do. The point is, we often don’t get what we want. We get sad, we move on. But when you need something to happen and it doesn’t, you get desperate. If Dev’s business needed this development to happen, and then Joe changed his mind and said he wouldn’t sell, and she knew Viv would sell …’ Barb opened her hands.

‘Dev would fancy her chances of persuading Viv to sell. Viv’s always been keen on her. She used to be able to get him to do anything she wanted.’

‘But not the thing he wanted, I’d guess.’

‘Barbara!’

‘Well?’

‘Dead on.’

‘And Viv is still single, is he not?’

‘Always has been, as far as I know.’

Barb was silent for a few moments. ‘I’m not one to speak ill of people. On the other hand, we need to be frank. Viv is unusual. Not warm. Not great with people. Doesn’t look you in the eye. He joined my bridge club a couple of years ago. Whenever he lost he turned red and got huffy. We were all relieved when he left.’

‘Again, I’ve known Viv forever,’ said Seb, ‘so hard to think of him as a killer, especially of his brother, but he gets two-thirds of a house, so he has a motive.’ He paused, face creased in thought. ‘Also …’

‘What?’

‘Gary told me that Dev asked him to invest in the development, and that he was going to. I’m not sure how much, or how much he needs the development to happen, but …’

‘It’s another lead. See, this is why we’re better than those Homicide detectives. We know everyone.’ She tapped her nose. ‘Inside info.’

Seb couldn’t stop a smile.

‘I’ve been thinking about the three thousand cash Joe had,’ she continued. ‘He didn’t earn it, and no one would have given or lent him that amount after Viv told us not to. I can’t even imagine him stealing it from someone’s house, because no one keeps that much cash anymore.’

‘Could his mum have left it for him?’

‘She lived off the pension and spent every spare dollar on those terrible poker machines. I tried to tell her, but … well. Perhaps addiction runs in the family. I liked Joe,’ continued Barb, ‘but he had a dark side. He lived with a big drug habit for several years without having much gainful employment, so he must have done all sorts of things to get money. The only explanation I can think of for that three thousand dollars is that he discovered someone’s secret and blackmailed them. That’s why it’s cash. If you were being blackmailed, neither party would want an electronic record of the transaction. What do you think?’

‘It’s … possible.’

‘So we have the cash, the envelope and the handwriting on the envelope. Can you trace the serial numbers on the money?’

‘That only happens in movies. No.’

‘The envelope?’

‘We can look, but you can probably buy them at any newsagent.’

Out of her back pocket Barb pulled a plastic bag containing an envelope with ‘JOE’ written on the front in block capitals. ‘Handwriting analysis? That’s a thing, yes?’

‘I could only get it done if this was an official investigation, and this definitely isn’t. Wouldn’t help anyway. No one can analyse block capitals.’

‘Fingerprints?’ Barb tried.

‘Joe would have handled the envelope last, and blurred any others. Barb, even if you’re right about this, is it really a motive for murder? I can imagine blackmail being a motive to kill someone before the money is paid, but not after.’

‘The person might have worried Joe would come back for more. Say they paid him three thousand dollars to keep quiet about something. What’s to stop him asking for another three thousand in six months’ time? And again, six months later. The person might think the only way they can be sure it’s over is to kill him.’

Seb shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

Barb returned the envelope to her pocket. ‘How are you going with Karen?’

‘She had court charges coming up and was trying to trade some information to get a more lenient sentence.’

‘That sounds interesting. What information?’

‘Don’t know yet. It might be totally unconnected to her death, but …’

‘… it might not be.’ Barb clapped her hands. ‘We’re finishing each other’s sentences! Like a real team. I saw one of those Marvel films. Way too loud, but they do that.’

Again, Seb failed to repress a smile. ‘I was looking at Karen’s Homicide file. Now they’ve closed the case, any cop can look at it, in case it’s relevant to another investigation. Everything I expected was in there, except there was no mention of Karen providing this info to police.’

‘Would you expect there to be?’

‘Only if the info she provided was valuable. If it was, there’s some online system that would have automatically alerted Homicide when they opened a file on her. I’ll follow it up.’ He frowned. ‘Maybe Joe’s and Karen’s deaths are connected, both part of some big iceberg we can only see the tip of. But maybe they’re …’

‘… not. We did it again!’ Barb exclaimed.

‘Actually, I was going to say, “entirely separate”.’

‘Same meaning. You do that. I’ll interview Dev and try to find out how important the Bullford Point development is to her. I’ll say it’s for the newsletter. A chance for her to put the positive side of her development. Can you find out more about how her company is going? How important this is for them?’

‘Yep.’

‘Plus there’s Joe’s podcast. It’s all on his computer. And he had a notebook too. I’ll check them out.’

CHAPTER 26

EMAIL FROM BARB YOUNG TO DEV KERALA, 27 OCTOBER 2024

Hi Dev,

I’m writing a little article for our local Bullford Point newsletter about your proposed development. Can I interview you for it?

Barb

EMAIL FROM DEV KERALA TO BARB YOUNG, 27 OCTOBER 2024

Hi,

Would love to but things are at a complicated stage now, plus am super busy sorry.

Dev

EMAIL FROM BARB YOUNG TO DEV KERALA, 27 OCTOBER 2024

Hi Dev,

No problem. I’ll be talking to some of those opposing your development, so thought I should offer you the opportunity to put the other side. Our newsletter goes into every shop, letterbox and bus stop in and around Bullford Point so I’m sure you’ll see a copy.

Barb

EMAIL FROM DEV KERALA TO BARB YOUNG, 27 OCTOBER 2024

Hi Barb,

How’s tomorrow 4.30 at my office?

Dev

CHAPTER 27

Seb stared at the phone on his desk, rubbing his hands together, going over his prepared lies and half-truths. All for the greater good, he told himself. He dialled.

‘Senior Sergeant Perkins. Inspector Drummond’s office,’ said a calm, efficient, middle-aged male voice.

Seb explained who he was. ‘I’m following up on an accused, Karen Kemp, who was referred to the inspector’s office after she offered to supply information, to try to get a police “Help” letter for her sentencing on theft matters.’

‘Yes. And …?’

Two little words, and Seb already felt on the defensive. ‘Well, I’m trying to find out a bit more about it.’

‘As you may be aware, dealing with those who provide information is a sensitive business. To protect them, and our investigations, we generally disclose very little.’

Seb tried to gather himself. ‘Understand, sir. Karen was murdered, three and a half weeks ago. The case has been solved, but I’m eager to know if the information she passed on may be relevant to my area, Bullford Point, as she was living there when she made the offer. I’m aware that she claimed she could identify figures connected to organised crime. Obviously, if they are in my area, I’d like to know about it.’

Sandra Hackett had told Seb that Karen’s information had nothing to do with Bullford Point, but Seb figured that playing ‘conscientious local cop’ gave him the best chance of finding out more.

‘I wondered if she passed on some information that could help me police my area better. We have very little crime here, and I want to keep it that way.’

‘Hmm. Well, I’m impressed by your curiosity,’ said Perkins. ‘Inspector Drummond says it’s a core value of good policing, as is being proactive, which you’re also doing. It’s a tricky one and, of course, it’s the inspector’s decision. I just do the admin. Let me take a look at the file, speak to him and find out what I can and can’t tell you. Can you come in and see me?’

‘Of course, yes.’

‘Let me … Okay, I’ve just had a cancellation the day after tomorrow. Ten thirty?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Goodo. Best you come here and we do it in person. You might be driving down here for nothing, but I’ll help you if I can.’

CHAPTER 28

Dev wasn’t normally one to re-read emails before she sent them, but this one needed to hit just the right tone. Friendly, thoughtful, convincing and … suggestive was too strong a word. So was flirty. Persuasive, perhaps.

Fuck it. Be honest. She was going for suggestive, flirty and even ‘If you sell me the house, I might just fuck your brains out.’ She wouldn’t, obviously, but it would definitely help if Viv thought she would. Exploiting the fact that he had always had the hots for her was just good business practice.

I hope I’ve convinced you that selling to us makes sense. On a personal level, if we can do this deal, it will be great to have an excuse to spend more time with you as we work through the details. It was so good to see you at the funeral. We all used to live in each other’s pockets, then what with careers and everything, I guess we drifted apart. Poor Joe’s death made me realise how valuable old friends are. You and I used to be close, and I do so hope we can be again.

She frowned at the last few words. Too formal, like that Jane Austen book they made her skim at school. She replaced ‘I do so hope we can be again’, with, ‘I do so hope we can re-ignite things’. That should get him going.

Quickly, before she was overcome with self-disgust, she pressed ‘send’. Despite having no belief in God, she said a little prayer and then swivelled her chair to look out across the water toward Bullford Point. It was a fifteen-minute drive around the bay, but a couple of hundred metres by water. She could swim there in ten minutes. Not that you’d try. A shark would get you for sure.

She rose from her impressively thick, dark, wooden desk – actually plastic, but wooden-looking – and stretched. Her office was tidy, modern and, most importantly, big. Anyone visiting would think she was doing well. Unfortunately they’d be wrong. She liked her third-floor view, liked her office, liked her job, hated the anxious feeling that reminded her that it might soon all come crashing down. Stop! She would get to the top. Ettalong zoning regulations limited building heights to just five storeys, so it wasn’t too far away.

She glanced at the clock. Looked brass, but also plastic. Barb would be here soon. She re-adjusted her face into something positive and optimistic, touched up her lipstick and found herself approaching the drinks cupboard, splashing gin into a glass, adding not-that-much tonic. She left out the gin bottle. Looked classy. That was the difference between gin and cereal. Leaving Sultana Bran out wouldn’t.

She took a swig and felt the soothing warmth spread through her. Alcohol, my sweet prince. Perhaps a bump as well. This was, after all, an opportunity to state her case. It was important she was at her best. She glanced quickly at the door and then extracted a small plastic bag from her pocket and sprinkled some white powder from it along the sideboard. Oh, all right, shelf. She produced a brown paper straw from her inside pocket, saved from her Life Booster breakfast smoothie, and hoovered it up. Whooshka! Now she was ready to do what she did best. Sell.

When Dev had started as a real estate agent, the hard bit wasn’t selling to prospective buyers. Any idiot could do that. Put up a sign, smile continuously, chase relentlessly, and you could offload a leaky cupboard in a ditch. The hard bit was persuading owners who wanted to sell to sign with you, rather than another agent. Initially, she talked too much and pushed too hard. Then one day it clicked. She had been pitching to an old couple selling the waterfront cottage they’d lived in for forty years to move into a retirement home. Every time she’d tried to tell them half-truths about the excellent results she’d achieved, they’d cut her off, reminiscing about the great times they’d had there, talking about their kids, describing how their area had changed. The questions they’d asked her weren’t about selling methods, reaching potential buyers, or whether repainting would generate a good return on investment. They were about her.

‘Where are you from?’ Bullford Point.

‘Do you come from a big family?’ One sister.

‘Did you always want to be a real estate agent?’ Always! (A lie, but with a not-great HSC, hating the Commerce degree she got into, and the band she managed imploding, talking shit for a living seemed the best option.)

‘What do you do in your spare time?’ Cycling and yoga. (More lies. The first she hadn’t done since she’d got her driver’s licence and the second she’d never done, but they sounded more wholesome than vaping, drinking and casual sex.)

She’d realised then that the key to hooking clients wasn’t demonstrating competence. It was getting them to like you. After the old couple signed the contract, to celebrate Dev bought herself a bike and a yoga mat. Occasionally she rode the bike. She hadn’t unrolled the mat yet, but it looked good in the corner of her lounge room.

After that, she scaled the ladder from real estate agent to property developer. It wasn’t difficult. Buy an old, rundown shithole that old, rundown people were selling, build the biggest house – or, even better, apartment block – that regulations allowed, and sell it. The only tricky bit was getting the money. If you used your own, you had to start small and progress was slow. Getting investors allowed her to scale up, plus you could charge them a handling and negotiation fee for dealing with owners, council, builders and potential buyers. It did mean she had to manage both ends, and somehow simultaneously convince both vendor and investor they were getting an amazing deal, but she was good at that.

She had done it twice, successfully, which gave her the confidence to try something bigger in Bullford Point. Knock down three houses, build a dozen apartments, and add shops on the bottom floor. The first two owners agreed, options were signed, and then along came Joe.

Unfortunately, her charm and selling skills hadn’t worked on her old friend. You can’t shit a shitter. Joe was used to playing people, and had a great bullshit detector. So she’d turned to plan B and offered him more money. That meant she had to stretch a little, but she had been ecstatic when he’d agreed to sell. She’d started dreaming about owning her own waterfront property and told her investor, Jack Mead, the coathanger baron, to get his money ready.

She had also, and this perhaps appeared reckless now, told the other two owners she was exercising her option to buy. It was only after she had emptied her bank account, maxed out both her credit cards and taken out a loan to finance the deposits paid to them that Jack told her that with a property price downturn predicted, his modelling suggested profitability would only be sufficient to justify his investment if Dev could deliver all three houses, not just two. In short, without Joe’s house, she was fucked.

That was fine until Joe changed his mind, backed out and betrayed her. He had informed her by email, the coward. When she read it she had thrown up.

She had poured everything she had and more into the other two Bayview Road properties. Without someone else’s money, she didn’t have anything left to develop them. It had taken her months to find Jack and then get him interested. Now he was gone, and she wasn’t confident she would be able to find anyone else.

If she sold the two other properties, the above-market price she had paid plus the housing market U-turn would mean she would lose plenty, but she couldn’t afford the interest to hold onto them until the market came good again. What had looked bulletproof on paper, had turned out to be an actual bullet, aimed at her.

She had persuaded Gary to pump in some much-needed funds with some only-a-little-exaggerated promises that, if the development went ahead, he would make a motza, but his cash alone wouldn’t be enough. She had actually already spent some of it, which was another worry. No problem if the development went ahead, but if it didn’t and he wanted his money back …

Then Joe died and she had a second chance. 28 Bayview had a new owner, one she was confident would say yes, especially if it was she who asked while batting her lashes and wearing something low cut which, let’s face it, was pretty much her whole wardrobe.

Her desk phone buzzed. She punched a button. ‘Speak.’

‘Barbara Young here to see you.’

‘Send her in.’

Today she wasn’t selling property. She was selling a vision. She already had provisional council approval and was confident that would convert into full approval, but residents could still bring pressure to bear by lodging objections and even funding a court appeal. She needed to win hearts and minds. Get Barbara onside, push a different narrative from the doom and gloom that witch Sue was spreading, talk up opportunity, down threat, get a favourable story in the newsletter and create some community buzz pushing their way. How hard could it be? Pity Barb was a she, unless she was a lesbian. Dev had always found it easier to persuade those who might be attracted to her. She had the tools, and wasn’t afraid to use them. There was a full-length mirror in her cupboard, but she didn’t need to check. She knew she looked great.

She opened her laptop and pretended to read an email. Look busy. She heard the door open, but kept studying the screen, frowning slightly with an expression she was confident conveyed intense concentration on something very important, and then looked up.

‘Barbara,’ she said flashing her big smile, the one that brought hardened businessmen to heel faster than the promise of a tax-efficient investment. She studied the older woman for clues. Short brown hair, big glasses, friendly smile, cream pants, blue jacket, bright scarf. Librariany. No lesbian vibes yet, but it was definitely on the cards.

Dev came out from her desk and motioned to her round, wooden (looking) meeting table. ‘Have a seat.’

They sat.

‘Lovely office. You must be doing well,’ said Barb.

Dev felt a warm glow. ‘There’s plenty of opportunities out there if you’re prepared to work hard.’ She smiled again, full wattage, easing off sexy, pushing hard on friendly.

‘I saw you at Joe’s funeral. Such a sad day,’ said Barb.

‘Very sad,’ said Dev. If she was being honest, it hadn’t been a bad networking opportunity. People were more open at funerals, more willing to discuss the big issues of life, death and property. She had found a couple of leads she would follow up.

‘In any event,’ continued Barb, ‘let’s talk about your proposed development. It’s fair to say there is some uncertainty about it, even hostility. Some fear it might change the character of our quiet little bay.’

‘No, no, no,’ Dev began confidently. If you sounded like you believed it, they were more likely to. ‘We’ve carefully planned the improvements to be in character with the wonderful, unique place that is your readers’ home. Let me explain …’ And she was away, discussing the integration of built and natural environment, economics, demographics, comparisons with other coastal towns, mixing an exciting and persuasive cocktail of facts, figures, confidence, overoptimistic and barely possible best-case assumptions re-badged as ‘conservative estimates’ and truth-stretching that never quite crossed the line into complete bullshit. Then the big finish: ‘We want to make everyone’s lives better, and we think we can.’

She was proud of her imagined future of Bullford Point because the hope it created was real, even if reality might never quite reach the heights described. Maybe the development would end up being the wonderful all-purpose community hub she described, but if it didn’t, she didn’t much care, because as long as it got built, she would make a bomb.

‘Thanks for all that,’ said Barb. ‘I wonder if Joe’s death has created extra difficulties for you.’

More the opposite, thought Dev, but she wasn’t going to say that.

She chose her answer carefully. ‘It was a tragedy. So sad. All those years, we all knew Joe had problems, but he had such an irrepressible spirit that it always seemed he’d get through. When he came back, he seemed to be going well, and …’ She shrugged her shoulders, a gesture she hoped conveyed the cruel uncertainties of life. ‘It’s devastating. I’ve known Joe since we were kids.’

‘What does it mean for your development?’

‘We offered him a very good price. I guess now that process will continue with whoever inherits the house.’

‘Viv, yes?’

‘I assume so.’

‘What’s his attitude?’

‘I don’t know. I’m sure he wants a bit of time to process these tragic events. I don’t want to rush him.’ Huge lie. She was desperate to sign him up ASAP. ‘I’m hopeful he will see our offer is good for both him and the community.’

‘Joe changed his mind about selling, yes?’

Dev kept her face neutral. ‘He ummed and ahhed a bit. Our discussions were ongoing. Unfortunately, that’s all academic now.’

‘He said he’d sell, then he decided not to, yes?’

‘As I say, discussions were ongoing. It’s normal for people to change their minds several times over big decisions like this.’

‘How important is this development to you and your company, Dev?’

‘I think it’s important to the whole community, to be honest.’

‘But to you? I don’t want my readers to see you just as a developer. They get such bad press, don’t you think? I want them to know the person behind the bulldozer.’

That could work, yes. ‘Of course. I grew up in Bullford Point, so I know the area. I know what makes it special. This is a significant development, but I’ve got many irons in the fire.’ Sounded good, but untrue. Her only other project was a granny flat in Kincumber. ‘For me, every job is a gamble. They don’t all happen. Owners say no, councils say no, communities say no, and when that happens I respect their decision.’ Unless there was a decent chance of rolling them on appeal in the Land and Environment Court.

‘It does sound tricky,’ said Barb. ‘I would imagine that if an owner changes their mind, there could be big repercussions for you.’

Careful here. ‘That happens from time to time. We don’t count our chickens until contracts are signed.’

‘Given Joe changed his mind and didn’t want to sell, and you think Viv might sell, well, one could almost say it’s better for your development that Joe died.’

Dev stared at Barb, but she just smiled blandly back.

‘I don’t see it that way. Joe’s death was a tragedy.’

‘Of course. By the way, this is really none of my business, but do watch the cocaine. You’ve seen what drugs can do.’

Dev’s mouth fell open. How the fucking bat-shitting fuck did the old cow know about that?

‘I’m not going to put it in my story,’ said Barb. ‘It’s a personal matter. Now, some people were questioning how you got provisional council approval so quickly. Got a comment on that?’

She tried to recover her composure. ‘It’s only provisional. They haven’t signed off on it yet. It’s all been above board.’

‘But given the size of this development and the strong feelings it is arousing, it seems to have progressed quite far quite quickly at council.’

Dev shrugged. ‘An efficient, fast-moving council is better for everyone, surely.’

‘Of course.’ Barb beamed. ‘I’ll be out of your hair in a moment, but can you tell when you last saw Joe?’

‘The night he died. There were a group of us at the club.’

‘Friday night at the club. Do you go much?’

‘Not any more, no.’

‘Why did you go that night?’

Dev paused. Truth or lie? ‘Good to catch up with old friends.’ Lie.

‘Have any cocaine that night?’

‘No! And none of your business!’

‘Can you remember what Joe was drinking?’

‘Um, not alcohol. Coke, maybe.’

Barb raised an eyebrow.

‘Coca-Cola,’ emphasised Dev. ‘We were all trying to support him in staying sober.’

‘Who else was there?’

‘Viv, Seb, Gary. Leanne. Many others.’

‘Did you discuss the house with Joe?’

‘It may have come up.’ Dev had, of course, tried to persuade Joe to change his mind about not selling, without success. She had wished he’d been drinking, was even tempted to try to get a beer or two into him, as it would have made her task easier. ‘I didn’t stay long.’

‘Do you know what time you left?’

‘Maybe seven.’

‘And you went home?’

‘What are you, the police?’

‘Sorry. I’m also writing an article on Joe’s death. I want to let our readers know what happened that night. So you left the club and went home?’

‘Yes. While poor Joe died, I was watching Beachfront Bargain Hunt.’

‘So sad. And you live …?’

‘Here. Ettalong. Near the beach.’

‘How nice. It’s a lovely long beach to walk on.’

‘Not really my thing. Prefer the gym.’

‘Living with anyone?’

‘Just me, at the moment.’ She added the last three words so her singleness didn’t sound permanent, but in truth she didn’t have the time or energy for a partner. Casual sex, then ghost them before they got needy.

‘I know how busy you are. Just a couple more questions about Joe. Before he returned to Bullford Point, when were you last in regular contact with him?’ asked Barb.

‘After school, we all moved to Sydney. I started managing From Afar, the band Joe and the others were in. I thought they could have gone places, but then Sal left and broke off contact with everyone, and they decided they didn’t want to continue without her.’

‘Lots of bands have a person leave and continue,’ said Barb. ‘The Stones. Brian Jones. Mick Taylor. Even Bill and Charlie now.’

Dev had no idea what she was babbling on about. ‘I urged them to continue. They were really good. But …’ She shrugged in resignation. ‘Sal started From Afar. She was the main songwriter. We all thought she would come back. Then a few months later …’ She trailed off.

‘She was killed,’ finished Barb.

‘Yeah. No one felt like getting the band back together after that. Soon after, I came home here and started working in real estate.’ She had figured it would be easier to make it in a small pond, and had been right. ‘From then, I only saw Joe occasionally when he came to visit. He’d always ask me for money, so after a while I kind of avoided him. But this time, we got on very well.’

‘Until he changed his mind on selling the house.’

‘Even after that,’ Dev said firmly. Speak your truth. Or at least the truth you want others to believe.

CHAPTER 29

Back home on her couch, Barb sipped peppermint tea. She had popped into two newsagents after she had left Dev, trying to match the envelope containing the three thousand dollars she had found in Joe’s cupboard, without success. Not that it would have told her much.

She examined Joe’s notebook. Beige, A4, 128 pages, with only the first few written on in scrawly, hurried handwriting. She also had his computer in front of her. She would give it to Viv as soon as he asked for it, but he hadn’t yet.

The first page of the notebook was an anticlimactic shopping list. Socks, Weet-Bix, etc. If Heroin, Morphine and Syringe had been on it, it may have dented her theory that Joe was murdered, but they weren’t.

She turned the page.

Can get set up for under a grand – two microphones, a few cables, a magic box that turns audio files into podcasts, editing software. Viv hates idea BUT if I play ‘little bro needs a project to keep out of trouble’ he might buy for me.

She turned another page to find what looked like a handwritten script for his podcast.

Intro script – first draft

Hi, I’m Joe Griffith and welcome to Catching The Strangler. Seven years ago my friend Sal McIndoe was murdered, the third victim of a killer dubbed the Blue Mountains Strangler. The victims were women living in the Blue Mountains and the killer was never caught. This podcast will re-examine the case, the police investigation into it, search for new information and, I hope, uncover the identity of the Blue Mountains Strangler.

Barb vaguely remembered the case. It had been just another distant tragedy until local girl Sal was murdered. After that, Bullford Point sat up straight and paid attention. Barb had known Sal’s mother, but not well. After Sal’s death, she had dropped her around a casserole, hesitated at the door, and then, to her enduring shame, left it on the mat and fled.

She flicked the page.

Convo w retired Detective John Mayne, Katoomba

How did killer get in? 2 murders in 6 days. Why open your door to a stranger?

She googled ‘Blue Mountains Strangler’ and found an old article about the second victim.

BLUE MOUNTAINS RESIDENTS IN FEAR OF STRANGLER

After a second woman was strangled in the Blue Mountains, just five days after the first, residents are being urged to exercise caution, especially at night. ‘There is no obvious link between the two victims,’ said Police Superintendent Samantha Berry, ‘apart from both being female, living alone in the Blue Mountains, and being killed in the same way. It is highly likely that both were victims of the same killer, and that their killer is targeting random victims. We urge everyone, especially women who are on their own, to take care. Be vigilant. Do not open your door unless you know who it is.’

Barb found and opened another article.

STRANGLER STRIKES AGAIN

There has been a third victim of the killer dubbed the ‘Blue Mountains Strangler’. Sally McIndoe, 20, was found by her flatmate on her return from work last night. Police Superintendent Samantha Berry emphasised that police are doing everything they can to find the killer.

Joe had made a good point – why, if police were warning women to take care, would Sal have opened the door if she was home alone? Perhaps the killer had broken in.

Next he had written: ‘lip balm smudged but not other two.’ A reference to Sal?

Then in big capitals: ‘VIV – WTF?’

What was WTF? An environmental charity? She googled it and got a surprise. Viv had done something that surprised Joe. What?

Next was: ‘piggyback.’ What did that mean?

Then: ‘Whose shirt? Whose blood?’

She opened her mouth and then shut it again. She had been about to ask Dennis to have a look. He did the cryptic crossword every day, so perhaps … but he didn’t live here anymore. Silly her.

She wondered how far Joe had got. Had he uncovered any new information about the identity of the Strangler? If so, then the Strangler might have had a motive to kill him. But if the entire resources of the police hadn’t got anywhere, it seemed unlikely Joe could have in a few weeks. Besides, even if Joe had found something, how would the Strangler have known that he had? Joe’s podcast wasn’t even out.

Besides, if the Blue Mountains Strangler had killed Joe, surely he would have been strangled.

CHAPTER 30

Barb parked next to the boat ramp, round the other side of the bay from the jetty and hall. The car park was empty today, but on summer weekends she had seen fist fights break out over whose turn it was to back their boat into the water.

Seb arrived a few moments later. It had been her idea to meet, but his to meet here.

‘Are we meeting outside to ensure we keep our investigation secret?’ asked Barb.

‘I just like getting out of the station.’

They walked along the track into the mangroves, the water on their left nearly hidden by twisted trees rising from the mud. To their right a tree-crowded hill led up to houses on stilts craning their necks to see over the mangroves into the bay.

‘The cicadas will stop anyone overhearing us,’ said Barb, tapping her nose.

Seb rolled his eyes.

Barb told him about meeting Dev. ‘She’s a slick saleswoman, very upbeat about everything, so I didn’t get a great deal out of her. Bottom line is that Joe agreed sell to her and then changed his mind, which put her development in jeopardy. Now she has a second chance with Viv. And she tried to downplay it, but it does seem her development has progressed quicker than usual through council. Have you found out how her business is doing?’

‘Not yet. I will. I’m going to Sydney in the morning to meet with the inspector’s assistant. Hopefully he’ll tell me what information Karen Kemp wanted to trade with police.’ Seb sounded as if he was trying not to sound self-important, but not doing a great job of it.

‘Perhaps we can make it a round trip?’ said Barb.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Joe went to the Blue Mountains a couple of weeks ago to talk to one of the detectives who worked on the Strangler case.’

Seb snorted. ‘Every true crime podcaster thinks they’ll crack the case.’

‘But if Joe found out something about the Strangler that the police didn’t, then the Strangler had a motive to kill him, yes?’

‘Maybe if he was Joe Rogan, but our Joe’s podcast hadn’t even been released.’

‘Who’s Joe Ro—’

‘Podcast guy. Doesn’t matter.’

‘Joe told lots of people around here about his podcast, and we don’t know who else they told. He also spoke to one of the detectives on the Strangler case, so word might have spread. If we think Joe was murdered, we need to know what was going on with him before he died, and the podcast was a big part of it. Maybe the podcast has nothing to do with his death, but maybe it does.’

‘Seems unlikely to me,’ said Seb.

‘You’re the expert, Sebastian, but when you’re trying to solve a crime, don’t you just keep trying to find out more and more, keep pushing further into the darkness, eliminating false leads and dead ends until you’re left with the truth? Maybe the podcast is a false lead. Maybe it isn’t. Let’s find out.’

Seb kicked a stick off the path more vigorously than, it seemed, he needed to. ‘We’re already investigating two possible murders, Karen and Joe. Do we really want a third, fourth and fifth?’

‘In for a penny …’

‘Really? We should base our investigative strategy on a four-word saying that doesn’t even use proper currency?’

‘It’s actually eight words. I didn’t get to the end,’ replied Barb. ‘I know it’s a big “if”, but if Joe was getting close to finding out more about Sal’s death, don’t you want to know what he discovered?’

Seb took this in.

‘Where and when in Sydney is your meeting?’ Barb asked.

‘Parramatta. Ten thirty.’

‘Perfect. We can drive down in the morning, then it’s only an hour or so up to Katoomba. I’ll make sandwiches.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know this detective will be available?’

‘I don’t, but he’s retired, so …’ Barb pulled a slip of paper from her pocket. ‘His email and phone were in Joe’s notebook. I’m not shirking. It’s just that he’s more likely to say yes to a fellow police officer than a handyperson, don’t you think?’

Seb looked at the paper for some time, and then slowly took it with the enthusiasm of someone handling a soiled tissue.

‘I was also thinking about Leanne,’ continued Barb. ‘Sue thinks it’s Joe’s fault she got into drugs. Was it?’

Seb let out a slow, thoughtful breath. ‘Hard to say. Joe dumped Leanne to go out with Sal. Leanne was upset, but she kept turning up to band practice and gigs. She was down, but didn’t seem out of it. Things seemed to get worse after Sal disappeared. Leanne started spending more time with Joe again, and I think they were taking stuff by then. After Sal died it got much worse. I always assumed Joe led the way because that’s how their relationship worked.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Ever since high school, Leanne had been infatuated with Joe. Whatever Joe was doing, she wanted to be doing it too. It seemed that when they got into drugs, it was just more of that.’

‘That’s what Sue thought too. That’s why she hated Joe. If that’s the way it happened, and then Joe dumped poor Leanne, and then he cleaned himself up and inherited a waterfront property, while Leanne was still struggling, well …’

‘What?’

‘I wonder if all that might have been enough to make Leanne hate him, too.’

CHAPTER 31

Seb’s car hovered in traffic outside Police Headquarters in the centre of Parramatta. He hadn’t been to Sydney for years and didn’t miss it one bit.

He opened his door. ‘See ya.’

‘Text me when you’re done,’ said Barb, as she awkwardly raised her bottom over the gearstick to get to the driver’s seat.

Inside, police hurried in every direction. It was like looking in those fun park mirrors. Everyone dressed the same as him, but differently shaped.

He got through security, and into a lift with five other police. As they disembarked at various floors, he caught glimpses of lines of cop-filled desks. The police was a bureaucracy like any other. He supposed all the behind-the-scenes stuff must be somehow necessary for him and others to do the actual policing, but it was hard to imagine what exactly they spent their days doing.

He asked directions to Perkins’ office and ended up sitting outside a modest, glass-fronted office one in from the window. Inside, a slim man in an open-necked white shirt, sleeves rolled up, was on the phone. The window office next door was much larger, with frosted glass so no one could see in. Probably the inspector’s.

At precisely half past ten, the door to the smaller office opened.

‘Sebastian? Paul Perkins.’ He extended his hand, smiling. ‘Come in.’

Perkins was thin-faced with friendly eyes. He had a long straight nose and thinning, sandy hair, partially compensated for by a moustache. They sat either side of his spotless desk.

‘Let me bring it up,’ he said, tapping his laptop. ‘Bloody I.T. One of the inspector’s priorities, thank God. Okay. I’ve spoken to the inspector whose responsibility it is to meet with potential informers, like Karen Kemp. His view is that, given Ms Kemp’s death, her safety is obviously no longer an issue, and as Homicide have concluded her death was not related to the fact that she offered us information, the inspector has decided to release some information to you because, I quote, “This sort of proactive policing should be encouraged.”’

Seb felt a warm glow.

‘That information is the following.’ Perkins seemed to be enjoying the bureaucratic preciseness of it. ‘One. Karen Kemp did come here and offer to give information. In return she wanted a letter from us saying she had provided valuable information, which she could use in her upcoming court matters. Two. The information she offered did not relate to Bullford Point. She was offering to identify someone who may have been involved with organised crime in Sydney. Three. The information she offered turned out to be of no value.’

‘Why not, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘I don’t think the inspector would mind me saying. Karen said she dropped her criminal boyfriend at a park, where he said he was meeting a, quote’ – he peered at his computer screen – ‘“big wheel”. She was curious and parked where she could see her boyfriend sitting on a bench. A man joined him, started talking, while Karen’s boyfriend took notes. After a few minutes the man walked away, past her car, and she said she recognised him, but didn’t know where from. Her description was pretty generic: male, late middle-age, brown hair, glasses. You know the type of thing.’

Seb did. People were terrible at describing people. They could recognise the whole package, but were usually unable to break it down into specific components. ‘I’d know him if I saw him’ was often as good as it got.

‘Karen looked at literally hundreds of photos, but no cigar. Very frustrating. So there it is. Or isn’t. In fact, we have no independent evidence Karen actually saw anyone meet her boyfriend. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. People make up all sorts of things to try and stay out of jail.’

‘I’m just curious,’ began Seb. ‘When Homicide started investigating Karen’s murder, should they have known about this? Because I’ve seen the Homicide file and there’s nothing in it to suggest they did.’

‘Interesting point. When someone offers to provide information to us, we open a file, but we keep the information tight. In the past, only the person opening the file, and others they specifically allow access to, would know any details. However, the inspector wants us to get better at sharing information. One of his initiatives is that now, if someone dies and Homicide opens a file on them, if that person is one of our informants, Homicide are automatically notified that we also hold a file, and upon request they can see it.’

‘So Homicide should have known you had a file on Karen?’

Perkins raised an index finger. ‘Not so fast. When it became clear that Karen wasn’t going to be able to help us, her file was closed. Closing a file is a systems thing. I’m not sure exactly how long it takes, but if her file was closed before Homicide opened their file, Homicide wouldn’t have been automatically notified. Make sense?’

‘I think so. Nothing in the Homicide file just means your file had already been shut. ‘

‘Exactly. No conspiracy.’

Perkins stood, and Seb followed his lead.

‘It’s good you came in, and good you care about your community. Proactive policing. The inspector is impressed. As I understand it, Karen’s murder was solved and her killer is himself dead, so hopefully your neck of the woods will quieten down. These events can really rock a community.’ He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to Seb. ‘You obviously take a proactive role in keeping your community safe, and that’s exactly the sort of policing the inspector wants us to encourage and promote. If you discover anything else you think we might be interested in about this matter, or organised crime, or anything else, get in touch anytime. Doesn’t matter if it seems trivial. It’s often the little things that lead to big things.’

CHAPTER 32

‘Didn’t take long,’ said Barb, as she heaved herself back over the gearstick.

‘Dead end,’ he said. As they battled Parramatta traffic toward the freeway, he explained what Perkins had told him.

‘Well, eliminating false leads gets us closer to the real ones,’ said Barb cheerfully.

‘I guess, but I don’t know what other leads we have for Karen.’

‘Let’s focus on Joe then. In particular, his podcast.’ She reached into the bag at her feet and brought out a laptop. ‘Joe’s computer. I thought we could listen to the interview he did with Sal’s flatmate on the way to Katoomba. I was tempted to start without you, but I went for a nice walk along the river instead.’

Seb tapped the steering wheel, uncertain.

‘What?’ asked Barb.

‘It’s fine. Sal and I were … close, so … Joe interviewed me for his podcast too, and I didn’t enjoy it. I’m not looking forward to hearing people talk about her.’

‘I can listen by myself if you’d prefer.’

‘No. I should. I just hope we find this whole podcast thing is a false lead too, so we can stay out of the past and focus on the present.’

Her hand hovered over the keyboard. ‘Shall I?’

Seb nodded. Barb pressed play.

‘Thanks for doing this, Monica,’ came Joe’s voice, clear as a bell.

Seb had to stop himself looking for him in the back seat. He eased onto the freeway and increased his speed, hands more twenty to four than ten to two.

‘Can I start with how Sal came to be living with you in Leura?’ asked Joe.

‘Sure,’ said a husky female voice, maybe late twenties, sounding a bit nervous. Her voice was clearer than on a phone line, but not quite as clear as if they were in the same room.

Zoom, Seb guessed.

MONICA: I knew Sal from uni. We were in classes together, became friends. I grew up in Dubbo, and didn’t really like Sydney. Too expensive, too many people. I visited the Blue Mountains and loved it. I found a place to rent in Leura at the end of first year, did lectures online, came down once or twice a week for tutorials, did my reading on the train, it worked fine.

Halfway through second year Sal called and said she wanted to leave Sydney too. Did I know anywhere? I was in a two-bedroom cottage, and my flatmate was moving out in three weeks, so I told her she could move in with me. Sal said she was at Central Station, literally on her way. She said she’d stay at a youth hostel or something until the room was free. It sounded like something had gone wrong for her, and she was leaving quickly, but she didn’t say and I didn’t press. I talked to my flatmate who was this lovely, mellow guy, and he was fine with Sal sleeping on the couch until he left. A couple of hours later she arrived.

JOE: How was she when she got to your place?

MONICA: Fine, but kind of distant. Like, she was usually super friendly and full of energy, but that day she was quiet. Seemed to have a lot on her mind. Then later that first night I heard her crying in the bathroom.

Over the next couple of weeks I tried to give her opportunities to talk without prying, if you know what I mean, but she just said there had been a lot going on. She was doing that thing of saying she was fine a lot, which is usually a sign that someone isn’t.

JOE: Did she ever say or hint at why she left Sydney so quickly? You probably knew about her band, which was doing quite well. And all her close friends were in Sydney.

MONICA: I was definitely curious, but she didn’t get specific. ‘Everything just got too much.’ ‘I needed to get away.’ That sort of thing. But she was different.

JOE: How do you mean?

MONICA: When I first knew her she was heaps fun. Full of beans. Always in the moment, totally engaged in whatever she was doing. But in Leura she was quiet, withdrawn, distant.

Seb felt Barb looking at him, and forced himself to remain expressionless. The recording played on.

JOE: What did Sal do up there? She had a busy life in Sydney.

MONICA: She worked at a café, did uni, mainly online. She liked being at home. Lots of yoga on YouTube. When I went out I’d always invite her, cos she seemed like she needed some cheering up, but she always said no. Not being a drinker, she didn’t really want to come to the pub.

JOE: She gave up booze?

MONICA: She didn’t drink up here. She said she’d had a bad experience with alcohol and wanted to stay clear of it, and in control.

JOE: Interesting.

MONICA: And she was on anti-depressants. She didn’t tell me. But she didn’t try to hide it. The pills were in the bathroom.

Barb pressed pause and looked at Seb, whose eyes had widened.

‘We were flatmates the whole time she lived in Sydney, and I never saw any pills,’ he said. ‘We shared a bathroom and talked about everything, and she never mentioned that. She was bright, chirpy, motivated, always “up and at ’em”. Not like Monica’s describing.’

Barb unpaused.

JOE: Do you know how long she had been on them for?

MONICA: Maybe a week after she moved in, she asked me if I knew a good GP. Soon after I saw the pills.

JOE: Did she have any other friends up there? Boyfriend?

MONICA: No boyfriend. She didn’t really socialise. When she had free time, she just liked to stay home, chill, do yoga, study, play guitar, write in her journal.

There was a slight hiccup in the sounds, perhaps a technical glitch, then it resumed.

JOE: Did anything unusual happen before she died?

MONICA: Maybe five months after she arrived, a week or two before she was killed, I got home and she was upset and agitated, pacing up and down the garden like she’d had too much coffee. I asked if she was okay, and she was, like, ‘It’s just something I need to deal with.’

JOE: She wasn’t taking anything … else?

MONICA: Drugs? Never saw anything, and given her stance on alcohol, I really doubt it.

JOE: How long was she agitated for?

MONICA: A few days. I thought it might have been something to do with why she left Sydney so fast. I asked her then why she’d left, more directly than I had before.

JOE: What did she say?

MONICA: She said someone let her down.

Seb felt his heart rate increase, and tried to breathe normally.

JOE: She say anything more specific?

MONICA: No.

JOE: Did you tell the police that?

MONICA: Yeah, but … it was pretty vague. No names. Also, one day around then, she was in her room and I went in to see if she wanted a cuppa. She was sitting on her bed, staring at something in a plastic bag. When she saw me, she slipped it into a drawer in her bedside table. I feel a bit bad about this, but I was curious what was going on, so when she was out, I had a look in the drawer.

JOE: What was it?

MONICA: A light blue T-shirt with blood on it.

Barb paused. ‘Joe wrote “Whose shirt? Whose blood?” in his notebook.’

Seb nodded. Barb unpaused.

JOE: How much blood?

MONICA: Not heaps. A few splotches.

JOE: Was it her shirt?

MONICA: I don’t know. I didn’t open the bag.

JOE: How was she in the days before she died?

MONICA: More positive. She seemed kind of determined, like maybe she had resolved whatever was upsetting her. But that’s just a guess.

JOE: And then she got murdered.

MONICA: Yeah. I … found her.

JOE: Geez.

MONICA: Yeah I packed up her stuff for her mum. And that bag with the shirt in it wasn’t in her room anymore.

JOE: Maybe she chucked it out?

MONICA: Doubt it. When I saw her with it she was looking at it like it was important. Her journal was missing too. The cops reckon the killer took it as some sort of memento. Apparently they do that sometimes. The cops thought it might have been on the sofa with her when he …

JOE: Do you know how the killer got in?

MONICA: There was an open window in the kitchen, but that was weird, because there had been two murders in a week, and the police were warning women who were alone to be careful. Sal and I talked about it. We were nervous. Everyone was. We were both double-checking everything was locked, and she wouldn’t have opened it to let air in cos it was cold. I don’t get how she could have left that window open, but no way would she have opened the door to a stranger.

JOE: Okay. Thanks so much, Monica.

The interview ended, and they drove in silence up into the mountains, the plains of Sydney’s western suburbs replaced by uphill bends sweeping through bush. Every few minutes they passed through a small town, the road their umbilical cord. Seb sensed Barb’s frequent sidelong glances at him, but it took a while before he felt up to speaking.

‘Gee,’ he said eventually.

‘Yes. Before Sal left Sydney, you didn’t see any signs she was … changing?’

‘There were some things stressing her out a bit, but she seemed to be handling it.’

‘What things?’

‘Toward the end our first year in Sydney she started going out with Joe, but then after three or four months she broke up with him. He was upset. She felt guilty. She also had money problems, she wasn’t doing well at uni, and she felt bad that Leanne hated her because she blamed Sal for “stealing” Joe from her. Then there was the band. It started as this fun thing in Bullford Point, but when we moved to Sydney we started to think we might have a chance of making it, and that put pressure on her because she was the main songwriter. I think Sal felt like she was carrying everyone’s dreams, not just hers.

‘Then Dev started managing us. She was super organised and very ambitious, but it almost felt like we were working for her. She kept hassling Sal to write “a hit”, but at the time she and Joe were writing together, and then after they broke up, Joe didn’t want to do that anymore.

‘Because Sal was so funny and clever and talented, we all assumed she was fine. We were flatmates, so I talked to her every day, and she seemed fine. But maybe she was more fragile then we realised. Maybe all those pressures got to her, became too much, and that’s why she ran away to the Blue Mountains. But …’

‘What?’

‘In Sydney, she was never withdrawn or down like Monica was describing. I would have seen it. I didn’t see any sign she was thinking of leaving. It feels like something else, something major, must have happened to have made her want to do that.’

CHAPTER 33

They were on the highway, bisecting Wentworth Falls, when Barb’s phone pinged. Dennis.

Just checking in. All well?

She stared at it. She wasn’t mad on questions that suggested the answer, although to be fair, she did it on occasion. It sounded like he was feeling guilty that his absence had crushed her spirit, and was fishing for reassurance that it hadn’t. Should she provide it? Or twist the knife?

Just admitting myself into a psychiatric hospital. Life without you seems pointless

That would be cruel. Then again, hadn’t he been cruel? Or had he? Was having an affair and leaving your wife cruel, or was it just how things went sometimes?

She settled for something bland.

All fine here, thanks. You?

She spent the rest of the trip glancing at her phone, fruitlessly awaiting his reply.

*

Eventually, Seb pulled into the gravel driveway of retired detective John Mayne’s single-storey house in Katoomba. The front garden was a well-maintained mix of trees, bushes and even a flower bed. A slim man in his late sixties, wearing jeans and a checked shirt opened the door. His straight, dark hair was thinning, he had a strong, hooked nose, the red-flecked cheeks of a drinker and shrewd eyes that looked them up and down. Not bad-looking, thought Barb, if you were one to notice that sort of thing, which, of course, she hadn’t been for many years.

‘No one gives a shit for seven years, then two in a few weeks. At least one of you is in uniform this time.’

Seb introduced them both, as Barb extended a tinfoil-wrapped parcel.

‘Biggest block of hash I’ve seen for a while,’ said Mayne.

‘Fruitcake,’ said Barbara.

‘Ah, well. Better for me, I expect.’

He led them into a functional sitting room that looked out into the front yard, with furniture more last century than this one. He offered tea and soon they were sipping and chewing around an old, wooden coffee table, on which sat a thick manila folder stuffed with papers. Barb and Seb sat side by side on a sofa and Mayne in a comfortable-looking blue armchair.

Barb wondered if he lived alone, and then wondered why she was wondering. She looked around the room for clues. Like the garden, it was neat and tidy, with just the right amount of cushions on sofas. She was starting to think that suggested a wife, but then tut-tutted herself. Sexist.

‘So, Joe Griffith came and saw you a couple of weeks ago,’ began Seb.

‘Yep.’

‘Did you know he’s since died?’

‘Wow,’ said Mayne, taken aback. ‘What happened?’

‘Drug overdose. Officially,’ said Seb. ‘We’re not so sure. We’re investigating his death. He spent a lot of time looking into the Strangler case before he died, so it seemed relevant to talk to you.’

Mayne snorted. ‘Pretty sure it wasn’t the Strangler. Hint’s in the name. Blue Mountains Strangler, not Central Coast Overdoser.’ He peered at Seb. ‘You don’t look like Homicide. And she definitely doesn’t.’

‘Homicide aren’t investigating it as a possible murder, but I’m the local police.’

‘Bored of speeding tickets? And who’s she? Miss Marple? Or your psychic consultant?’

Barb smiled. ‘I worked with poor Joe, and am also a little suspicious about his death. He was a lovely young man. Troubled, but making great strides. Do you like the cake?’

‘It’s very good.’

‘Why did you agree to meet with Joe?’ asked Seb. ‘Did you know he’d been inside?’

‘Sure did. Looked him up as soon as he got in touch. To be honest, I was just glad someone gave a shit. It’s never sat well with me that we couldn’t solve it. We worked our guts out. Never got anywhere. Is anything going to happen with his podcast?’

‘Not now,’ said Seb.

Barb’s eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps there was another reason you helped Joe,’ she suggested.

Mayne’s eyebrows rose.

‘Well, a lot of those true crime podcasts are quite critical of police investigations, aren’t they?’ continued Barb. ‘If someone’s doing a podcast and you were the lead detective, you might want to try to – what do they call it? – control the narrative.’

Mayne looked at her, and then laughed. ‘Maybe you are psychic. Fair call. I didn’t solve it, but I did as good a job as anyone could have. I wanted him to know that. Also, if he did somehow manage to find something new, which seemed unlikely given how thorough we were, I wanted to know. And I was curious how far he’d got. You can tell a lot about what someone knows and suspects by the questions they ask.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘And there was another reason.’

‘What?’ asked Barb, eyebrows rising.

He smiled. ‘Live alone. Don’t get many visitors.’

No wife then, thought Barb, and then wondered why she had.

‘What did Joe want to know?’ asked Seb.

‘Everything. It was a weird case from the start. Three murders in eight days and then no more, ever. Usually there’s a much longer gap between kills. They do one, they’re sated for a while, then the urge builds up again, they try and fight it, eventually give in and do another.’

‘Is stopping after three unusual?’ asked Barb.

‘Really unusual. Of course, at the time we didn’t know he’d stopped. We just thought he was lying low for a while because of the publicity. I say “he” cos it’s statistically more likely, but it could have been “she”. As the time extended we started wondering if he’d died or moved away. We were checking strangulations all over the country, but nothing came of that.’

‘Did anything connect the three victims?’ asked Seb.

‘Only gender and location. First was eighty-six, second in her forties with terminal cancer, third in her early twenties.’

Sal, thought Seb.

‘How did the killer get inside each house?’ Barb asked.

‘First one, we think it was just knocking on the front door. Early evening. She was used to visits from Meals on Wheels, community nurses, family, so she opened. She was old, so not much of a physical challenge for the killer. Second victim, no warning yet about a random killer on the loose, because we were investigating the first as a normal murder. The victim was asleep in bed. We think the killer got in through an unlocked window late at night. Pretty common round here. There’s hardly any crime, so people aren’t vigilant. For the third victim …’

Seb saw Sal’s face, the face he had loved. Still loved? Did your feelings freeze at the moment someone died, and whatever you felt then, was what you felt forever? Was that why he hadn’t had a relationship that lasted more than a week since?

‘… there was an open kitchen window, so we think he came in through that.’

‘No bars?’

‘Bars are kind of a city thing. Although I’m pretty sure the Strangler prompted a surge in demand. Maybe we should have investigated anyone who owned a window-barring business.’

‘Sally McIndoe’s flatmate said they were being careful.’

‘People always say that, but they also make mistakes. If she had been the one who left the window open, she was hardly likely to tell us.’

‘Where was she found?’ asked Barb. ‘The third victim.’

‘Living room couch.’

‘So she was awake when the killer came in?’

‘We think so, unless she’d dozed off.’

‘What’s the layout of the house?’ Seb asked. ‘If he came in through the kitchen window, would she have had a chance to run out the front door?’

‘The kitchen is behind the living room, so if she was awake, yes. We thought maybe the killer had a gun. He wanted to strangle her cos he was a fucking psycho, but he used the gun to stop her running. He comes in the window, maybe she hears and goes to look, he points the gun at her, backs her onto the sofa, drops the gun and strangles her. The gun could have been a replica. You can buy them online, which is ridiculous.’ He looked at Seb. ‘You okay?’

Seb was imagining the strangling.

‘Touch of food poisoning, I think,’ said Barb. ‘Not my cake, I hasten to add. He had a kebab last night.’

‘That’ll do it,’ said Mayne.

‘What time was she killed?’ asked Barb.

Mayne opened the folder and flicked through papers. ‘Not allowed to take copies of files when you retire, so I only took one. Here it is. She had her computer with her, and it was last used at 9.46 p.m.’

‘What was she doing on her computer?’ asked Seb softly.

‘Writing a poem, by the looks.’

‘Song,’ said Seb. ‘It would have been a song.’

Mayne raised an eyebrow. ‘Hokey dokes.’

‘Joe made a note about a lip-balm smudge. Was that something?’ asked Barb.

‘There was lip balm on the living-room table, and it appeared she had recently put some on. It was smudged, most likely because the killer kissed her on the lips.’

Seb stared at the ground.

‘Yuck,’ said Barb.

‘I know. No DNA unfortunately. Too long had passed by the time the boffins arrived.’

‘At the time of the kiss, was she …?’ began Barb.

‘Dead? Couldn’t tell.’

‘Did that happen with the other two?’

‘No, but they were older. Sally was young and attractive. If you’re a fucking psycho, which one are you going to kiss?’

Seb was taking slow, deep breaths.

‘Thought the psychic would be the one getting squeamish, not the cop,’ said Mayne.

‘He hasn’t really got food poisoning. He knew her. Quite well,’ said Barb gently.

‘I’d worked that one out myself, being a former detective and all. Were they …?’ He raised his eyebrows.

‘Close friends,’ said Barb.

‘Against the rules for him to be investigating her killer, then. But you two are already breaking at least three regulations I can think of, so that ship’s sailed.’

‘What else was Joe interested in about the case?’ asked Barb.

‘He was curious about whether there was anything different from “normal” multiple victim cases. I told him these sorts of killers aren’t common. Only come along about once every twenty years. It was the first I’d ever worked. He knew all that. He’d read up, done his homework.’

‘Did Sal’s flatmate tell you Sal was on anti-depressants, and had been agitated in the weeks leading up to her death?’

‘Yeah.’ Mayne shrugged. ‘Life is tough. I live alone, my best mate’s got cancer, and my neighbour’s about to put on a second storey, so it’ll be noisy for six months. Lots of people have things that upset them. Lots of people are on anti-depressants. Including me.’

‘I’m sorry. And about your friend,’ said Barb.

He put up his hand to stop her. ‘Point is, if Sally’s murder had been an isolated case, yes, we would have chased up all that. “What was she upset about?” “Who didn’t like her?” “Who gained from her death?” But this was different. It was clear she was a random victim of someone who liked strangling women. We spoke to her friends and family, but we weren’t searching for motive in the usual way cos we already had one. Psycho killer.’

‘I believe Sal’s journal was missing.’

‘Yeah, it might have been with her in the living room. Killer probably took it as a souvenir.’

‘Did he take souvenirs from the other victims?’

‘Not that we discovered, but who knows? A hairclip. A bracelet.’

‘And she had a shirt in a bag that had blood on it that was missing.’

‘Her flatmate mentioned that. Maybe she chucked it out. I don’t know.’

‘Apparently, Sal left Sydney six months earlier because, she said, someone let her down. Did you follow that up?’

‘Anyone ever let you down?’ asked Mayne

Barb thought about Dennis. ‘Yes.’

‘Me too. It’s pretty common. Just because Sally had some sort of problem with someone, doesn’t mean it was relevant to finding her killer.’

‘Was there anything else unusual?’

He considered this. ‘Sally actually came into Katoomba police station a few days before she was killed. She gave her name and address and waited to see an officer, but by the time someone came out, she’d gone.’

‘She didn’t say why she was there?’

He shook his head. ‘Could have been a lost wallet, then someone called her and said they’d found it. Or maybe she wanted to report someone suspicious she’d seen staking out her house, then decided she was being paranoid and left.’

‘In his notebook, Joe wrote the word “piggyback”,’ said Barb. ‘Do you know what that meant?’

Mayne sighed. ‘Feels like I’m in a time warp. He wanted to know if someone else could have killed the third victim. Could someone who had a reason to want Sal dead have used the Strangler’s method as cover, knowing we would focus on a multiple murderer?’

‘What did you think of that theory?’ asked Seb.

‘Great for a true crime podcast. Might have got his numbers up. But there was no evidence to suggest that. Everything pointed to all three having the same killer. Same method. Same area. Forensics said same, or very similar sized, hands, probably same gloves.’

‘Did you ask Joe why he thought that?’ asked Seb.

‘Again, having been a detective for several decades, yes, it did occur to me. He said it was “just a thought”.’

‘It sounds like, because you were focused on finding a multiple murderer, you didn’t investigate possible motives of those who knew the three victims as much as you normally would. Is that fair?’ asked Barb.

‘For the first one, we did. Didn’t find much. Nice old lady, apparently, bit of a dispute in the family cos she had changed her will, but nothing huge. Then four days later the second one happened, same method, and we pivoted immediately to looking for something that connected them. Couldn’t find anything, so we started thinking they might be random victims of a psycho. We still talked to family and friends, but no obvious motives. She had terminal cancer and had stopped chemo, so even if someone wanted her dead, why bother? Just wait a couple of months. Only explanation was she was a random victim.

‘Then the third murder happened, and it was obvious it was the same person, picking random women. We did interview Sally’s associates and family but nothing jumped out.’

‘Fair to say that you might not have interviewed them as thoroughly as normal, given your view that the victims were random?’ asked Seb.

Mayne tapped his fingers on the chair arm. ‘We deployed the resources we had at our disposal in a way that maximised our chances of catching the killer quickly. It felt like a race against time; to find him before he struck again. We were looking for someone who was picking random victims, and that meant a very different type of investigation to a normal one-off murder. Specifically, it meant the background of each victim was less relevant than usual. So, yes.’

Barb glanced at Seb and raised her eyebrows. He shook his head.

‘Well, thank you so much,’ said Barb.

Mayne looked at them sternly. ‘If you discover anything new, which I very much doubt, but if you do, don’t keep it to yourself. If you’re closing in on a killer, you’re a threat to them. If you’re a cop on a taskforce, that doesn’t matter because there’s heaps of you. He can’t kill us all. But if you’re the only one, or in your case, two, who knows something about a killer, it’s dangerous. They have a reason to shut you up. So if you discover something, tell Homicide. As soon as other people know, the genie’s out of the bottle and you’re safe.’

‘Do you think that’s what happened to Joe?’

‘What? No. Overdose, you said. I very much doubt he discovered anything new.’

‘We brought you a small present to say thank you.’ Barb pulled a bottle of wine out of her bag, went to put it on the table, and then stopped. ‘There wasn’t anything else unusual, was there? Especially about poor Sally?’

Mayne roared with laughter. ‘Oh, very good. Dangle the booze to get me to sing another verse.’

‘No, no.’ Barb went to put the wine down, and then pulled it back, smiling. ‘Well, maybe a bit.’

He chuckled. ‘Let me think. Yes. Sal saw a lawyer in the week leading up to her death.’

‘What about?’

‘Dunno. He wouldn’t tell us because of that lawyer–client confidentiality bullshit. Said he wasn’t allowed to, even though she was dead. Fucking ridiculous. We did get him to at least tell us that it wasn’t anything to do with being stalked or followed, but he said he could only tell us more if we got her next of kin’s permission. We could have followed that up, but people see lawyers about all sorts of things and we were racing, so we prioritised other actions.’

Barb placed the wine on the table. ‘I don’t suppose you can remember the name of the lawyer?’

‘Joe asked me the same question and I looked it up, so yeah, I can. He got a bit of a surprise when I told him.’

‘Why?’

‘Cos it was his brother.’

CHAPTER 34

Seb surfed the curves of the Great Western Highway in and out of afternoon shadows as they descended back to Sydney where they would turn left, skirt the fringes, and head home. Beside him Barb nibbled a cheese, tomato and lettuce sandwich she had made that morning. Seb had wolfed his down while Barb had filled the tank at a service station.

‘Happy to take over if you get tired,’ she said.

‘I’m fine.’ He preferred driving to being a passenger. Perhaps surprisingly, the accident hadn’t changed that. He felt a pang. He wanted to see Claire. Wanted it all to be okay.

‘Mayne said the police spoke to Sal’s friends,’ said Barb. ‘Did they speak to you?’

‘Some junior cop called me. Asked me the obvious questions. “When did you last have contact with her?” “How was she?” “Did she happen to mention that the Blue Mountains Strangler was following her?” Five minutes. Pretty cursory.’

‘Do you think Joe’s death might be related to his podcast?’

‘I’m not convinced.’

‘Neither am I.’

Good, thought Seb.

‘But neither am I convinced there’s not a connection, which means, like good detectives, we should find out more.’

Seb sighed. ‘We’re trying to work out how Joe was killed three weeks ago, not Sal seven years ago.’

‘But one might lead to the other. Joe wrote “piggyback”. I think that meant that he was wondering whether someone wanted to kill Sal, and used the Blue Mountains Strangler as cover. If that happened, then everything the police didn’t investigate properly back then because they thought Sal was a random victim, becomes relevant again.

‘If, somehow, word had spread to Sal’s killer that Joe was doing a podcast about Sal, they might have got worried. Perhaps they sneak into Joe’s house and look through his notebook. Remember how easy it was for you to get in through his window the morning you found him.’

Seb nodded.

‘If Sal’s killer discovered that Joe was working on this piggyback theory,’ she continued, ‘they might panic, think, “How much more will Joe find out?” and decide to kill him.’

‘It’s not impossible. But it’s also not likely.’

Barb turned to Seb, excited. ‘Listen to this. If Joe’s piggyback theory is right, then the killer’s repeating himself. With Sal, he or she disguised the murder by making it look like it was done by someone killing multiple victims. This time they disguise killing Joe by making it look like he overdosed.’ She stared at Seb.

‘Again, not impossible,’ he conceded. ‘But that doesn’t mean it happened.’

‘I wish we could find out where Joe got that three thousand dollars from. Could it be something to do with Dev’s development? Maybe a bribe, not blackmail? I don’t know.’

‘Let’s focus on leads that actually take us somewhere.’

‘Agreed. It bothers me, though. Loose ends, you professionals call them, yes?’

He grunted as he changed lanes to overtake a truck.

‘It must have been upsetting for you when Sally left Sydney so quickly. You living with her and all.’

‘Was, yeah. Confusing. I still don’t know why she left so suddenly. From Afar had gigs booked that she was excited about. We all went to the pub on a Friday night, then the next day she vanished. Didn’t tell anyone. Later, she texted us all to say she was fine, but wouldn’t tell anyone where she was. None of us knew she was in the Blue Mountains. I texted her every few days, but she never replied except sometimes to say she just needed some time away. Until, finally, after more than five months, she texted me and asked if I wanted to meet up.’ He noticed he was gripping the steering wheel hard, made himself loosen his hold.

‘Did you meet?’

‘No.’ He took a couple of breaths. ‘We were arranging it. But then …’

‘Oh, dear. She was killed. Do you want to pull over? I can drive.’

Seb shook his head tightly. Slow, deep breaths. They continued in silence. Seb felt Barb’s eyes on him again.

‘One lead we can follow is Sal seeing Viv for legal advice just before she died,’ she said. ‘Let me check.’ She poked her phone and then studied it. ‘It’s amazing how quickly you can find things out these days. What Detective Mayne said is correct. If you see a lawyer, they’re not allowed to tell anyone anything you discuss. If you die, the lawyer is still bound by confidentiality, unless the next of kin releases them. I suspect some lawyers would be more flexible when their client is murdered, but Viv is quite a rigid person. But I wonder if, seven years later, he might tell us what Sal saw him about?’

Now that they were talking about someone else, Seb found it easier to treat Sal’s murder as a complex problem to be solved, rather than the defining tragedy of his life. With a wave of gratitude, he realised that when Barb had seen his distress she’d moved on quickly to another subject.

‘I might ring him and see, shall I?’ asked Barb.

‘He’s more likely to tell me. I’m a cop.’

‘And I used to clean his house. He’s not going to break the rules for me. I understand and agree.’

He shot her a glance. She was smiling. She had always intended that he ring.

She picked up his phone from between their seats. ‘I’ll dial. Your passcode’s all sixes, isn’t it?’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I’m trying to solve a crime, Sebastian. It’s about being observant.’

‘Shouldn’t I call him privately?’

‘He’ll think it is privately. You’re in the car. You don’t have to tell him you have a passenger. I’ll try not to sneeze. It’s ringing.’

‘Hello,’ came Viv’s voice, bluetoothed through the stereo.

Seb glared at Barb. ‘Hi, Viv, it’s Seb. Got a tick?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry to throw this at you out of the blue, but did you speak to Sal just before she died?’

‘I did, in the week before. Why are you asking?’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Can you answer my question first?’

‘I have to write a report on Joe’s death. It needs to be quite thorough, so I have to mention the podcast he was doing about Sal’s murder, which means I have to check a few things about it.’

Barb gave him the thumbs up.

‘Why? My brother died of a drug overdose. He was an addict who relapsed.’

‘Understand, Viv, but my role as the local police officer is to double-check things before we completely shut the file. Ensure there’s no evidence of anything else. It’s just paperwork, except on a computer.’

Viv sighed, less a natural sound than one made deliberately to express exasperation. ‘Yes, I saw her. She engaged me to offer her legal advice. As a result, legal professional privilege applies and it would be a breach of my obligations as a solicitor to disclose anything about what we discussed. Her death doesn’t change that. That’s what I told the police at the time.’

‘But seven years later …?’

‘Doesn’t change my obligation.’

‘Can anything allow you to tell us?’

‘Can’t we leave the past in the past?’

‘Just paperwork, Viv.’

Another sigh. ‘I need permission from Sal’s next of kin,’ he said tersely.

‘That’s her parents, right?’

‘I assume so. Unless she had a spouse or child the rest of us were unaware of.’

Barb mouthed, ‘Did Joe ask?’

‘Okay. One more thing. Did Joe ask you about this, too?’

There was a pause, then, ‘Yes. And I told him the same thing.’

‘How long before he died did he ask you about meeting Sal?’

‘Just a day or two. Anything else?’

‘No, thank—’

The line went dead.

‘You’re getting good at lying,’ said Barb. ‘I wonder if Joe asked Sal’s mum to allow Viv to speak to him.’

‘Might have taken him a while to work up the courage.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘He stole her computer once. Hocked it. He was lucky she didn’t want to press charges.’

CHAPTER 35

Viv put down his phone and headed back inside. He had finished work early and always walked laps of his backyard when on the phone at home.

He disliked thinking about the past, especially his time in Sydney. The others remembered it as a golden, free, fun-filled period, but it hadn’t been like that for him. Back then, he didn’t understand how he was different. He kept making himself do the things that normal twenty-year-olds were supposed to do – socialising, parties, drinking – but they just made him anxious and stressed. The rest of the band loved living together, being in a band together, hanging out together. He had tried to go along with it, all the time feeling like an alien. He didn’t know how to banter, never quite got the in-jokes, never felt relaxed, and hardly ever made the others laugh. When he did he had no idea why.

He had lived with Dev, Joe, Leanne and Gary. Too many people. His escape was university. His law lectures contained over a hundred students, but only the lecturer spoke, so it was almost like being alone. He listened and wrote. It was peaceful.

He studied in the library, because whenever he came home there were people in the living room, and they looked at him strangely if he retreated to his room. He hated the group discussions about shopping, cooking and cleaning. He liked washing-up, but hated talking about whose turn it was to wash up. In the band, he kept out of discussions about how songs should sound. Every song needed a drumbeat, and thankfully he was left largely alone to provide it.

The music wasn’t the problem. It was the before and after – the travel to and from gigs, the waiting around, the drinks afterwards – that caused him angst. He felt especially uncomfortable and awkward whenever Sal or Dev were near. They were too outgoing, too confident, too beautiful. Just being in the same room as either of them made him feel self-conscious.

At the time, he thought his inability to fit in meant he was some sort of weirdo. Now he understood that it just meant that he was different. He didn’t like groups, which was why he now lived, worked and usually rode alone. As a result, he was much happier.

He knew people in and around Bullford Point, but he never felt the need to ‘catch up’, whatever that meant. Occasionally he went to the club on a Friday night, more out of a sense of duty than to experience enjoyment. Joe’s return had made him feel as if he should do more of that, and he had, but he was relieved he didn’t have to anymore.

He went upstairs to his room. Sometimes he still thought about particular women, but only sometimes. He knew he wasn’t cut out for a relationship. Sometimes he got a little lonely, but only sometimes.

Recently Dev, after years of basically ignoring him, despite only living just over the bridge, had got in touch. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew what she wanted. 28 Bayview Avenue. She knew he was attracted to her and she was trying to exploit it. However, knowing what she was doing didn’t make him immune to it. When they met, he had told himself to stay calm and strong, and yet found himself leaning eagerly forward and nodding along with everything she had said. It was unsettling.

He needed to clear his head. He opened his cupboard, intending to change into his lycra and go for a ride, but instead found himself drawn to the bottom drawer, where he kept all the clothes he never wore anymore, but wasn’t quite ready to throw out. He dug his hand to the back and pulled out a plastic bag, then kneeled by his bed, reached under and grabbed another one.

He sat on the bed, took a syringe from the first plastic bag and a vial from the second. He opened the vial, held it tightly between his thighs, carefully lowered the syringe into it and drew up the liquid. He placed the syringe on his bedside table, the empty vial next to it, and then pulled down his pants. Sitting back down, he picked up the syringe, rolled over a little, found a vein in his left buttock, injected and slowly depressed the plunger. He dropped the syringe, and lay back.

There was no effect yet, apart from the familiar trickle of self-hatred at his weakness. It would pass, he supposed. He would go for a ride later.

CHAPTER 36

The car emerged from the tunnel onto the freeway, heading north to the Gosford turn-off, where it would exit and fishhook back south to Bullford Point. Barb had been talking about her husband leaving her in a factual, almost matter-of-fact, tone that to Seb sounded manufactured, as if she was keeping a tight leash on her feelings in case they escaped.

It had been a long day, but Seb would be home in a hour. There must be some sport on telly, surely? Commentary down, Spotify on shuffle. A quiet beer. Bliss.

‘Shall we listen to more of Joe’s podcast?’ asked Barb, another of her statements disguised as a question.

‘I’m kind of tired.’ He had spent enough of today in the past. Every time Sal’s name had been mentioned, it was like being jolted by unexpected turbulence.

Barb was already opening the laptop. ‘Look at it this way. As soon as I press “play” I’ll stop talking. I’ve listened to a bit of it. I think he’s cut up the interviews he did and put all the bits into chronological order. And if you’re wondering how I got into his computer, his password was in a note on his phone. And if you’re wondering how I got into his phone … well, as you know, I’m quite observant. This bit is titled: “Bullford Point Rough Edit”. You’ll hear yourself!’

Seb wasn’t sure what to say to all that.

JOE: First time I met Sal was in high school, in Year 8, when she and her mum moved to Bullford Point. She was this small girl with glasses and blond hair. We caught the bus to Kincumber High every day together. Year 8 is a hard time to come, because everyone is concreted into groups and terrified of making the wrong move socially. We didn’t exactly reach out to new kids. But Sal didn’t do what every other new kid did and desperately try to attach themselves to any group that would have her. She sat alone, and somehow didn’t look like a loser. She made sitting alone look cool. Soon, people started asking her to sit with them.

She was pretty, but it wasn’t her looks that got everyone’s attention. It was her personality and energy. She always had this thing that made people want to be around her. She was popular, but unlike the rest of us, she didn’t seek it. People just wanted to hang with her. She had this ease and confidence that every teenager tries to put on, but not many have. I certainly didn’t.

Her enthusiasm, for everything from bushwalking to music to dancing, dragged everyone along with her. We all kind of forgot about trying to be world weary and cool, and just went with whatever she suggested, because it felt like you were at the centre of things. If she suggested climbing down to the rocks that ran around Barra Point, then that seemed like the best thing to be doing. If anyone else suggested it, it’d be like, ‘Nah.’

What is that? Charisma?

LEANNE: I have no idea why everyone always loved Sal so much. No idea. She was just like anyone else, except more irritating because she was so bubbly. Like, shut up now and again.

VIV: For the record, before I start, I still think this is a terrible idea, but I am unwillingly doing it to support my brother, Joe.

JOE: Thank you, Viv. Tell us your first impression of Sal when she moved to Bullford Point.

VIV: She was quite short and slim, but very outgoing and confident. I was two years older than her and you, so I didn’t have much to do with her at school, but she lived just up the hill, and there was a group of us who all caught the bus together and hung out on weekends. She quickly became a part of the group. More than me, actually.

GARY: I lived near her and we would walk to and from the bus every day. She was super easy to talk to, really interesting, smart. Every week she had a new hobby or interest.

DEV: She was very talented, but dreamy. She was good at most things, but flitted from one to another. One week she loved netball, the next week sewing, the next painting. She could have been really good at any of them, but kept losing interest. Very frustrating for those of us with less natural talent. Until music. That stuck. She was good at guitar and piano, and wrote lovely melodies, with really clever lyrics. Well, I assumed they were clever. I didn’t understand a lot of them. I’m not really a lyrics person.

Anyway, everyone liked Sal. Students, teachers, parents, everyone. When we were younger we all liked her as a friend. As we got older things got more complicated.

JOE: Sal and I got closer through music. When I was eleven I picked up an old guitar at home and taught myself from an app. I used to play whenever I was bored or pissed off, which was a lot, and before too long I would dangle my feet off our jetty, work out how to play songs I liked, and even write my own. Bad ones, obviously, especially the words.

Sal and I talked music on the bus sometimes. She had a piano at home and her mum taught her. She suggested we try to write a song together, so I went over and we did. I showed her some chords on my guitar, she asked her mum to buy her one, and she was away. We kept writing together and it kind of worked. I had rhythm, she had melody. We helped each other.

It was all about the music for a long time. Even when it became about more than that, the music was still a big part of it. Maybe that’s why I’m not into playing anymore.

At the end of Year 10 she suggested we try to get a band together.

SEB: I always found her easy to talk to. She was small, but full of beans. She was always getting excited about something, and somehow, before too long, she managed to get everyone else excited about it, too. That’s how the band started. Her idea, then a few weeks later, it was real. We were in a band.

She was naïve in a way. She had this power to galvanise people, but she never tried to exploit it. In fact, I think it made her feel uncomfortable.

GARY: Sal was not unaware of what a heat bead she was. She knew that if she suggested something and pushed it, most would follow. Maybe it was a natural thing for her and she took it for granted, but to suggest she had no idea is somewhat disingenuous in my view.

VIV: When Sal wanted something to happen, it happened. She wasn’t forceful or bossy. People just wanted to follow her. I’m kind of the opposite.

JOE: She and I were on guitars. Viv played drums. He had a set of drums in the garage and was always in there, headphones on, playing along to something. He didn’t love groups, though. Never played team sports. Rode his bike and played tennis instead. Singles tennis, not doubles. But I knew how to get him interested.

VIV: Joe said I could leave all the talking to him and just sit up the back and play. I liked playing drums, keeping time, being precise. Drums are the most physically demanding instrument. It’s good exercise. Cycling is good for your lower body, and drumming is good for your upper body, so it was a good balance.

I liked the idea of doing real songs, not just playing along to them. To be honest, it was also a good excuse for me to stay in Bullford Point. I had just finished Year 12 and was supposed to move to Sydney to study law, but the idea of living in a huge city was stressing me out. I didn’t want to go. The band gave me an excuse to stay. I organised all my lectures into two days, and got the train down to Sydney Uni on those days. Fifteen-minute drive to Woy Woy station, an hour and a quarter later I’m there.

Also, if I’m honest, being around people often made me uncomfortable and I thought being in the band might help me learn how to get a bit better at being in a group. I could sit at the back, I knew the other people, Joe would be there.

LEANNE: I was kind of the junior member of the Bullford Point kids, being a year younger. When you asked me to—

JOE: Just say ‘Joe’ like I’m not here.

LEANNE: That’s weird. But fine. When you … sorry. When Joe asked me to join the band I was excited. I’d been playing piano since I was a kid, so I just switched to keyboards.

VIV: I was glad when Leanne joined. Like me, she was a bit of an outsider, and I liked talking to her. She had always liked Joe and had hung around at our place, so to me she was almost like a younger female sibling. Actually, maybe more a cousin.

JOE: I persuaded Sal to play guitar, not keyboards, because it’s more dynamic and she was so charismatic she should be out the front. We had Leanne for keyboards. We needed a bass player and Seb was keen. Bass is super easy to learn.

SEB: Bullford Point is a great place to grow up. Beach, bay, bush, but the fourth ‘B’ is boredom. When you’re a teenager there’s not that much to do, so when I heard about the band I was keen to be a part of it. They needed a bass player, so I said I’d give it a go. Learning bass is hard, but I got up to scratch pretty quick. I was friends with Gary and knew he was a good singer and performer, so I told him about it.

JOE: Our songwriting got better. Sal was a good singer, but I was terrible, and a lot of our songs sounded better with two voices. We asked Gary to join. He had been the lead in the school musical and had a great voice that sounded really good with Sal’s. Plus, he’s a showman. He loves an audience, and audiences love him. When we started getting gigs, just little ones at friends’ parties, he somehow instantly knew how to get the audience going. He had quite the presence, even back then.

GARY: I always knew I wanted to be a performer. I’d starred in a couple of school productions. My Oliver in Oliver! is still talked about in the halls of Kincumber High. (LAUGHS) Seriously, people did like it, and I got the bug. When they asked me to join, it was quite flattering, really. I thought it would be fun.

Sal and my voices sounded good together. She was playing guitar, so I was the frontman. When we started to play to audiences, I loved it.

LEANNE: I felt like I had a bit to prove, being the youngest and knowing that Sal, who, of course, acted like it was her band, could also play keyboards. I worked hard. Harder than I did for school, and I think I won them over. Viv was always really encouraging. Much more than you were. Sorry. Can I rephrase that? I meant, much more than Joe was.

JOE: At first we just jammed in our garage or in the hall. Covers first, but then Sal and I started bringing in our songs.

VIV: I avoided all the group discussions. When the rest of them argued about the best way to play a song, I’d just open my laptop and study.

GARY: The songs Joe and Sal wrote were really good. Sal and I tried writing lyrics together and that worked, too. She’d often have some words that were cerebral, poetic, emotional, and I’d punch them up, add a bit of funny, mould them into something people could connect with and get in their head. For example, ‘Agitated euphoria connects me to us’, which is deep, but not exactly singalong material, became, ‘There’s a buzz in my head. Let’s make it a party.’

SEB: In Year 12, I was a pretty diligent student, but we all made time for practice and gigs. Joe wasn’t fussed about school and Sal seemed to be able to float through anything, although I suspect she worked harder than she let on.

‘That’s the first section,’ said Barb. ‘Was it strange listening to yourself?’

‘Yeah. Very. My voice sounds weird. I thought it was a bit deeper, more, um …’

‘Commanding? Powerful? Everyone thinks that. I used to ring home and if Dennis didn’t pick up, I’d hear my voice on the machine saying, ‘Please leave a message.’ It sounded awful. All thin and weak.’ She grimaced. ‘But I saw you smile a few times while you listened.’

‘Yeah. Some good memories.’

‘The next file is titled: “The Band In Sydney”. Shall we?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

She clicked ‘play’.

SEB: When we finished Year 12, we had to decide if From Afar had been a fun hobby, or we were serious and wanted to keep going. Everyone wanted to keep going, but we’d outgrown Bullford Point. Most of us planned to move to Sydney for study, so we decided to continue the band there.

I did economics, cos … I honestly have no idea why. Seemed sensible, I suppose. Sal was doing arts. Both of us were at Sydney Uni and we found a flat in Newtown. Dev, Gary, Joe and Viv moved into a place in Enmore. It was pretty rundown, but the living room was big enough for us all to cram our gear in and rehearse.

JOE: I was keen to keep the band going, and get out of Bullford Point. They were all going to uni, but that wasn’t for me. I wanted to be a musician. I moved to Sydney and got a job in a pub. Leanne, who still had a year of school left, was pretty pissed off and needed a bit of managing.

LEANNE: I was pissed off you all left me. I thought about leaving school a year early – I wasn’t a great student – but Mum freaked out. You said … Joe said, just get through the year, we won’t replace you, and come join us then. That made me feel a bit better, but it wasn’t a fun year.

VIV: I wasn’t mad about moving to Sydney, but I was going to have more uni days when I had to attend in person, so it made sense. And at least I was living with people I knew. It was a pity Leanne couldn’t come. I felt more on my own in the band without her.

GARY: Sal and I used to talk about how cool it would be to make our living performing and writing. We both really wanted that, much more than the others. We were aware we were talented. We both worked hard, but we knew luck played a huge part. There are a lot of great musicians and comedians working in banks.

Sal tried to play it cool, like she was just going with the flow, but we were both desperately hoping we’d get that one big break. If we did, we were going to make the most of it. I was lucky I got mine. I’m sure that if it weren’t for the tragedy of her death, she would have got hers, too.

SEB: I felt like I was just along for the ride, but Sal was super focused on the band. She wanted playing music to be her job. In fact, she even got me to half believe it could be my job, too, and I was a pretty average bass player. She was such a great songwriter and singer. She would definitely have made it.

JOE: We had been called ‘The Cushions’ because … I don’t know why. Because we couldn’t think of a good name. But we needed something better for Sydney.

SEB: I liked ‘The Blueberries’, but no one else did.

GARY: ‘From Afar’ was my nomination. Sounded deep and meaningful. Meant nothing. Everyone liked it. Or at least liked it better than the other suggestions at the time. We got sick of talking about it and made a decision. From Afar it was.

VIV: I didn’t care what the name was.

SEB: Everyone except Joe was doing uni courses, but none of us loved them. Socially, uni wasn’t the social paradise I thought it would be. It wasn’t that easy to make new friends, but we had each other and the band gave us a focus. It was fun.

GARY: I was studying media and communications at UTS, but I wanted to perform. The band was great, but I wanted more. I started doing stand-up comedy and, to be honest, I kind of took to it. After a few months I was getting paid gigs. Most of it is confidence. Same as being a singer. I was still committed to the band, but now I had two irons in the fire.

SEB: We went and saw Gary do stand-up. He did have a presence. Great rhythm and timing. His material wasn’t fantastic when he started. I remember some story about a cat? Anyway, people wanted to watch him. Over time, his material improved a lot.

DEV: I’d moved to Sydney to study business and marketing, and the band rehearsed at our place. Their songs were great, they were tight, Gary and Sal up front complemented each other really well, Joe played great guitar. I thought they had a chance of making it, I really did, but they had no idea how to market themselves or go about getting gigs. Naïve country kids.

They needed someone to push them. Someone with hustle. I offered to manage them for ten per cent. Back then it was ten per cent of nothing, but I saw it as an investment. If something happened, great, but if it didn’t, I wanted to run my own business and it would be great experience. Plus, I’m not musical at all, and seeing how much fun they were having, I felt a bit left out. Poor me.

SEB: Dev was pretty forceful and bossy, but we needed that. None of us were particularly interested in, or good at, the business side – booking gigs, haggling over pay, getting and moving equipment, organising rehearsals – so to have Dev do it all was fantastic. We were all a bit scared of her, though. Gary nicknamed her ‘El Presidente’, and that caught on. Although we never called her that to her face, obviously.

That year we made real progress. Dev found us a gig at a divey pub in Annandale that led to another one, and so on. Every time we played it went great, and we started to get a following.

Actually, can you edit that ‘El Presidente’ bit out? I think I’m still a bit scared of her.

JOE: You’d see the same faces at our gigs. Like, we had fans! It was amazing. Dev got us more and more gigs, and the more we played the better we got. Sal and I were writing some good songs, and everything was going great. I was starting to wonder if maybe – maybe – we had a shot. Maybe.

VIV: Dev was pretty, um, full on. She pushed us, but I wasn’t overly invested. They all got fired up about which songs to play and how to play them, and even what order to play them in, but I sat all that out. I always assumed it would stay a hobby and then I’d finish uni and become a lawyer. I didn’t want to invest all this hope and end up disappointed. Turned out I was right.

DEV: The band worked well, and I think they respected me. Viv often brought a coffee to rehearsal for me, which was sweet. He brought Sal one, too, sometimes. After we got some gigs happening, the next step was to record some songs and get them out there. They needed to be catchy, obviously.

LEANNE: I played my first gig back with them in Sydney during my HSC. I had four days between exams and thought, ‘Fuck it’. I was going to bomb anyway. It was fantastic to be back and they all liked having me and the keyboards sounded amazing. I think they’d forgotten how much I added. As soon as I did my last exam, I moved down, got a job in a café, and re-joined.

GARY: It was a bit weird having Leanne back at first. We had developed a pretty great sound without keys. At first, she stayed at our place on the couch, because Joe was there. Funnily enough, she was only on the couch for a couple of nights, if you get my drift.

JOE: Okay, you don’t have to be a smart-arse about it.

GARY: I thought you wanted me to talk like you weren’t here. Anyway, that all turned out well. For a while anyway, but you probably don’t want me to go into all that.

JOE: It’s part of the story.

GARY: Well, I’ll let you tell it because you know more about the ins and outs – so to speak – than me.

LEANNE: I was so happy to be back, then you and I got together and that was great.

JOE: Yeah, I mean, it was kind of a casual thing.

LEANNE: Not really.

JOE: It kind of was. Like, we didn’t go out on dates.

LEANNE: We didn’t have to. We were living together. Fuck, you can be a prick. We were together. Don’t try to minimise it so you don’t feel guilty about what you did.

JOE: Sal and I kept writing together, at her place, because Leanne wouldn’t leave us alone at ours. One night it just happened. I didn’t plan it. I knew I liked her, but didn’t think she liked me. Turns out she did. It was confusing at first because of Leanne, but I knew with Sal it was something on a higher level. We decided to keep it secret for a while, until I could sort things out with Leanne.

SEB: I could tell as soon as it happened. Joe looked like he’d won lotto. He was trying to play it cool, but failed completely. Sal was always so natural with what she was feeling, so she couldn’t help showing it, too. It had been coming for a while, anyone could see that. Everyone picked it up pretty quickly. Except Viv, obviously.

But I was worried about Leanne. I knew she’d be devastated.

JOE: It was amazing with Sal. Honestly, when she focused her attention on you … I know people tend to idolise the past, especially first love, especially when the person is dead, but even allowing for all that, it was better than any drug, and I know what I’m talking about there.

LEANNE: You did the dirty on me. That was fucked. Then you were too gutless to tell me.

JOE: I was just trying to work out what—

LEANNE: Don’t give me that shit. I had to ask you about it. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?

JOE: I should have told you. Sorry.

LEANNE: Fucking a low act.

VIV: When Seb told me about Sal and Joe, I was amazed. Apparently it had been going on for weeks. They were incredible at keeping it secret. I was worried about Leanne. She had seemed upset about something and now I knew what.

DEV: Leanne started turning up late to rehearsal. She was obviously unhappy. I took her aside and said, ‘If we want to be a professional band, we have to act like one.’ She said, ‘Guns N’ Roses weren’t always on time, and they did pretty well.’ As the other girl apart from Sal, I suppose I should have been Leanne’s shoulder to cry on, but we weren’t close. She was younger, less sensible, less reliable. A decent musician, but she didn’t bring much else.

LEANNE: After Joe dumped me, I tried speed for the first time.

DEV: We needed to invest in some recording gear and everyone agreed to pitch in. My plan was to record some stuff at home, get it on YouTube, SoundCloud, Spotify etcetera and see how it went. Build, build, build. But we didn’t have quite the right songs. I wanted the first ones we sent out into the world to be really catchy, so that was up to Sal and Joe. And we needed the songs fast because I’d got us a support for Lite Horse – don’t ask me how! – at the Enmore Theatre.

JOE: How?

DEV: I said not to ask. Let’s just say that if I did sleep with someone to make it happen, he or she was hot. Anyway, Lite Horse were big at the time, and that gig was going to be a great opportunity for us to showcase our material to a new audience, hopefully get some word of mouth and great reviews, and leverage that into Spotify likes. So I kept pushing Sal and Joe to write a catchy hit, but whenever they got together to write songs, they ended up doing something else. (PAUSE) Fucking, that is.

JOE: Christ sake. Didn’t have to say it. Obvious what you meant.

GARY: Dev was putting a lot of pressure on Sal and Joe to write a hit. I think Dev saw From Afar as a way to get rich, more than as a fun thing.

JOE: You did too, didn’t you?

GARY: I wanted to try to make my living performing. Dev wanted to be rich. There’s a difference. I mean, look what she’s doing now. Property developing. High risk, high reward. You have to … wait, she’s negotiating with you, isn’t she? So perhaps I shouldn’t …

JOE: No, go on.

GARY: Well, you have to be ruthless to succeed in that game. You have to be able to convince people to do things that are in your best interests, not theirs.

DEV: After Joe and Sal got together, whenever Sal brought in a new song, Leanne would just play dead on it. Like deliberately play the most bland, boring keyboard line she could. Sal was quite sensitive, and you could see it was stressing her out. Leanne didn’t get that we were at work. I mean, deal with your personal shit in your own time. Self-indulgent. Then things got even more complicated.

SEB: Joe, I don’t mind talking about this stuff, but it’s awkward with you here.

JOE: Pretend I’m not.

SEB: How about you duck out? I’ll say what I remember, you’ll have it recorded.

JOE: Okay.

SEB: Err … how honest do you want me to be?

JOE: (LAUGHS) Brutally.

SEB: Okay. And that’s on tape, so don’t say you didn’t ask.

(FOOTSTEPS)

SEB: They were both strong personalities, Joe and Sal, but in different ways. People naturally gravitated to Sal. She didn’t have to try, whereas Joe was more in your face. If he wanted something, he’d tell you. If Sal said something funny, she’d throw her head back and laugh, whereas if Joe said something funny, he’d look to see if you were laughing.

Before they got together, Joe often came around to write songs, and they’d be in the lounge room while I pretended to read a book and watched how they did it. I was kind of fascinated.

They clashed a bit. Joe pushed his ideas hard. Often Sal would back off, but then come back at it another way. I suppose every collaboration is tricky, but Sal had to manage Joe’s ego a little. Her being such a free spirit, I don’t think she loved that.

When they added a relationship on top of that, maybe it got complicated. Joe could be a bit up and down. Easily offended. Plus, he liked going out a lot, and often had big nights, whereas Sal wasn’t really into that.

Because we lived together, Sal talked to me about Joe. The first month or so they seemed happy, but then she started having doubts. She’d get irritated when he was late coming over to write songs or to hang out, and sometimes when he arrived he’d be drunk. Sometimes he’d say things she didn’t like; jokes or teasing, but with an edge. I think maybe he was insecure about how much she liked him, and kept trying to test her.

He could be quite direct, abrasive even, but Joe’s also very sensitive. Sal might make some silly joke at rehearsal the rest of us didn’t even notice, and he’d take it personally, then say something much meaner back. She’d be upset, but just swallow it.

I could see that her doubts about Joe were growing, but I didn’t encourage her to break up with him. I just listened. After she did end things, I concentrated on being a good friend to her. That’s all.

JOE: Sal broke up with me maybe two weeks before she disappeared. I didn’t understand it, I thought everything was fantastic. I was crushed. Like, crushed. Confused. Angry. Dev was trying to tell me I had to keep writing songs with her, but no fucking way. How could I?

I don’t know if Seb had anything to do with it. I’m pretty sure he was keen on her, and I wondered if maybe he had been undermining me to her. There were times I was at their place and I could just feel that he hated the fact that I was with Sal. He tried to hide it, but I could tell. I guess I’ve never really trusted him since then.

DEV: It was all a bit Fleetwood Mac, except we didn’t come up with a killer album at the end of it.

GARY: It was like Sal was a light and everyone else were moths. Not the most eloquent analogy. She wasn’t loud or demonstrative, but whenever she was in a room, people looked at her. But just before she vanished she seemed to be getting very stressed. She was always really present, totally focused on whatever she was doing or whoever she was with, but in those last few weeks, she was distracted, anxious, almost zoned out.

I was worried about her. I wish I’d talked to her one-on-one more, but it was hard to find a chance to. First it was Joe, then after they broke up Seb was constantly with her, plus Dev was always haranguing her about writing. Given what happened, I wish I’d done more, but you almost had to take a ticket and get in line.

JOE: Do you have any idea why Sal disappeared?

GARY: I assumed it had something to do with your relationship break-up, plus the pressure from Dev. She was worried about money, too, because her mum couldn’t afford to help her as much as our parents, and she wasn’t doing well at uni. I think it all weighed on her.

Also, in our group she was kind of the centre of everything. Everyone wanted something from her – friendship, a relationship, love, attention, a hit song. I know what it’s like to be in the spotlight. It’s great in many ways, but it can also be exhausting. I’ve learned how to manage that, but I don’t know if Sal had.

I think it all got too much. She was run-down, maybe even depressed. She needed a break from everything, but she couldn’t face telling us because she’d be letting us down. So she did a runner to the Blue Mountains, where she was desperately unlucky.

LEANNE: So the wonderful, talented, saintly Sal stole my boyfriend, then got sick of him and dumped him. She was like a spoiled toddler – taking another kid’s favourite toy, then getting bored of it and chucking it away. Then, apparently, she was going to hook up with Seb. Maybe she did. Maybe she would have worked her way through all of them. Viv would have been keen. Terrified, but keen. Dev, too, just quietly. Not sure about Gary.

DEV: It was just such a waste. The band could really have been something.

‘That’s it,’ said Barb.

‘Aha,’ replied Seb, not wanting to start a conversation.

He hadn’t enjoyed listening. The reminiscing had started off sweet, but was now souring. It had been particularly unpleasant hearing others speculating about his feelings for Sal, and the last thing he wanted was for Barb to interrogate him. Better to hit it on the head before she tried.

‘What Leanne said wasn’t true, by the way,’ he said, staring resolutely ahead. ‘About Sal and me. We were just friends.’

He snuck a side eye at Barb, who was studying him.

‘How about some music?’ he added, poking his phone for Spotify. He hit ‘+’ several times on the steering wheel, pushing the volume up to a level that made conversation difficult.

CHAPTER 37

Next morning Seb drove to Sal’s mum Sabina’s plain two-bedroom wooden cottage at the end of a quiet, winding street on the hill. He had spent a lot of time there as a teenager, but hadn’t been back since Sal died. The cottage rested against the bush, ten minutes’ walk from the jetty, and he well remembered its friendly front porch containing a couch and chairs.

They had gone through the motions of discussing who would visit Sabina, both already knowing the answer. If Barb asked Sal’s mum for permission to release Viv from his vow of silence, it would prompt all sorts of questions about her involvement. Seb, on the other hand, had the uniform.

Sabina was a writer and, back when he and Sal were in school, had also worked a few days a week at Sue’s shop. When Seb visited, she was usually sitting at her kitchen table frowning at her laptop. Her novels still came out, every couple of years, more critically acclaimed than purchased, but Seb never read them in case they were influenced by the tragic murder of her only child. He thought about Sal enough already, without being prompted by a book.

Sal’s parents had separated when she was in primary school. Her dad lived in Melbourne with his new family. Sal had spent the occasional week of holidays with them, and he came up every now and then. She had said she didn’t really miss him, but Seb doubted it was that simple. Perhaps it was something they would have discussed eventually if they had lived the fantasy life he had spent so much time imagining.

When they all moved to Sydney, Sal’s level of parental financial support had been lower than his and the others’, and she worked a few days a week at a bookshop to pay the bills.

After Sal was killed, Sabina stopped working at Sue’s shop. He could imagine that everyone coming in with big eyes and sad looks, and ordering flat whites and burgers with sympathetic voices, would have been an extra form of hell on top of what she was already experiencing.

Seb had seen her about in the last few years. Sometimes, to his shame, he had dawdled or crossed the road to avoid her. Sal was their point of contact and she was dead, so what was there to say?

Now he stood nervously outside her front door. He wondered what it would be like to hear that your daughter’s unsolved murder was active again. Did it raise hopes, or just spark unpleasant memories that might have begun to fade, and cause another round of sleepless nights?

He made himself knock, then stepped back until she opened the door. Her hair had lost none of its frizz or blondness. She wore loose cotton pants, a red blouse, bangles, beads around her neck, and sandals.

‘Sebastian.’

‘Hi.’ It still felt too weird to call her by her first name.

‘Has anything—’

‘No, no, nothing. Sorry. Can I come in?’

‘Yes, of course.’

She pointed him to a comfy, busy-looking lounge room, crammed with vases, potted plants, bowls, candle holders and several small patterned carpets, two of which were hung on the wall. Or were they tapestries? Was a tapestry just a vertical carpet? They sat on perpendicular blue couches and she leaned forward, a light frown on her face. The cops’ curse. Everyone you visited expected bad news.

‘I’m sorry to bring this up,’ he started, ‘but we’re looking at a new angle on Sal’s death. It’s probably nothing, but we just want to make sure, and we need your help to do it.’ He explained Viv’s predicament, and how she could ungag him.

‘I suppose it’s okay. If it might help.’

‘It’s probably nothing. She might have been discussing a tenancy agreement, or how to protect the songs she wrote, or making a will …’ He stopped. Idiot! ‘Sorry. Stupid thing to say. Anyway, if it’s okay can you text me that you give Viv permission to talk to me so I can show him?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Did Joe talk to you about this at all?’

She shook her head. ‘I only saw him once after he moved back, at the shop a few weeks ago. He looked terrified and almost ran out.’

He stood. ‘How’s the writing going?’

‘A word at a time,’ she said with a smile. ‘And most of them are the wrong ones, at first. Still, “Your blessing in life is when you find the torture you’re comfortable with.”’

‘The Dalai Lama?’

‘Jerry Seinfeld. About writing jokes.’

‘I’ll have to think about that one.’

He was at the front door when she spoke up. ‘Sebastian. I don’t … Don’t give me progress reports. None. I don’t want to keep hearing about it. If you solve it, tell me, but don’t expect me to be excited. I’ve never understood that “getting closure by bringing the killers to justice” bullshit.’

He nodded, and left her alone.

CHAPTER 38

Viv fiddled with the perfect knot in his tie as he studied the text. ‘It should be something signed by her, really.’

‘Feel free to ring her yourself,’ said Seb. He and Barb faced Viv, his near-empty, uber-neat desk between them. His ground-floor Woy Woy office had a bookshelf, carpet, even a painting, but, like its occupant, lacked warmth. It felt like a showroom office, made up to look like the real thing.

At least Viv had agreed to see them at short notice. Seb had rung him straight after seeing Sabina. ‘You might as well come now,’ Viv had said begrudgingly, making Seb suspect his business was not exactly booming.

‘I guess it will do,’ allowed Viv.

‘Great,’ said Barb. ‘So. When did Sal contact you?’

‘Technically, her mother only gave me permission to talk to Seb.’

‘For God’s—’ Barb stopped herself. ‘Fine. Look at him when you answer. You’re talking to him. I just happen to be here.’

Viv didn’t look like he loved the idea, but started to talk. ‘I looked it up. Thirteen days before she died, Sal called me wanting some legal advice. I was working at a small firm in Parramatta, my first job out of university. She said it had to be confidential. I told her if she engaged me as her lawyer I wouldn’t be allowed to tell anyone, but to do that she had to pay me a retainer.’ He allowed himself a modest smile. ‘I charged her one dollar.’

Bully for you, thought Seb.

‘The next day she came to see me.’

‘Did she tell you where she was living?’

‘I had to get her address for the file, so yes. Leura.’

‘You must have been curious why she had left Sydney and the band so abruptly,’ said Barb.

‘It wasn’t a social occasion,’ said Viv primly, sitting ramrod straight, his hands resting on the edge of his desk so he looked as if he was peering over a parapet. ‘I was curious, but she was my client and she wanted legal advice.’

‘No small talk then?’ asked Seb.

‘No.’

‘What advice did she want?’ asked Barb.

‘Initially, she wanted to know the difference between indecent assault and sexual assault.’

The air seemed to shrink back against the walls. No one said anything for a while.

When he could breathe again, Seb asked, ‘Why?’

‘She was unsure which offence she had been the victim of,’ said Viv, looking resolutely at Seb. ‘I explained to her that indecent assault, now called sexual touching, was, as the name suggests, any touching of a sexual nature, maximum sentence five years in jail, whereas sexual assault must involve penetration, and is a more serious offence with a maximum sentence of fourteen years.’

Seb felt a rushing in his ears.

‘The poor girl. Did she say which it was?’ asked Barb.

‘Yes. Sexual touching. No penetration,’ Viv said impassively.

‘What sort of … what happened?’ stumbled Seb.

‘She didn’t give any specifics. All I know is that it was an assault of a sexual nature. She shared nothing about the perpetrator, not even their gender. She referred to the person as “they” throughout. She wanted to know what would happen if a victim of sexual touching reported it.’

‘What did you tell her?’ asked Barb.

‘That if she went to the police, they would take a statement from her, investigate and decide if there was enough evidence to charge the person. And that would involve interviewing the person who allegedly assaulted her.’

‘You said, “allegedly”,’ said Barb. ‘Did you doubt what she told you?’

‘Us lawyers always say “allegedly”.’

‘Shouldn’t that be, “us lawyers allegedly always say ‘allegedly’,”’ said Barb, before she could stop herself.

Viv stared blankly at her. ‘Sal said there were no witnesses, so the only people who really know what happened are her and the alleged perpetrator.’

‘What else did you tell her?’ said Seb.

‘That if they did charge the person, and they pleaded not guilty, there might be a delay of some months and then she would have to give evidence in court. Then she would be cross-examined by their lawyer who would suggest, perhaps repeatedly, that she was lying. I told her that many victims find that an unpleasant experience.’

‘Did the incident happen after she moved to the Blue Mountains, or before?’ asked Barb.

‘I assumed it was something that happened in the Blue Mountains, because the conversation occurred over five months after she moved there. But she didn’t say.’

‘And no clues if it happened at her home or a workplace or …?’

‘None. I asked her if there was any corroborating evidence that would back up her account. She said that during the assault, to defend herself, she hit the person on the nose, and their blood spurted onto her shirt. She had the shirt, and hadn’t washed it.’

‘Did she have the shirt with her? Did you see it?’ asked Seb.

‘No and no.’

‘Her flatmate remembers seeing the shirt,’ said Barb, ‘but says it wasn’t there after Sal died. Any idea what happened to it?’

He shook his head. ‘It wasn’t of great evidentiary value. Even if you could get a DNA test to match the blood with the person she said assaulted her, all it proves that he or she was near Sal’s shirt while bleeding. Not that they assaulted her.’

‘What do you think would have happened if she had reported it to police?’ asked Barb.

‘Seb would know better than me. She said there were no witnesses, no medical evidence, she hadn’t immediately sought treatment or told anyone. Seb?’

‘We often charge on a victim’s uncorroborated evidence, but it’s hard to convict on it. Her word against theirs. Hard to get to beyond reasonable doubt on that. But it happens sometimes.’

‘Agree,’ said Viv. ‘That’s what I told her.’

‘After you told her about the process, how did she react?’ asked Seb.

‘Like many victims, she was somewhat daunted, but seemed determined. I said I could come with her to report it, as her lawyer. She said she would think it over. That’s where we left it. I never heard from her again.’

‘Anything else?’ asked Barb.

He creased his forehead and studied the desk. ‘She asked what it meant in terms of her chances of having the person convicted if they had both been drinking alcohol. I told her that if she was cross-examined, she would be asked about her alcohol intake, and it might be suggested it had affected the accuracy and reliability of her memory. I told her that if the perpetrator was convicted, being drunk would not be seen as a mitigating factor.’

‘You’re sure she was asking about both parties?’ said Barb. ‘Her and her attacker?’

He considered this. ‘Yes.’

‘Which suggests they had both been drinking when it happened.’

‘That is the logical conclusion.’

‘Thanks, Viv,’ said Seb. ‘Anything else you remember?’

‘At the end, I did try to ask her if she was thinking of re-establishing contact with us – the band members. It was a bit awkward, but she said she would soon. And …’ He paused, as if deciding whether to proceed. ‘Well, there was one more thing. I’m not great with the warm and fuzzies. You may have noticed. When I started work, my boss picked up on that and advised me to make my office look “lived in”. Almost like a home, he said. So I put a photo of From Afar up on a shelf next to the desk. After Sal came in, I went to get us coffee. Another tip from my boss. It wasn’t until after she left my office that I noticed the photo had been moved.’

‘How?’

‘I had placed the photo on the shelf facing the desk, so those sitting on either side of the desk could see it. But after Sal left, I realised it had been turned diagonally so it faced my side of the desk only.’

‘You think she did that while you were out of the room?’

‘I’m quite particular. I like things to be in their right place. If it had been moved before Sal came in, I would have noticed.’

There was a silence.

‘Who was in the photo?’ asked Barb.

‘Me, Seb, Sal, Joe, Leanne, Gary and Dev.’

‘Do you think she may have moved the frame so that while you two talked, she wouldn’t be able to see it?’ asked Barb.

‘That seems the most likely scenario. Perhaps she didn’t like how she looked in it.’

CHAPTER 39

Barb was frowning as they walked down Blackwall Road toward Seb’s car. Outside a hairdresser’s she stopped and grabbed his arm. ‘Sal told Viv she’d been drinking when she was assaulted, but Monica said Sal didn’t drink in the Blue Mountains. Do you see?’

Seb stared at her. ‘If that’s true, it means she was assaulted in Sydney.’

‘Exactly. She moved to the Blue Mountains and gave up alcohol, perhaps because she associated alcohol with the assault. She went on anti-depressants after she got to Leura. In Sydney she was under a lot of pressure and stressed, but coping. If she was assaulted on top of that, it might have triggered her depression.’

They walked to the car, got in. Seb had driven to the outskirts of Woy Woy before Barb spoke.

‘Why did she move that photo in Viv’s office?’

‘Maybe she picked it up to have a closer look, then accidentally put it down in a different position. Or maybe it was distracting seeing all her friends, who she hadn’t seen for months.’

‘Apparently, most people who are assaulted sexually know the person who does it. In that photo there were six of the people she knew best. If you went to see a lawyer about an assault, and they had a photo on their shelf of the person who assaulted you, would you want to keep looking at it?’

‘You think she moved the photo because it was one of us?’

‘Not necessarily. But it’s possible, isn’t it?’

Seb scrunched his face, as if in pain. ‘I don’t know. I hope not.’

‘One more question. If you were assaulted in a sexual way, who would you turn to for support?’

‘My friends, I guess.’

‘Exactly. Why didn’t Sal?’

Seb’s brow creased. ‘Some people find it hard to tell anyone. They feel shame, disgust. Can’t talk about it.’

They were out of Woy Woy now, rolling through curves with the bay on their right.

‘Do you think Sal would have been able to tell her friends? Tell you?’

‘I hope so. It’s hard to know. I think so.’

‘But she didn’t tell any of you, as far as we know, except Viv months later, and then only to get legal advice. You said you and Sal talked about everything. Not only did she not tell you, she ran away from you all.

‘If she was assaulted by one of her friends, it explains why she left Sydney so abruptly and didn’t tell anyone. If she’d told her friends that a stranger indecently assaulted her, they’d rally round her. But if she said that one of you did it, what would happen? People find it hard to believe bad things about people they know. Some would believe her, others wouldn’t be able to. They might think both were drunk and things got mixed up, that it was a misunderstanding. People would take sides. It would tear the group apart. Break up the band.’

‘One of them,’ said Seb tersely, turning off the main road toward Bullford Point.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You said “one of you”. It wasn’t me. One of them.’

‘Sorry, of course,’ said Barb. ‘Tell me, what happened the day before she left? How was she?’

‘We all went to the Marlborough Hotel in Newtown. We went there every Friday night for dinner and a drink. There were things on her mind, and it was awkward between her and Joe and Leanne, but she seemed fine. She wanted to go home a bit early, so I went with her.’

‘You both went home?’

‘No. I walked her home, then went back to the pub.’

‘Why?’

‘Wanted more alcohol, I suppose. Can’t remember.’

Barb studied him, but to his relief didn’t press it. He hoped she was right and he was becoming a better liar.

‘When I got back to the pub, everyone except Gary and Joe had gone. Joe left soon after. Maybe when he saw me, he knew Sal would be alone and wanted to talk to her. Things got out of hand and he … But if it was him, why would he start a podcast that might uncover it?’ He screwed up his face. ‘My head’s spinning.’

‘Should you pull over?’

‘Just a figure of speech.’

‘Did you see Sal when you got home?’

‘That’s the thing. I went home with Gary to their place and slept there.’

‘Why?’

‘Again, can’t remember. Probably to have one more drink. I crashed on their couch. Next morning I walked home, and Sal was gone.’

‘So if the assault happened that night, it happened after you went back to the pub.’

‘Has this got anything to do with Joe’s or Karen’s murder, or even the Blue Mountains Strangler?’

They came over the ridge and below them a finger of land pushed into the bay, Bullford Point on one side, national park in the middle, beach on the other side. Usually the sight of it lifted a weight off him. Not today.

Barb scratched at her slacks, as if trying to uncover some insight.

‘Shirt!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s what ties them. Don’t you see? Sal told Viv that the shirt she was wearing when she was assaulted got the blood of the person who assaulted her on it. Monica saw the shirt in Leura, but it was gone after Sal’s death. It was in her bedside table drawer. Probably one of the first places you’d look if you were searching for it. If Sal’s killer looked for, and took, that shirt, I can only think of one reason why. Because it connected them to Sal’s assault in Sydney.

‘Joe wrote “piggyback” in his notebook. He asked Detective Mayne if Sal’s killer could have been a different person from the killer of the first two victims, used the Strangler as cover to kill Sal.’

‘So your theory is that the person who assaulted Sal in Sydney, also killed her six months later in the Blue Mountains, then searched for the shirt and took it, so there would be no evidence leading back to them?’

Barb nodded.

‘But, why did they think they needed to kill her?’ asked Seb. ‘If Sal had reported the assault, maybe the police wouldn’t even have had enough evidence to charge the person. When there’s a six-month delay in reporting an assault, it’s usually iffy. Even if they did get charged, they could plead not guilty and have a good chance of beating it. Even if they got convicted, no one in our group had a criminal record. A first offence of that nature, depending on the circumstances, you probably wouldn’t even get jail. My point is, people usually only kill someone when the stakes are really high. Here they weren’t.’

‘I don’t know the answer to that,’ said Barb slowly, ‘but I think there are two possibilities. One, the accepted version. Sal was under a lot of pressure, she ran away to the Blue Mountains and was later a random victim of a multiple murderer.

‘Or, she was assaulted in Sydney, probably by someone she knew, traumatised by it, and fled to the Blue Mountains. Six months later, she got legal advice from Viv about reporting the assault. Maybe, somehow, her attacker found out Sal was about to tell police what happened. Maybe from Viv, or maybe Sal contacted the person who assaulted her and told them she was going to the police. She may have also said she had the shirt as evidence. The attacker panicked, read about the Strangler and, to protect themselves, killed Sal using the Strangler’s method. Then they searched for the bloodied shirt and took it.’

Seb reached the bottom of the hill, turned left, passing the tennis court and park, the water on his right.

‘And you think that whoever killed Sal also killed Joe?’ he asked.

Barb looked uncertain. ‘Maybe. If they thought Joe was getting too close to the truth.’

‘Lot of theories. Not much evidence. What about Karen Kemp?’

‘No idea how she fits in, if she does.’

Seb turned left again, drove up the hill, turned right and parked at the top of Barb’s driveway. Too steep to drive down. Barb, seemingly lost in thought, made no move to open the door, so he turned off the engine.

‘Is Viv in the clear?’ he asked. ‘He told us about the attack, and Sal moving the photo. Why would he point suspicion at the band if it was him?’

‘If Viv was the one who assaulted Sal, then obviously Sal wouldn’t have contacted him for legal advice. But we don’t know if what Viv said about their meeting is true. Sal might have come to confront him about attacking her, and to tell him she was going to the police. When the police questioned Viv, he could have told them the legal-advice story to explain why she contacted him, and to give himself a reason to keep the discussion secret. Now he protects himself again by telling us about the attack, in case we find out about it some other way, because he doesn’t know if Sal told anyone else about it. He thinks that if he tells us about it, then we’ll think it couldn’t have been him.’

Seb was trying to get his head around it all. It wasn’t easy.

‘Remember you asked how Sal’s killer could have known Joe was doing a podcast?’ continued Barb. ‘Well, if her killer was someone in your band, then they’d know. He interviewed you all. Viv, Dev, Leanne, Gary, you. Remember what Mayne said? You can tell a lot about what someone knows and suspects from the questions they ask. If one of the people Joe interviewed was Sal’s killer, they’d come away with a pretty good idea of how close he was getting. If they thought he was too close, maybe they figured that the only way to stop him was to kill him.’

‘Could Sal have been assaulted by Dev or Leanne? I can imagine Leanne punching her, but sexually assaulting her?’

‘Who knows what lurks in the dark corners of minds and hearts,’ intoned Barb.

‘Shakespeare?’

‘Me, I think. Maybe I read it somewhere. How tall was Sal?’

‘Shorter than Dev and Leanne, and quite slim. If you’re asking about physical force, Dev goes to the gym, and has always been fit. Leanne not so much, but she’s bigger than Sal and she was good at sport at school. I guess both could have done … whatever was done. It doesn’t have to be a male, I mean.’

They sat in the car.

‘Don’t you police have CCTV everywhere these days?’ asked Barb. ‘Could it show us who went to Joe’s house the night he died?’

‘They only have them in busy areas.’

‘His house is right next to the shop and town square. The epicentre of Bullford Point.’

‘Yeah, well we don’t have CCTV at the epicentre of the Great Sandy Desert either.’

‘No need to be snide. Are there any cameras nearby?’

Seb screwed up his face. ‘The nearest one would be the Rip Bridge.’

‘Hmm. The night Joe died, you were all at the club,’ Barb said slowly. ‘The others live this side of the bridge, but Dev is in Ettalong, on the other side.’ She turned to Seb, eyebrows up. ‘You see?’

‘I can get the footage. She left the club around seven, I think …’

‘And she told me she went home after she left, so she should have been driving over the bridge about seven fifteen. If she didn’t …’ She opened her hands.

Seb slowly shook his head. ‘You really think the person who attacked Sal was most likely someone I grew up with – Dev, Gary, Viv or Leanne. And that person might – might – have done more than that. Killed Sal and Joe.’

‘I think it’s very possible, yes.’

Barb was looking at him strangely.

‘What?’

‘I’m completely sure it wasn’t you, Sebastian. I really am.’

‘Good.’

‘But … just being honest, I don’t actually, in an evidence sense, know that for a fact, do I?’

CHAPTER 40

Inside, as the day began to fade, Barb made a cup of tea, warming herself after the frosty end of their conversation. She hoped it would be soon forgotten. She was just being honest, but perhaps there were times when you shouldn’t be, even with your crime-fighting partner.

Of course she didn’t think Seb killed Joe.

She raised her cup to her lips, but stopped halfway. But what if he had? She took her mind back to when she had first shared with Seb her theory that Joe was murdered. Initially, Seb had been unwilling to help. Wasn’t it only when she told him she would approach Homicide that he had changed his mind? What if the reason he was running this investigation was not to discover who had killed Joe (because he already knew), but to keep an eye on her progress? And if she got too close … what then?

Surely not. She was getting paranoid. Or was she? That was the trouble with paranoia. You could never tell how much of it was real. She did get the feeling Seb was holding things back, though. When he had described what happened on Sal’s last night in Sydney, she had got a strong sense he was wasn’t telling her everything.

She slumped into the couch. Who knew what went on between other people’s ears? She had been completely blindsided when Dennis told her he was having an affair. Looking back, however, there were signs. Working late, Saturday afternoon drives on his own, less chatty, never leaving his phone in the living room, experimenting with moussing his hair.

Oh my God! That’s why he had bought new underwear! It was virtually a confession.

She hadn’t wanted to see the signs, hadn’t wanted to believe he was drifting away.

Goodness, the house felt empty. You only really noticed it when you stopped. She had always considered the quietness of Bullford Point a blessing, but when your husband has just left you, some peripheral noise – neighbours, traffic, a plane overhead – wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

She would start feeding the birds again. Rosellas provided a lovely soundscape, and looked beautiful. She used to put out seed, and had only stopped when cockatoos started gate-crashing, and Dennis got irritated by their squawking. Well, he wasn’t here to be irritated now. She got up and found some seed in a kitchen cupboard, went outside and spread it on the deck’s wooden railing.

There was no escaping it, she still missed him walking through the door each evening just before six. She was mainly fine during the day, but when it started to get dark … Well, it was natural to feel someone’s absence when you had lived with them for so long. Even when she and Dennis didn’t have anything of great importance to say, which, to be honest, was usually, it was still nice to have someone to say it to. When they weren’t talking, which was also quite often, now she came to think of it, the silence as they ate, read and watched television had always been a comfortable one. Or, at least, it had been to her. Had he found it uncomfortable, even awkward? Had he gone searching for someone else with whom he could share silences of greater comfort?

Her job had always been part-time, dictated more by volume of work than a conscious lifestyle decision, and every week she’d spent plenty of time alone. She had never minded before. Even when the house was empty, it never used to feel empty, not when she knew that just before six he would walk through the door.

She wondered what she really missed – was it Dennis walking through the door every evening just before six, or just knowing that he would?

She wondered what he was like with the new woman, Ellen. Did they bring out the best in each other? Did they have interesting, energetic chats about everything all the time? Were their silences golden? Did they make each other laugh and laugh, like they lived in a sitcom?

Had she and Dennis ever been like that, even in their early days? He had been the accountant who did her first tax return. The day after her appointment she had sat by the phone, trying to think of an excuse to ring him. Eventually she had gone with, ‘Will you be needing the receipt for my bus pass?’ Answer: ‘No.’

Once the return was lodged, she had been ecstatic when he had asked her out. They had got on very well, and more dates followed. He was friendly and good-hearted, the between-the-sheets business worked, and in all the intervening years she had never questioned their relationship, and not once even considered being unfaithful.

Of course they had arguments, but she always knew that soon things would be back to normal and they would be sitting side by side on the deck, sipping tea and reading books, her a murder mystery, him a history of international financial systems. She knew he wasn’t the most interesting person in the world. He was an accountant, for goodness sake. But together they worked.

Or so she’d thought. He obviously had questioned their relationship. In fact, he’d gone beyond asking questions, to finding an alternative answer. With a start, she wondered if he had secretly found her dull for years. You don’t just leap into an affair. Surely they only grew out of months, even years of dissatisfaction and frustration, of wondering whether you might be with the wrong person.

If Dennis wasn’t that interesting, and he had got bored of her, what did that make her?

She shook her head. ‘Enough.’

She got Joe’s laptop and set it up on the coffee table. The next sound file was ‘Sal’s Last Night In Sydney And After.’

CHAPTER 41

VIV: Every Friday night we all met at the Marlborough Hotel in Newtown. I didn’t love going, but for some reason I felt I should. Going to the pub was what people our age did.

SEB: It was a week before our Lite Horse support at the Enmore. When Dev arrived she told us she had persuaded a couple of agents and producers to come to check us out. We were all pretty excited about that and it turned into a big night. Everyone drank a fair bit.

JOE: That night was the first time I felt like maybe, maybe this could be the start of something big. Like, we might actually make it. We were pretty excited and were all getting on the grog. When we were together, it’s fair to say my and Sal’s different alcohol intake habits – that is me, a lot, versus her, not much – had been a point of tension, but even she had a few that night.

LEANNE: Sal played all innocent, as if all these guys just magically came onto her, but that was bullshit. She knew what she was doing. She knew how much I liked Joe and she went there anyway. That night, I told her what I thought of her – how she was fucking up people’s lives without a second thought.

VIV: I’m not much of a drinker. I don’t like not being in control. But they were all pretty drunk.

LEANNE: Viv was always really nice to me, but he can also be weird. He always sat up one end of the table, like he was getting ready for a quick escape, and his eyes were always in one of two places. On Sal, or on Dev. He didn’t speak to them much, but he looked a lot.

GARY: Viv didn’t usually drink much, but I bought him a couple that night, because he was so quiet all the time and always looked awkward. I wanted to loosen him up. He was telling me he had a huge crush on someone, and I honestly had no idea if it was a man, woman or horse. Eventually, he said ‘she’ a couple of times, which narrowed it down to a woman or mare.

JOE: Viv never let on anything about his personal life. I always assumed he didn’t have one.

GARY: I remember Viv’s eyes kept darting to the far end of the table where Dev and Sal were, so I thought it was one of them. I don’t think he knew a lot of other women. I was trying to work out which one he had a crush on, then I realised it was probably both. They were both outgoing, confident, funny … all the things Viv wasn’t, so I guess in some weird way it made sense. Viv is very smart, but had the emotional maturity of a puppy dog. Without the excitability, obviously.

VIV: I remember Dev backing Sal into a corner and doing some finger pointing, saying something about Sal having a responsibility to the rest of us because she was the main songwriter and the centre of the band. Bit heavy, I thought.

DEV: I could not have been less interested in all the personal stuff, but it was affecting the band. Gary, Seb and Viv were always reliable, but Sal, Leanne and Joe had been distracted, and it showed onstage. Sal was the spark, and when she was off her game, it affected the whole band. Success requires talent, but also commitment.

It also requires leadership, and that was my job as manager. I’m not saying exactly what I did, but I put a lot of effort into getting important people to come and see us at the Enmore and I didn’t want it to go to waste. It was a big opportunity and they had to make the most of it.

So, that night I took Sal aside and told her if she wanted it to happen, she had to get her shit together and help me make it happen. Write some catchy songs and focus, focus, focus. I wanted to get her fired up, but she just leaned further and further back in her chair. The next day she ran away, so that plan worked.

GARY: Sal was putting on a brave front, but I could tell she was stressed and not herself. I wanted to talk to her alone and ask her how she was going, but the opportunity didn’t arise. Besides, it seemed like the last thing she needed was another person getting in her face. There was almost a queue.

VIV: It was just a normal night out. I talked to people then went home. That’s how it always is at pubs.

SEB: Sal wanted to leave before closing time. She said she was tired and I said I’d go too. I walked her home, then went back to the pub.

JOE: Why was that, Seb?

SEB: Just felt like another drink with the boys.

JOE: Really?

SEB: Yep.

JOE: Mate, it’s years ago now. Might as well get it all out. You liked Sal. Why not say it? I reckon the only reason you would’ve come back to the pub is if you and Sal had an argument.

SEB: No.

JOE: I reckon maybe you might have told her you liked her, and you didn’t get the response you wanted.

SEB: No. Joe, I’m doing this interview as a favour to you. I don’t have to be here.

JOE: Sorry, mate, but you’re an open book to me. Actually, I find books quite hard to read, but not you. I can tell when you’re lying. I’ve always been able to. Don’t know how, but I can. But if you don’t want to go there, that’s fine. We’ll move on.

LEANNE: I left with Viv. I was staying with a friend at the time, so on the way home we went our separate ways.

VIV: Ever since Joe broke up with Leanne, she had seemed down, and also less reliable, and also short of cash, so I was concerned for her. I asked her if she wanted to stay at our place, but she said no. I offered to walk her to where she was staying, but she said no. Then I asked if she wanted to borrow some money. She said yes to that. She stumbled off and I thought about following her to make sure she was okay, but I didn’t. I just went home and went to bed.

LEANNE: I went to my friend’s place and crashed.

JOE: Seb came back to the pub, said he wanted another drink. He wasn’t happy, and it wasn’t hard to work out why. He had the hots for Sal, and hadn’t got what he wanted. Last thing I wanted to hear was him boohooing about her, so I headed home and left him with Gary.

GARY: I think Seb and I were the last to leave. For some reason Seb came back to ours and slept on the couch.

SEB: At closing time, Gary and I went back to his place, probably for one more drink, and I ended up sleeping there. If I’d gone home, maybe I would have found out Sal was thinking of leaving and talked her out of it, but I didn’t. Next day when I got home, she wasn’t there. I texted her. No reply. When I had a shower, I noticed her stuff was missing from the bathroom. Checked her room and most of her clothes were gone, too. I rang and rang but no answer. I contacted the others, but no one had heard from her. That evening I got a text saying she was fine, but needed to get away from everything for a while and wouldn’t be responding to us for a bit. She said I should rent out her room.

DEV: We all got texts from Sal saying she was fine, but needed to go away for a bit. She didn’t tell anyone where she had gone or when she’d be back.

GARY: I couldn’t believe it. She just vanished. No one knew where she’d gone.

VIV: Everyone else was shocked, but I understood her wanting to get away from everyone and find some peace and quiet.

DEV: I called a meeting. I told them Sal would probably be back in a week or two and we should press on. We could cover her. Joe was a great guitar player, Gary a strong singer. We had good songs. We needed to do the Lite Horse support at the Enmore. It was pivotal.

LEANNE: Of course we had to go on. When I was stuck in Bullford Point doing Year 12, the rest of them went on. What was the difference?

SEB: It felt weird us being at a band meeting without Sal. Dev half encouraged, half persuaded, half bullied us into doing the Enmore gig.

JOE: We’d never rehearsed or played without Sal before.

VIV: It was strange that Sal had disappeared, but I didn’t think it would affect my drumming. Keep time. Add fills.

JOE: In rehearsals we worked out how to cover for Sal, but I don’t think we realised how much we relied on her until we got on stage. Just before we started the first song, I looked around at everyone. Usually they were smiling, looking excited. That night at the Enmore, everyone looked terrified.

SEB: Everyone was kind of shocked Sal had gone, and we didn’t really know how to play without her. That night, we completely sucked. We were like a really bad From Afar covers band.

LEANNE: I played great, Viv was tight, but the rest of them were shit.

GARY: You know that feeling when you’re totally involved in doing something, completely in the moment, in harmony with others, and you hardly need to think, it just all happens? Well, it was the opposite of that.

SEB: Sal always made it feel like it was everyone’s band, but that night it became totally clear that, actually, it was her band.

DEV: After a few songs, I realised that without Sal, they were just another band. I’d never quite realised how important she was before, because she wasn’t a dominant frontperson like Freddie Mercury or Pink. But that night it became obvious that she was the magic dust that made it work.

JOE: When Sal left, I had to step up, but … I’m a decent guitarist, an okay songwriter, but there’s plenty of people like that. Before that night, I thought Sal and I were kind of level pegging in talent, but at the Enmore, without her, I realised that I didn’t have half what she had, and that fucking stung.

DEV: It wasn’t just her songwriting, playing and singing. It was the energy she brought that got everyone else going. She used to jump and spin and look like she was having so much fun, and when she did that, everyone followed her and relaxed and had fun too. But without her …

GARY: It was weird singing all those duets and harmonies by myself. I think I did pretty well, considering.

DEV: Gary’s singing worked great as a counterpoint to Sal’s, but on his own you realised he was more style than substance. He could carry half a song, but not a full one.

VIV: Up the back drumming, I often felt like I was driving this big, powerful engine. That night it was more like I was riding a bike with a flat tyre. You push harder, but you go slower.

DEV: The producers and agents didn’t stay, and afterwards didn’t return my calls.

JOE: We had a meeting the next day. I was as keen for From Afar as anyone, but the Enmore made it clear that it didn’t work without Sal. I said we should just press pause until she came back.

LEANNE: I wanted to keep going. No one stopped when I wasn’t there.

SEB: It was her band more than it was anyone else’s. To me, it felt wrong to keep going.

GARY: She started it and continuing without her seemed weird. I assumed and hoped she’d be back soon, and thought we should stop until then.

VIV: I wasn’t fussed either way, but I had exams coming up, and then a job as a lawyer lined up, so I didn’t really have time.

DEV: I’d been working my arse off booking gigs. I thought Sal would come back once she sorted out whatever issues she had. I just wanted to keep them going until then. I tried to rally them. I told them they still had a shot, that they would get used to Sal not being there and adjust, that they had done it without Leanne, and if they kept the momentum going, when Sal returned they’d be ready to explode.

I was trying to convince myself as much as them, and maybe they picked that up. I knew Sal was the special sauce. They weren’t going to make it without her.

VIV: Leanne wasn’t Sal. Even I could work that out.

SEB: The most dominant personality in the meeting was Sal, and she wasn’t even there.

DEV: They voted to stop. Huge downer. I liked managing a band. It was a buzz.

JOE: I’d been hoping and hoping I could make a living being a muso, but after we decided to stop performing, it felt like that was slipping away.

When Sal and I wrote and played together, it was unreal. It just worked … until all that personal stuff got in the way. Without her I had a bit of talent, but not enough to make it. My songs weren’t much until she fixed them up. They were thumpy and clumsy. Without her magic melodies, they just didn’t get in your head.

Maybe I should have kept writing and I might have got better, or maybe I should have tried to join another band and found someone else to write with but … I didn’t. I found another hobby.

SEB: I was an okay bass player, but nothing special. I was just along for the ride. It was exciting, but then it was over. I missed the band, but mainly I missed Sal.

GARY: I missed it for sure, but luckily I had my stand-up to throw myself into, and it started to go well. Being in a band with your friends is fun, but – just quietly – stand-up was a lot simpler.

SEB: We still hung out and went to the pub, but it was different. Not as good. Before too long Leanne and Joe found, umm, other interests, Viv started working as a lawyer, Dev deferred uni and went back to the Central Coast to become a real estate agent, and Gary was off doing stand-up.

VIV: From Afar gave Joe a focus. The rest of us had our courses, but without the band, he was just someone working in a pub. Leanne, too. Except it was a café.

LEANNE: I kept telling Joe we should write some songs together, become a duo. Guitar and keyboards. But we never got around to it.

JOE: I didn’t think writing and playing with Leanne would work. She wasn’t as … she didn’t … Anyway, after I found out Sal had been killed, something inside me just went ‘fuck it’. Sal was more than just a random ex-girlfriend. After that, I just went hard.

LEANNE: Before too long, Joe and I were living a different life to the others.

GARY: Given what happened, when things started to go well for me in stand-up and TV, I kind of felt I was doing it for all of us. Does that sound wanky?

SEB: I would text Sal every week, asking her how she was, maybe telling her some bit of news, not that I had much. She never replied. Until one day, nearly six months after she’d vanished, she did.

She asked me if I wanted to see her, or if I was too angry. I said of course I wanted to see her. She asked if I minded coming up to Leura, and I said I’d catch the train up that coming Sunday. Then I sent her a text on the Friday night saying I’d be there about ten on Sunday morning. She didn’t reply because …

(LONG PAUSE)

SEB: She didn’t reply … cos that was when … she was being killed.

VIV: Sometimes I still drum in my garage. I did like playing songs with others, but on the other hand it’s a lot easier on your own. And no travel. Drums are hard to carry.

SEB: After Sal was killed, uni seemed pointless. It became obvious the cops weren’t making progress, so I had this kind of stupid idea I could do a better job and save the world by becoming a cop.

DEV: I’m not going to lie, I did have images of me being a big-time band manager. I would have been good at it. But real estate and property management are definitely just as exciting and satisfying.

JOE: I still sometimes pick up a guitar and strum From Afar tunes. Some of our songs were bloody good. But I never play for long.

CHAPTER 42

Next morning, Barb put out seed for the birds, made toast with homemade strawberry jam for herself and they all ate together on the deck. That was more like it.

Her phone pinged. Julie!

Just checking how you are Mum. Taking care of yourself?

Nice to hear from her, of course, but her text was a little businesslike. Dutiful daughter checking on recently singled mother. Brief, too. Ten words. How long did that take her to write? Eight seconds? A call might have been nice. And no mention of a visit.

She wondered if Julie had sent the same message to Dennis, just changing Mum to Dad.

All well, thank you. Adjusting to this new life

That would stop her worrying.

Back to business, by which she meant investigating Joe’s death, not her real business. She had actually been putting off paid work to give herself more sleuthing time. Trying to solve a murder was much more interesting than replacing fence palings. She wasn’t sure how everything she had heard in Joe’s podcast recordings fitted into their investigation, or even if any of it did, but she now had a more complete picture of those who had known Sal and Joe best. Whilst the complexities of those intertwined relationships, and the hurt feelings they produced, might not be uncommon in friend groups around that age, two early deaths in a group of seven certainly was.

It seemed to Barb that the remaining five must be her main suspects: Viv, Dev, Gary, Leanne and … she hesitated. Sebastian was the fifth. She didn’t want to put him on the list, she felt guilty putting him on the list, but he was the last person to see Sal before she vanished. The best way to eliminate suspects was to investigate them, wasn’t it? So how could she leave him off?

What next? When she had visited Tanya the drug dealer she had shown her photos of Joe, Viv, Dev and Sue and asked if she had sold to them. Joe was ‘not recently’, Viv was ‘no’, Dev was ‘yes, cocaine’ and Sue ‘yes, heroin’, although that turned out to be a red herring. But what about the others? Showing Tanya a photo of Leanne was still pointless, as any purchase she made might have been for herself. That left Gary and Seb. Had they ever bought drugs from Tanya?

Something nagged at Barb about her visit to the dealer. She had been so shocked when Tanya had identified Sue – she was sure she had missed something. She tried to replay the conversation in her mind. Tanya had recognised Joe, and so had Morgan. Then they had both recognised Sue. Then Tanya had looked at the photo of Viv on Barb’s phone, shaken her head and handed it straight back. Tanya hadn’t shown Viv’s photo to Morgan, as she had done with the others. Why not?

*

Andy drove the mean streets of Wahroonga, marvelling at what he could see of the mansions behind their fences and hedges. Some were on blocks the size of public schools. He had tried to focus his business on the affluent Upper North Shore, full of doctors, lawyers and executives seeking the quiet life. Amazing how often they, their spouse or their offspring found that life a little too quiet and went looking for something to spice it up.

Chasing drug debtors in this area had several advantages. They were rich, or their families were, so if you leaned on them they could always find the money.

They were entitled. Thought they owned the fucking world, and some of them kind of did. So, even when they could afford it, they didn’t always pay what they owed, which meant plenty of work for him.

They were also naïve. Knew fuck-all about how the real world worked, so as soon as you got in their faces, their ‘How dare you!’ bravado collapsed quicker than an over-ambitious mortgage after a few interest rate rises.

Finally, they were as soft as the deluxe toilet paper in their loos, so he never had to even clench a fist, much less hit anyone. Easy money.

His phone rang: ‘Joe’. Gave him a jolt – until he remembered it would be Barb. She’d be asking for something, probably help in finding out what happened to Joe. He was tempted to let it ring out, but … not a bad prick, Joe. Someone killing him, if that’s what happened, when he was getting his shit together, if that’s what he was doing, was a dog act. He answered.

‘Why did you ring me on his phone, Barb?’

‘Andy, how are you?’ Barb’s voice filled the car via bluetooth. ‘You don’t know my number and people are so suspicious these days. I won’t keep you. Just wondered if I might be able to impose one more time.’

‘Thought you might say something like that.’

‘There’s just a couple more photos I’d love Tanya and Morgan to look at. Would that he possible?’

‘You getting somewhere, Barb? Or just fishing?’

‘I now have a shortlist of suspects. Tanya has already told us about some of them, but there’s two more. I can send you their photos. And I’d love her to have another look at the picture of Joe’s brother, Viv.’

‘She said she didn’t recognise him last time, didn’t she?’

‘She did, but she said it very quickly, and his was the only photo she didn’t show to Morgan. Well, it just made me wonder if she might be hiding something. Perhaps she didn’t want Morgan to see the photo because he might have blurted out something.’

‘That’s possible. Morgan is one to blurt.’

‘Do you mind doing that, Andy?’

‘Have to pop up that way tomorrow, actually.’

‘Isn’t that fortunate? And I haven’t forgotten I owe you a banana bread. Shall I have it ready for afternoon tea?’

CHAPTER 43

Seb huddled over his computer at the station, ignoring the cup of tea by his side, which in protest cooled itself, unaware this would make it even less enticing.

He and Barb had agreed that he would investigate Dev’s property development and project management business, Inspire Property. It certainly looked prosperous. A website as glossy as coded pixels could create, crammed with pictures and videos of homes and commercial buildings, testimonials and attention-grabbing graphics trumpeting ‘extraordinary success’, ‘quality design’ and ‘our hard work creates your peace of mind’.

He spent the next hour ringing local builders, real estate agents and property developers, as well as a town planner at council he vaguely knew, and searching the Central Coast Council website. All in all, it revealed a less glossy reality. Dev’s company was three years old. In the first two years it had built an office building in Woy Woy, two water-view houses in Ettalong, and apartment blocks in McMasters and Ettalong. In the past year, however, its only two projects had been a granny flat in Kincumber and putting walls on a carport to make it a garage in Empire Bay. It seemed business was not brisk, an impression strengthened when the builder who’d done the garage told Seb he had had trouble getting paid. ‘She’d been good before, but this time I had to hassle her for weeks.’

Seb knew that Dev, like almost everyone in her industry, always projected a front of sunny optimism. But everyone needs someone to share their worries with, and Seb had a pretty good idea who that person was for Dev – her mother, Frieda. Dev and her mum had always been close. Frieda still lived in Bullford Point, and just a few months ago, Seb had helped her find her missing cat. He called her.

‘Hello, Seb, how nice to hear from you.’

Not many people said that when the cops called, but Frieda had known him since he was a kid, been very grateful when he found the cat and, being retired, perhaps didn’t get a lot of calls.

‘How’s Percy?’ Seb asked.

‘Good as gold. I think he got as big a scare as me when he went wandering.’

‘Goodo. I was just calling about Dev.’

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes, yes. Part of my role is looking out for the community, and when I saw Dev recently, she seemed quite stressed. I might be imagining it, but I just wanted to check she’s okay. I should probably talk to her, but she always likes to look as if she has everything under control.

‘Aren’t you sweet, Seb.’

Pang of guilt.

‘It’s her work,’ Frieda continued. ‘She puts so much pressure on herself, and she wants to achieve so much …’ And off she went. Dev had overextended herself financially and was relying on the Bullford Point development to get her out of a hole. She had been concerned about council approval, but that seemed to be progressing smoothly. However, when Joe changed his mind about selling she had been devastated. Whilst the development could still go ahead, without Joe’s house, the retail element probably wouldn’t work, and her main investor had got cold feet, although Gary was still committed. Thankfully, Frieda continued, she had been a bit cheerier recently as there seemed to be new hope for the project.

Seb exhaled a relieved sigh for effect. ‘Thanks, Frieda. Good to know. I’ll keep an eye on her.’ Which he would, but not in the way Frieda imagined. ‘Probably best not to tell her we spoke. She’s so independent. I wouldn’t want her to think I was snooping.’

He hung up. What was it Barb had said about wants and needs? We want lots of things, but when we need something, we get desperate. Had Dev needed Joe to sell? She had always been super ambitious. Back when she’d started managing the band, she had said, ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to make this band a success.’ He guessed that attitude extended to her business, too.

She had been an excellent band manager. Super organised. Somehow she got them gigs he thought were way out of reach. When he asked her how she did it, she just smiled enigmatically. He suspected sex might have been involved.

Dev had pushed Joe and Sal’s songwriting to a new level, too. Sal brought the melody, Joe the rhythmic drive, and Dev the tough love. Whilst the rest of them were uncritically grateful for any new song, Dev wasn’t afraid to exercise quality control. ‘Nope. Too sappy. Not everyone’s in love, you know. Less kissy kissy, more smash down the walls.’

Seb had wished he was a songwriter. He’d tried, but produced only formulaic crap he was too embarrassed to play to anyone. It wasn’t so much that he had a desire to express himself creatively, more that it would have given him an excuse to spend time writing with Sal. Instead that fell to Joe. He had watched with increasing unease, and then almost panic, as Sal and Joe bonded as they wrote, usually in the apartment Sal and Seb shared. He could see where it was heading, possibly even before they did. The way Joe looked at her and smoothed his usual bluntness with a cover of politeness, the way she smiled back, how they were each willing to take on the other’s suggestions.

Seb had also realised how much he didn’t want anything to happen between the two. He and Sal would often stay up late chatting about all sorts of things, sharing hopes, fears and gossip. One would lean against a wall, the other against the back of the sofa, as if they were only briefly breaking their journey toward bed for a quick pleasantry, even when their conversation stretched to an hour. On several occasions, Seb had been dying for a piss but didn’t dare move, fearing it would break the spell and that would be it for the night. Those open, unguarded chats had turned his friendship with Sal into something much more. He wanted to do something to advance their relationship, but was terrified it would backfire and he would lose the ease they had.

He’d known the night it was going to happen between her and Joe. Joe was at their place songwriting, and when they finished the three of them sat around chatting. It had gradually dawned on Seb that they were waiting for him to go to bed. Bloody-mindedly, he had stayed up as long as he could, before eventually, begrudgingly, accepting it was futile. Thank God he had earplugs.

From then on, it was obvious they were together, despite their terrible attempts at keeping it secret. When Sal had eventually told him, with a forced casualness than made him wonder if she suspected his true feelings, he hoisted up a smile and somehow got out, ‘That’s great!’

Others his age seemed able to adopt a more free-market, supply-and-demand-based approach to relationships. If one person was unavailable, they would accept that any further emotional output in that direction was wasted, and re-focus elsewhere. It wasn’t like that for Seb. Every morning he saw Joe frying an egg in their tiny kitchen was a punch to the heart.

He shook his head, trying to shake off the past. Back to work.

On the night Joe died, they had all been at the bowling club and Seb had seen Dev leave about 7 p.m. She had told Barb she’d driven straight home. That meant she would have been crossing the Rip Bridge, where there was a police camera, at about 7.15 p.m. He filled out an internal online request for the footage from that night, 6.30 p.m. to 8.45 p.m., giving himself a margin for error wide enough for a horoscope writer to drive through.

Idly, he picked up his phone to see if anyone cared about him. Nope. Claire popped into his mind. Excitement and fear. Two sides of the same coin. He wished he only felt one.

He texted her.

How’s that yummy hospital food today?

Her reply came almost immediately.

Still too healthy

He found an online pic of a giant cheeseburger moated by chips.

My lunch

That’s just mean

He went to his tiny bar fridge, fished out a lone Snickers he had been keeping for a difficult time, took a pic and sent it.

My actual lunch

Feel better now. You always eat that terribly?

Working too hard for nutrition

Cracking a case?

Trying

Sounds exciting

Not yet. Got to do the boring bits first. How are you feeling?

Bit of rehab progress

Great!

Bit more memory coming back

Fear bit him.

Great. What?

Tell you when I see you

Despite his concerns, he smiled. She wanted to see him. His hand hovered over the screen. Could he push her for more information without looking suss? Better to visit in person.

I’ll come soon

Get that crim first!

He tried to get back to work but his guts were churning. He wanted to get out of the station. The good thing about not having a boss on site was that no one would know if he did.

CHAPTER 44

Barb wandered out of the shop clutching a skim flat white. It had been a little awkward with Sue, but she hoped things would soon return to normal. She was about to head back home to bake banana bread for Andy when, squinting her eyes against the sun skimming off the water, she saw Leanne on a bench in the small park by the jetty, staring across the water, coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other.

Barb approached. ‘Beautiful morning.’

Leanne looked up. ‘Yeah.’ She didn’t sound convinced.

‘May I?’ said Barb. Without waiting for permission, she sat. ‘How are things going? Must be a difficult time.’

‘Yeah. Still hard to believe.’

‘I know. I still wake up some mornings and wonder where Dennis is. I always woke up first, see. Then I remember he’s left me. Different from Joe dying, of course, but they both take time to get used to. At first they’re always there – while you brush your teeth, make a cup of tea, sit at the jetty having a coffee. Yes?’

Leanne nodded.

‘Eventually, hopefully, we find a place for those who have gone. Somewhere we can visit them, but only when we feel like it. I haven’t got there yet, but with any luck, I will soon.’

Leanne took a deep drag. Barb wondered if her words had connected or all, or if the younger woman just thought she was a raving old bat.

‘Are you going to stay in Bullford Point long?’

‘Nah. Pretty stressful living with Mum. Keeps looking at me like I’m an unexploded bomb.’

Barb laughed. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I want to go back to Sydney, but that’s obviously a terrible idea, given what always happens when I’m there. Maybe Queensland. Or Bali for a holiday. Never been overseas. Or get a car and head up the coast and see what I find. I want to get … healthy.’

Barb wondered how she had enough money to do any of those things. Perhaps she didn’t, and they were just pipe dreams.

She patted Leanne’s knee. ‘Good. Can I ask you, and sorry if this is nosy, but back when you were in the band, is that when it all started? The drugs?’

‘Yeah. Not much at first. Once or twice a week for fun. Nothing serious. But then some things made me upset …’

‘Joe things?’

A gull on the beach squawked up at a pelican gliding past.

‘Yeah. Joe things. And Joe and Sal things.’

‘But then when Sal went away, am I right that you and Joe got back together?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And that’s when it went up a level?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

Leanne shook her head. ‘Dunno. Honestly. Fucking stupid.’

*

As Barb walked away, Leanne took a long drag. She preferred telling the truth, but it was often better not to. She’d had lots of practice at lying over the years, and was good at it.

Growing up, she had always liked Joe, and missed him terribly when he moved to Sydney. She followed him as soon as she finished school, asked if she could sleep on his couch for ‘a night or two’ and kept her word. After two nights, she moved into his room.

Her mum thought Joe had led her daughter into drugs, and in a way he had. She saw what was happening between Joe and Sal. The looks, the in-jokes. It would have been easier to bear if Sal had pursued Joe. She could have understood him wilting under the glow of her attention. It was far harder to watch him chasing her, thinking he was doing it without Leanne noticing.

Even before that, Leanne had never warmed to Sal. She might have been the only one who didn’t. Sal was spoiled. Not with money, but with attention. She got everything she wanted. Sal wanted to play in a band, so a band started. Leanne was painfully aware that if she had suggested it, nothing would have happened. Not that she would have had the confidence to.

After Joe dumped her for Sal, Leanne was back on the couch until she could find a place of her own. She had been miserable in Year 12, but the deeper, darker pain of Joe’s rejection had been worse. She could hardly get up in the morning and didn’t care about anything. She needed to find something to make her feel better, and that was the whole point of drugs, wasn’t it?

Dope just made her obsess about Joe, speed helped, but heroin was the jackpot. But she only dabbled, buying as much as she could afford, not more.

Joe had worked out what she was doing, and tried to warn her of the dangers. At the time, he was disinterested in trying anything himself, being fully under the influence of his drug of choice, Sal.

After Sal dumped him and, shortly after, disappeared, Joe had been listless, even lost. Leanne had never seen him like that. It wasn’t hard for her to insert herself back into his life, and then his bed. She told herself all sorts of lies about the quality of their relationship and Joe’s feelings for her, but deep down she knew she was just a stand-in. When Sal returned, Joe would chase after her again, tongue out, tail wagging.

Recognising that Sal had broken Joe’s heart, broke Leanne’s. Again. It also gave her a dead-eyed, fatalistic bloody-mindedness. Sal might come back any day. Before she did, Leanne needed to find something to bond her and Joe. Something Sal couldn’t compete with or ruin.

The only thing Leanne could think of was drugs. She was already in the pool, and if Joe joined her, they would have a shared passion that required much of their time, ingenuity and energy. Not only would their shared need bond them, it would also create a gulf between them and the others, hopefully one too wide for even a snap of Sal’s fingers to bridge. Plus, if Joe was taking a lot of drugs, Sal was much less likely to want him back.

Leanne knew how vulnerable Joe was. It wasn’t hard to tempt him onto something stronger than dope, and then to help him climb the tree to heroin. In those first few months it was she who did whatever was needed to get money, she who bought the drugs, she who prepared them. All Joe had to do was say yes, and he did. After that, they were in it together, equal partners, doing whatever it took to feed the beast.

Joe’s head had been so depressed and muddled at the time, he hadn’t even realised how deliberately she had entrapped him. From things he had said since, it was clear he thought they had dived in together.

Once they were caught up in the life, she and Joe were almost inseparable. However, the satisfaction of having him back by her side (often barely conscious, but still) was tempered by her fear of Sal returning and reclaiming him. Drugs amplified her paranoia, keeping her up at night, affecting her appetite, stealing the pleasure from each day.

A few months after Sal disappeared, without letting Joe or anyone else know, Leanne sought her out. She needed to deal with things once and for all, and she did.

After Sal was dead, Leanne was safe from her, but by then it was too late for her and Joe to put the brakes on their habit. They talked about getting clean, even took a few tentative steps in the right direction a few times, but it never held. Before too long he was pimping her out, and they were both grateful for the money.

When Joe dumped her, for the second time, a year later, she went even harder.

Over the years the established narrative, which she did nothing to correct, was that charismatic, risk-taking Joe had led docile, love-struck Leanne down the wrong path. Her mother wanted to believe that version, and had megaphoned it to anyone who would listen. Sometimes, in a self-pitying way, Leanne almost believed it herself.

CHAPTER 45

Seb wondered why Roger didn’t chase sticks or balls. All the other dogs at the beach did. Was he lazy? No, because he ran around with other dogs. Did he find stick and ball chasing pointless? Fair enough. But then why did he chase dogs who were chasing sticks and balls? Surely equally pointless?

The beach stretched about half a kilometre in either direction from where he stood, but this was the bit everyone brought their dogs to. Seb liked that having Roger made him come most days.

It was a warm sunny day, the type that made you glow, not sweat. Down the beach, Gary was jogging along the sand toward him in T-shirt, shorts and sneakers. When he saw Seb, he increased his pace, lifting his knees in an exaggerated high step, grinning broadly until he stopped next to Seb and bent over panting.

‘Hey, buddy. You okay?’ Seb asked.

‘No,’ he panted. ‘Was fine … until that last bit … of showing off … Stuffed now.’

‘Should get a dog. You just bring them here, and they do the running for you.’

Gary heaved himself upright. ‘Sounds much better, but don’t think I’m a dog person.’

‘Maybe you’re a cat person? They don’t run much, though.’

‘Allergic to cats. I think I’m more a me person.’ He slowly straightened. ‘How you going? Things quietened down after Bullford Point police’s busiest month ever?’

‘Seems to have, yeah. Statistically, there shouldn’t be another unusual death here for about one hundred and fifty years.’

‘Poor old Joe. Is Viv going to sell the house now?’

‘Not sure.’

‘He was keen to offload it before he found out his mum had changed her will.’

‘Was he?’

‘Think so. Don’t know if his legal practice is thriving. Might need the money. I bumped into him at the jetty the day he found out about his mum’s will. Nasty shock, by the looks. Thought he was going to throw himself in front of the ferry. Anyhoo, none of my business. On the other hand, if we didn’t have local gossip, what would we talk about?’ He flashed his big smile. ‘Might not be his decision, anyway.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Again, you know I hate gossip, but … Dev is circling. I was talking to her at the wake after she’d had a few. She said, “I reckon I could get Viv to agree to anything,” and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s right.’

When they were in the band, Viv had always seemed mesmerised by Dev’s glamour and confidence. Maybe he still was. Seb wondered if the relationships between all of them had been forever frozen during that intense period seven years ago and would never change.

‘You were going to invest with her, weren’t you? Did you go ahead?’ asked Seb.

‘I did, yeah. But it’s all on hold, now. I’ve hinted to Dev about getting my money back, but umm … I’m slightly concerned it might not be that simple if the development doesn’t go ahead.’ Gary put his hands up, palms out. ‘This isn’t an official complaint to the police, by the way.’

‘Did you put in a lot?’

‘A fair bit, yeah. She made it sound bombproof. You know what she’s like.’

‘Hope it works out.’

‘If it doesn’t, I’ll be down the station,’ he said mock seriously, and then smiled. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

Seb wondered if Gary’s easy manner hid some deeper concern about his investment. Gary would have known Joe had decided not to sell. If that decision was going to cost him a lot of money, was that enough reason to kill?

Could he push Gary? It was a lot easier to ask hard questions of strangers in the police station than it was to ask them of one of his oldest and best friends at the beach.

He thought back to Sal’s final days. ‘Gary, did you hear from Sal before she was killed?’

‘That’s out of the blue.’

‘Sorry, yeah. Just interested. I did. Did you?’

‘Yeah. When she vanished I was concerned, like everyone. I texted her, but didn’t get much of a reply. She obviously wanted to be left alone. I assumed she’d get in touch when she felt like it. Then she called me. Maybe a week, ten days before … you know.’

Seb felt a bit miffed. He had only got texts. ‘What did she say?’

‘That she was fine. Asked how I was. I got the feeling she was on the way to wanting to start seeing us all again, but I didn’t push. It was just great to hear from her.’

‘Did she ask about everyone else?’

‘Yes, I think so. She would have.’

‘Can you remember if she didn’t ask about anyone?’

He put his head back, thinking. ‘Not that I remember, but it was a long time ago.’

‘Did she mention anything … bad that had happened to her?’

‘Yeah she did. But I’m not sure I’m really comfortable discussing it. It was pretty personal.’

‘Understood. Was it that someone assaulted her?’

Gary nodded. ‘Who told you?’

‘Viv.’

‘Viv?!’

‘She got legal advice from him about it.’

‘Oh. That makes sense. Going to him for empathy doesn’t. She swore me to secrecy, so I didn’t discuss it with anyone. Someone had made a pass at her that went way too far. It really distressed her.’

‘Was it someone she knew?’

‘She didn’t say anything about who it was.’

‘What about where it happened? Sydney or the Blue Mountains?’

‘I got the impression the Blue Mountains, but she didn’t say. I just suggested she try to work out what the best thing for her to do was. Was it to pursue it? Or put it behind her and get on with life? I suggested counselling, too.’

‘Did you make any arrangement to meet?’

‘I wanted to see her. I missed her, and she had obviously been through something tough, but I didn’t push it. I hoped we would speak again soon and then see each other.’

Seb felt strangely satisfied by that answer. Sal had arranged to meet him.

‘Why are you asking all this, Seb?’

‘Just looking into things a bit.’

‘Is it to do with Joe’s death?’

‘Maybe. And his podcast. I listened to the interviews he recorded. It brought back all these memories of Sal. When Joe interviewed you, did you start thinking about it all again?’

‘Yep.’ Gary sighed. ‘A lot. The good times, and, of course, the bad. So sad. I guess we have to try to move on.’

They stood silently together for a while and then Gary pulled off his shoes, socks and T-shirt. ‘Running hurts, but this is the good bit.’ He galloped into the water and dived in.

To his left, Seb saw Tom throw a tennis ball for Lenny and wandered over.

‘Hey. I think I have ball jealousy. I feel like a loser cos my dog’s not into them. On the other hand, you have to do a lot of throwing.’

‘Yeah. He’d chase it all day,’ replied Tom.

Lenny returned and dropped the ball in the sand. Tom picked it up and hurled it. Lenny chased the ball and Roger chased Lenny.

‘You don’t use one of those ball throwers?’

‘Cheating, mate.’

In the ocean, Gary caught a wave and his head and shoulders led it into shore. Half man, half wave. The ball returned to Tom and he chucked it again.

‘Hey, you ever work out who that guy Karen wanted to talk to the cops about was?’ he asked.

‘Nah.’

‘Just that … I’ve got her phone and was looking through some photos on it of when we met in Fiji, then here. The more recent the photos, the less there were of me. Even a couple of fucking Joe that I didn’t want to see. Anyway, among them, there’s a photo of this middle-aged guy in a suit wearing glasses that looks like it was a screenshot off, like, a news website. Just wondering if—’

‘Can I see it?’ Seb interrupted. ‘Now?’

‘It’s at home. Five more throws for Lenny?’

CHAPTER 46

‘More banana bread?’

Andy, mouth full, raised a thumb.

Barb cut another slice and put it on his plate. ‘Worth the trip?’

Andy nodded. ‘Deafknee,’ he got out. ‘Licious.’

Barbara smiled and patted an empty Tupperware container on the table. ‘I’ll put the rest in here for you.’ And if she ever needed an excuse to ask Andy for another favour, she could ring to ask him to return it.

He swallowed, and took another forkful. Before he put it into his mouth, Barb took her chance.

‘So, did you discover anything?’

The fork paused. ‘Wouldn’t be eating this cake if I hadn’t.’

‘It’s not a payment, Andy. It’s just … well, it is payment, I suppose, but it’s for making the effort, whether or not it was successful.’

‘Not how I usually work. Anyway, Tanya wasn’t happy when I showed up again. Didn’t want to tell me nuffin’, but arms was twisted.’

‘Metaphorically?’

‘Exactly. Although I wouldn’t mind giving that Morgan a smack. Anyway, Tanya took some persuading. First I showed her the photo of that Gary you sent. She recognised him from the telly. Watches his show. Says he’s not a client.’

‘Did Morgan see the photo?’

‘Yep. Didn’t recognise him.’

‘Could they have been lying?’

‘Tanya’s hard to read, but Morgan’s not. Pretty sure he’d never seen him. Next was …’ He held his phone up, showing a picture of Seb. ‘No dice. Never seen him.’

Barb let out a relieved breath. ‘And the final one was Viv. Again.’

‘Going off your theory that Tanya might be hiding something about him, I made sure I showed the photo to Morgan first. His eyebrows went up and he looked at Tanya, which was as good as him saying the guy was a client. Tanya goes, “Nup. Never seen him.” I say, “Bullshit.” There’s a bit of to and fro, bottom line is, yes, he has bought from them in the not-too-distant past, but she will not say a word about what or how much. She really clammed up. Not sure why. You all right? Who is he?’

‘Viv. Joe’s brother.’

‘Whoa. You think he whacked his own brother?’

‘I was just trying to eliminate him as a suspect, but he is … odd. He doesn’t seem like the type to take drugs himself.’ She tried to compose herself. ‘Can I ask you one more thing?’

‘Hard to refuse with a mouth full of your cake.’

‘Bread, technically, but it’s a fine line, I suppose. The police think Joe killed this woman he was having an affair with – Karen. That they argued one night at his house, things got out of hand and somehow he broke her neck. Do you think Joe could have done that?’

‘People do surprise you in this business, Barb, but I knew Joe pretty well and it seems unlikely. Was he on anything at the time?’

‘Off everything, even alcohol.’

‘See, all those years on drugs, I never heard of him ever being violent. That’s unusual, to be honest. l mean, obviously after taking heroin, no one’s going to slap anyone, let alone break their neck, but he drank a lot and took plenty of ice. If you’re not violent when you’re on booze or ice, you’re not going to be violent sober. Plus, it’s a dumb move and Joe wasn’t dumb.’

‘Is breaking someone’s neck a difficult thing to do?’

‘Why would you think I’d know that? I’m a debt collector.’

‘Just on the off chance.’

He studied her. ‘As it happens, I do know. In movies, it looks easy. Quick twist. Snap! Next scene. Not in real life. You need a very specific technique. If you just had a go without knowing how, very unlikely you’d succeed.’

‘So if Karen’s neck was broken …’

‘It can happen by chance. You fall at exactly the wrong angle, maybe down stairs. But that’s rare. If it was done deliberately, it’s almost certainly a professional. It’s a good method to use. No hassle with getting and then getting rid of a gun, no bullet to be traced, no residue, and the cops can’t rule out it being an accident.’

‘Are there many of those sorts of professionals around, who would kill someone by neck-breaking?’

Andy considered this. ‘Only a handful. These days, most prefer guns. Don’t have to get too close, for starters. Maybe … three.’

‘You see, there’s a suggestion that Karen may have stumbled upon some information that could have put someone in jeopardy. Perhaps a powerful someone.’

‘How big are we talking?’ he said. ‘Biden? Putin? Swift?’

‘Not quite. Perhaps someone in organised crime. And they’re the people who outsource debt collecting to people like you, yes? Do they also outsource their “wetwork”?’

‘Been researching terms, have we?’

‘It was in a film I watched. Horrible Bosses.’ It wasn’t Barb’s usual fare, but lately she had been trying to cheer herself up with some comedies.

‘“Wetwork” doesn’t make sense, really,’ she continued, ‘especially with a broken neck. No blood. It’s dry work, if anything. By the way, they call it “organised crime”, but how organised is it, actually?’

He shrugged. ‘Not as much as the rail network. More than a school fete. There’s always a bit of chaos.’

‘Interesting. Anyway, do they outsource their wetwork?’

‘Usually. Get the experts in. Same as anything. Like when you need your oven fixed.’

‘To one of three people?’

‘If it’s a broken neck, it’s one of three. Actually, two at the moment. One’s in Europe.’

‘On the run?’

‘Family holiday. Trip of a lifetime, apparently. They’ve got lives outside work too, you know.’

‘One of two, then. Who are they?’

‘Fuck’s sake, Barb. I’m not going to tell you their names and get a couple of killers offside, am I?’

‘Any chance you could ask around?’

‘I’m not grassing them,’ he said firmly.

‘I’m not really interested in them. They’re just the tool. The hammer that hits the nail. I want to find out who’s holding the hammer. You don’t believe Joe killed Karen. I just want to clear his name.’ She pushed the banana bread in Andy’s direction. ‘You can take what’s left.’

He sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not sticking my neck out. Don’t want it to be the next one broken.’

CHAPTER 47

‘Spose it belongs to her parents now,’ said Tom, punching in a passcode and handing over Karen’s phone. ‘I met them at the funeral and gave them my number, but haven’t heard from them.’

Seb opened the photos and looked through the most recent, including a few of Joe with his shirt off looking dishevelled. There were national-park-scenery selfies, Joe, Joe and Karen, beach selfies, Tom and Karen at home. Next was a photo of a thin man in a smart suit and tie. Big nose, rimless glasses, brown hair, mid-fifties to sixty.

‘This one?’

‘Yeah.’

The man was posed, looking at the camera, the sort of photo you’d put in a LinkedIn profile above the bit where you described yourself as being passionate about designing logistics systems.

Seb felt excitement surge. Perkins had told him that Karen had described the man she had seen meet her boyfriend in the park as male, late middle-aged, brown hair, glasses. Was this him? Why else would she have taken the screenshot?

He texted the photo from Karen’s phone to his, and then forwarded it to Paul Perkins.

Sir, This might be the person Karen Kemp saw. Can you identify him?

Karen’s criminal boyfriend meeting a corporate type in a park was inherently suss, and if the inspector could now identify who that man was, and it helped to uncover something big, or even medium sized, surely he would grateful to Seb. It might even open up some opportunities for him. He realised that when Barb had suggested that he wanted to be a detective, she had been right. He did. He was sick of pointing radar at cars.

Then he remembered Claire, recovering in hospital. She was starting to remember. How could he progress with that hanging over him?

CHAPTER 48

Next morning, after an uneasy night, Seb was at the station staring at CCTV footage of a bridge, hoping to see Dev’s car, because once he did, he could assure Barb that Dev couldn’t have killed Joe. He knew detectives were supposed to hope for evidence that nailed a suspect, rather than cleared them, but no matter how much she wanted his house, he was sure Dev hadn’t killed Joe.

He had woken late, hurried through breakfast and walked to work where he found an email containing a link to the camera footage of Rip Bridge he had requested. He had hoped watching it would be meditative, like that slow television where they filmed out of a train window for nine hours, but after a while the monotony was starting to make him hate bridges, cars, CCTV cameras and even his own eyes. He didn’t know much about meditation, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to make you hate things.

His phone pinged. Perkins.

Great job Seb. I’ll make sure the inspector sees this. Sit tight and we’ll be back in touch soon

He supposed he should let the experts take it from here.

He turned back to the computer screen. After fifteen minutes he rubbed his eyes and took a swig of lukewarm instant coffee.

When he had found Frieda’s cat, it had brought excitement, relief and satisfaction. The cat was missing then, all of a sudden, he found it. Watching the CCTV footage, so far, there had been no moment of revelation, but the longer Dev’s car kept not appearing, the more suspicious it became. If she had driven home straight from the club on the night Joe died, she should have been driving across the bridge around 7.10 p.m. Red VW T-Roc, DAO 562. But he had watched from 6.45 p.m. and was now up to 7.26 p.m. No Dev.

He kept watching the footage until 8 p.m. and then to 8.45 p.m. Then, to be sure, somehow simultaneously feeling both bored and alarmed, he re-watched from 7 p.m. to 7.30 p.m.

Dev’s car had not crossed the bridge. When she told Barb she had gone straight home after leaving the club on the night Joe died, she either meant she had dumped her car and swum across Broken Bay, or she had lied.

Had she stayed in Bullford Point after leaving the club that night? Why?

Seb felt a buzz. This is why he had become a cop, to uncover lies and reveal secrets, and yet in five years the biggest case he had cracked was when he had been summoned in the middle of the night by a whispering, terrified eighty-two-year-old Mavis Brammel, convinced there was an intruder downstairs. He’d found a bush turkey that had slipped in an open window and was noisily munching an apple.

He grabbed his laptop and walked briskly to the car. At the bottom of the street he hesitated. Right toward Ettalong and Dev, or left into Bullford Point and Barb? He was a cop investigating a case, so why would he check in with a handywoman? Yet it was left he turned. Part of the thrill was sharing your discoveries with your partner.

He blinked. Partner? He supposed she was. But did partners keep secrets from each other? He would think about that some other time.

He parked at the top of her driveway, bounded down to her house and when she opened her door, blurted, ‘I’ve got a lead.’

‘So have I.’

They stared at each other.

‘I’ll tell you in the car,’ said Seb.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Tell you that in the car, too.’

Soon they were whizzing out of Bullford Point toward the bridge.

‘You go first,’ said Seb benevolently.

‘Viv has bought drugs recently.’

‘Really? What sort?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘How much?’

‘Not sure’

‘When?’

‘Don’t know exactly. Fairly recently.’

Perhaps, Seb thought, they had got to that point where the difference between amateurs and professionals became apparent. Unlike Barb, he had been trained. When you found a piece of relevant information, you filled it out in every direction. What? When? Where? Who? Why? How? Five W’s and a H. It was a shame ‘How’ didn’t begin with a W, too, to make a much neater six W’s, but then it would be ‘Wow’.

‘He might just smoke the odd joint,’ he said. ‘He often seems quite distant, so that fits.’

Barb opened her mouth to respond, but he couldn’t wait any longer.

‘Dev told you that after she left the club the night Joe died, she drove straight home. It’s a fifteen-minute drive from the club to her place in Ettalong, and there’s a camera on the Rip Bridge. The only other way for her to get home is to go the long way around via Gosford, which takes over an hour. I reckon she left about 7 p.m., but I watched CCTV footage from the bridge from 6.45 p.m. until 8.45 p.m. No Dev. She lied.’

‘Is that where we’re going? To see her?’

‘Yep.’

‘Perhaps she did her grocery shopping on the way.’

‘Then why did she tell you she went home?’

‘She may have forgotten?’

‘The nearest big shops are on her side of the Rip Bridge. On this side there’s nowhere open that time of night.’

Barb turned to him. ‘What if Viv and Dev are in it together? Viv gains by getting the house and selling it to Dev for lots of money. Dev gains by her development going ahead. You said Viv has always been mesmerised by Dev, yes? Dev persuades Viv to kill Joe. He buys the drugs. Then on the night, she spikes Joe’s drink, leaves the club early, waits near his house for him to come home, sneaks in and overdoses him.’

‘Viv was at the club that night too, which is unusual. He doesn’t normally go. He could have spiked Joe’s drink.’

‘So we have three possibilities,’ said Barb. ‘One, Dev acted alone. Two, Viv acted alone, although that doesn’t explain where Dev went after the club. And three, they acted together.’

Seb drove on, trying to think it through. Perhaps the separation between amateurs and professionals wasn’t quite as clear cut as he had thought.

CHAPTER 49

Seb had rung Dev from the car, requesting an urgent meeting.

‘About what, may I ask?’ she said.

‘Tell you when we get there.’

Dev said she would meet them at her home.

‘Guess she’s not mad on people seeing a police uniform in her office,’ said Barb. ‘Is that what they call “bad optics”?’

Dev’s apartment, Seb dimly remembered, was in a building she had developed herself. It was one street back from Ettalong Beach, a modern white block trying to look smarter than it was, surrounded by either plastic or real ferns that rose out of white golf-ball-sized pebbles you needed sunglasses to look at.

Seb buzzed, Dev let them in, and they got the lift to the fourth floor where he knocked on her door. Looked sturdy, felt hollow. He wondered if that was the mission statement for all Dev’s developments.

She opened. White slacks and heels, powerful red blouse, ponytailed hair, wide smile and makeup not quite disguising concerned eyes.

‘Hi, Dev.’

‘Seb. Hi.’ She looked Barb up and down. ‘And Barb? What’s up?’

‘Can we come in?’ asked Seb.

‘Sure.’ She led them into a smart white-walled lounge room opening to a balcony. The room was inhabited by two white sofas, a television and a stick-legged, fragile-looking, empty glass coffee table. A yoga mat propped up a wall.

They sat. Dev, perhaps not wanting to risk the coffee table actually having to hold anything, didn’t offer a drink, so Seb got right to it.

‘Dev, you told Barb you left the club around 7 p.m. on the night Joe died, which is what I remember … You drove, yes?’ He realised he had picked up Barb’s habit of ending sentences with ‘yes?’.

‘Yes.’

‘You said you went straight home?’

‘Yep.’

Dev seemed unflustered, but she was an experienced property negotiator, which meant she was good at both hiding her feelings, and lying.

‘No detours?’

‘Seb, what are you getting at?’

‘I’ll tell you as soon as you answer my question.’

Dev stared at him. The silence stretched.

‘He knows you didn’t go straight home,’ said Barb. ‘And if you say, “Oh, I remember now, a friend called and wanted to meet for a drink,” he’ll want the name of the friend, the name of the bar and he’ll even check the video cameras I believe they all have these days. If you say you went shopping he’ll do that, too. He’s very thorough. And I don’t think saying you went for walk along the beach would work because when I interviewed you, you said you preferred the gym.’

‘I’ve looked at the CCTV on Rip Bridge, Dev,’ tag teamed Seb. ‘You didn’t cross it in the hour and three-quarters after you left the club.’

Dev looked from Seb to Barb, blinked, opened her mouth and shut it again. Eventually, she said, ‘I went to a hotel.’

‘For a holiday?’ asked Barb innocently.

‘Not going to lie. Wasn’t a holiday.’

‘Which one?’ asked Seb.

‘Kincumber Hotel.’

‘Why?’ asked Seb.

‘Perhaps you met someone there,’ suggested Barb.

Dev looked uneasy.

Barb pointed her thumb at Seb. ‘He’s going to find out. He’ll check all the hotels. Even if you used a false name, they have CCTV too. He loves watching CCTV.’

‘I do,’ added Seb. ‘I find it meditative. So let’s assume you met someone. Can we do that?’

Dev looked at each of them again, as if assessing her chances of stonewalling, bluffing or picking up the coffee table and braining them with it before it fell apart. Eventually, she slowly nodded.

‘For how long?’

‘A few hours.’

‘A few being …?’

‘Maybe three.’

‘Stay the night?’

She shook her head.

‘Sorry to get personal,’ said Barb, ‘but was it … well, you know …’

‘Did you have sex with the person you met?’ asked Seb.

‘None of your business.’

‘Was it Viv?’ asked Seb

‘Viv?! God, no! Why …?’

‘As we understand it,’ continued Seb, ‘before Joe died, he told you he wasn’t going to sell his house. Now, Viv has inherited it and he is interested in selling. If you knew that Viv would inherit and sell, you had a reason to want Joe dead.’

‘Joe OD’d.’

‘We think he was murdered.’

Dev stared at them. ‘Mur …?’ she began, then, ‘Wh …?’ before trailing off.

‘His death looked like a self-inflicted overdose,’ said Seb, ‘but there is evidence that someone killed him and set it up to look that way.’

Dev shook her head, speechless, a state he’d never seen her even close to before.

‘This is the odd bit,’ said Barb. ‘According to you, you have an alibi for the time Joe was killed. You were with someone in a hotel. However, when I interviewed you, you hid that and claimed to be home alone. Why do that? Either, I’m guessing, because that meeting at the hotel was somehow involved with killing Joe, or because it was something else that you don’t want anyone to know about.’

Dev blinked a few times and focused on Barb. ‘It wasn’t either. Especially not the first. I had nothing to do with Joe’s death. If – and it’s a big if – I end up benefitting from his death, that’s not my fault. That doesn’t mean I wanted him dead.’

‘Who did you meet?’ asked Seb.

‘I’ll tell you if we can keep it between us.’

‘That’s not how it works, Dev,’ said Seb. ‘You think Jack the Ripper said, “Okay, I’ll confess, but can we keep it between us?”’

‘They never actually caught Jack the Ripper,’ said Barb.

‘The point is,’ persisted Seb, ‘if you’ve broken the law, don’t be expecting me to keep it a secret.’

Dev took this in, looking over Seb’s shoulder. He followed her gaze. She was staring at a terrible abstract painting, all splotches and goops. Maybe it was one of those paintings elephants did.

‘I was meeting Olivia Elkins.’

‘The deputy mayor?’ asked Seb.

‘No, the dentist. Yes.’

‘Nothing wrong with meeting an elected representative,’ said Barb. ‘Tell them what you think. Democracy in action. In a hotel room after dark is unusual though. For three hours, too.’

‘Especially with you being a developer with a controversial project awaiting approval,’ added Seb. ‘Lots to discuss, was there?’

‘We’re seeing each other. I’m single, but she’s married and having an affair. That’s not a crime. It’s just what people do when they’re bored and realise they’re going to die one day.’

‘Then why lie about it?’ said Seb.

‘For her sake. Her husband doesn’t even know she’s bi.’

‘How long has it been going on?’ asked Seb.

Dev hesitated.

‘Again,’ said Barb, ‘he’ll check with the hotel. Talk to the deputy mayor.’

‘A couple of months.’

‘And in that time, has council discussed your development?’ asked Seb.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Get real,’ said Seb. ‘You’re trying to get a multi-million-dollar development up. Of course you know when council discussed it.’

‘Sorry to sound like a broken record,’ said Barb, gently, ‘but the council website lists everything they discuss at meetings.’

‘Yes,’ said Dev sullenly. ‘They’ve discussed it.’

‘How many times?’ asked Seb.

‘Two.’

‘Whilst it hasn’t yet got formal approval, there are some in Bullford Point who are surprised your development has got as far as it has, so quickly,’ said Barb. ‘I’m no expert, but my understanding is that a councillor who was having a relationship with a developer would have to declare a conflict of interest and – what’s that fancy American word? – recuse themselves from the discussion, and any vote. I wonder if that happened?’

The silence hung.

‘If she did participate in the discussion or vote while having an affair with you, then that’s the C word,’ added Seb.

‘Crime?’ Dev asked, eyes widening.

‘Corruption. Apparently they’re pretty strict on it these days. Might be a crime, too. Either way, it will void any favourable decisions about your development. Might want to put those bulldozers on hold for a bit.’

‘On the up side,’ added Barb brightly, ‘you have an alibi for murdering Joe. Although one theory we had is that you might have been the brains, and got Viv to do the dirty work. Buy the drugs, knock him out, inject him. Any thoughts on that?’

‘Didn’t happen.’

‘Seb was saying you used to have Viv wrapped around your finger.’

‘The idea of us teaming up to do anything is ridiculous. The idea of us killing Joe is awful and offensive. Years ago Viv liked me, but that was just because I was an attractive, outgoing female. He would have fallen for any girl who smiled at him. He liked Sal too. Yes, I talked to him about the development before Joe died, and since. And of course I’m trying to persuade him to sell. But I haven’t put a spell on him.’

‘He liked Sal, did he?’ asked Barb.

‘He was equally awkward around both of us. We both smiled at him, so he was probably in love with us both.’

‘How much did Gary invest with you?’

‘That’s confidential.’

Seb tried a hard stare. Surprisingly, it worked.

‘A fair bit,’ said Dev. ‘Low six figures.’

‘Would he have been concerned that if Joe didn’t sell, he might not see his money again?’

‘Not at all,’ said Dev. ‘He might not have got the return he hoped for, but worst-case scenario was that he got his money back. Of course he would have.’

‘One more thing. Did you ever give Joe money?’ asked Barb.

‘No, definitely not.’

‘A down payment to tide him over? Cash?’

‘No. He asked me, a couple of weeks before he died, but I told him we needed him to sign up first. Then he changed his mind and fucked everything up.’

‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ said Barb. ‘Another is perhaps that you “fucked everything up” by inducing the deputy mayor to corruptly push your development.’

Dev gave her a cold stare. ‘There’s no evidence that happened.’ She looked nervously at Seb. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m a cop, Dev. If I don’t report this, I’m corrupt too.’ He stood.

Barb followed his lead. ‘One word of advice. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but times of stress and all. Don’t hammer that cocaine. Very tempting, I’d imagine, but it’s only a temporary escape. Won’t fix anything. Just what I think. You’re an adult.’

*

As he started his car and headed back to Bullford Point, Seb tried to process what had happened. He had solved something, even if it wasn’t what he thought he was solving.

‘Well, we get results,’ said Barb. ‘The odd couple, working hand in glove. Like Abbott and Costello. They were funnier than us, obviously, but we’re more dogged.’

‘Do you think your theory about Dev and Viv working together is still alive?’

Barb frowned. ‘Assuming Dev was telling the truth, she’s alibied on the night Joe died, but they could still have planned it together, and Viv could have done it. I still find it hard to believe Viv would kill his brother, but it’s not impossible. We know he bought drugs. And if we think it might all be linked to Sal being assaulted in Sydney, we now know Viv liked Sal. If he had fallen for her back then … he’s not good with people. Maybe he got worked up and it all came out in a physical way.

‘If Viv wasn’t involved, perhaps someone else was working with Dev. What about Gary? He invested in her development. Dev said that he would have got his money back, but that might not be true. If Gary needed that development to happen, financially, and then was faced with the prospect of losing most of his investment, well … Could he have done it?’

‘I can’t imagine him …’ Seb trailed off, shaking his head. ‘But then again, I could never have imagined lots of things that have already happened.’

CHAPTER 50

‘What do they want to meet about?’ Gary paced up and down his deck, ignoring his wide, high view over the bay toward Ettalong.

‘Network people always want to meet. It’s what they do.’

‘Are they concerned? About ratings?’

‘They’re always concerned about ratings. They’ll tell us they want them to be higher.’

‘But does that mean …’

‘It’ll be fine. Although …’

‘Shit. Although?’

‘They may want a few tweaks.’

‘Changes!’

‘Just tweaks.’

‘Tweaks are fucking changes.’

‘Small changes. Last week’s ratings spooked them a bit, and made them feel they should do something, but it was only a small dip. We’ll smile and nod. No drama.’

After Justin rang off – had the producer sounded eager to end the call, or was that his imagination? – Gary slumped onto his daybed. He knew the code. The network wanting changes meant they were nervous, and if they were nervous and ratings didn’t improve, they might cancel the show.

Fuck! Just when, after years of paddling, he had finally managed to catch another big wave, was it going to dump him?

Lots of people had thought the premise of Which Duck? was ridiculous. He thought it was ridiculous, but he wasn’t going to say no because it was a job hosting a television show, which meant lots of money, increased profile, more media and corporate work and – just admit it – feeling important again. And he had nailed it. He had made the show fun, amusing and energetic for its target audience, basically pensioners and losers.

Objectively, thanks to him, It was a good show, but its quality wasn’t really the issue. Television success was as merit-based as roulette, and the consequences of failure only slightly less drastic than the Russian variety. Bad shows succeeded. Good ones failed. He had tried to avoid thinking about the possibility of Which Duck? failing, because he really didn’t want it to, but now those thoughts came cascading in.

Gary hid it well, but he had always been a worrier, and working in the unpredictable media and entertainment industry didn’t help. He had been blind-sided when the first show he hosted, Time To Shine, was cancelled after three years. That had been a decent run, and he was able to walk away smelling fresh with no reputational damage. Even so, it had been a dark time. Not his worst, but still.

His return to television had been more than good luck. He had invested in the long term by getting a new agent who took a higher commission, but was more proactive. He grew a big social media presence, because networks looked at that, and cultivated relationships with producers: driving down to Sydney for parties, inviting them out on his boat, pitching them shows. None of his show ideas went anywhere, and he kind of knew that none of them were great (apart from The Tormentor, where school bullies and their victims had to work together to survive a week in the wilderness – that would have been a hit), but it kept his name in front of them.

He had cultivated the Face Ache guys, got the audition for Which Duck?, worked hard and smashed it. Thank God it wasn’t Which Cat? because he was allergic, but honestly he’d been that desperate that if it had been, he would have pushed through until his throat closed up.

If Which Duck? got cancelled after only a couple of months, it would not be a good look, especially as it was a late-afternoon game show, already risky territory for a comedian. He would carry that loser’s stench, and everyone in the media had a very good sense of smell. Dominos would tumble and other work would dry up, destroying his optimistic (over-optimistic?) financial projections. His recent Tesla purchase was now looking less like an astute investment in good-vibes branding and more like economic recklessness.

His stomach churned. What if everything came crashing down? What if his career ended up in the toilet?

His therapist would tell him that this was just his tendency to catastrophise, but what if it was worse than that? What if all the bad things that might happen, did happen? Then he wasn’t fucking catastrophising, was he? He was just being realistic.

Deep breath in. Ooout. In. Ooout.

He tried to look at the positives. He was healthy. He had a boat. The show might not get axed. Dev had promised him a great return on his investment, although that was now dependent on Viv agreeing to sell, so he fucking well better.

His thoughts drifted to Joe. Poor Joe. Good guy. Talented, too. Gary respected talent, but you needed more than that. You needed discipline, single-mindedness and perseverance, all of which Joe lacked.

He stood up. Fuck them all. He would go for a run.

CHAPTER 51

Mid-afternoon, sun beaming, Andy wandered into Killara’s Greengate Hotel. It looked like an English manor house from the outside, but inside it was just another pub. He made his way past daytime drinkers, peering into the darkest corners, as that was where Donny would be, if here. A hired killer’s not going to sit at the bar with his back to the door.

To be good at his job Andy had to be inscrutable. A tightly closed book. He was, by nature, a pretty open, friendly guy, so it was something he’d had to work at. He had done an online course, and practised whenever he went into a shop. Now he was pretty good.

For hired killers, inscrutability was even more important. Andy felt some sympathy for them. Most were highly skilled at their job and, like everyone, appreciated a bit of external validation. However, unlike a doctor casually dropping into conversation the amazing piece of bowel untwisting they had done, or a teacher mentioning the child criminal they had moulded into a charity worker, if killers humblebragged, they got a non-parole period of twenty-three years.

Nonetheless, some were better at inscrutability than others. Donny – first name only, and Andy assumed it wasn’t his real one – had been in the army, developed a taste for killing, then watched a TED Talk about making your passion your job. He was excellent at killing people, but not quite top drawer at inscrutability, especially after a few beers, and he did like a few beers, often bedding down at the Greengate from lunchtime. Andy wasn’t expecting Donny to confirm or deny anything, but Andy was pretty good at reading people and reckoned he had a chance of getting some hint at whether he had killed Karen Kemp. Not that he was going to ask him outright. Subtlety was required.

He ordered a schooner of New and his phone pinged.

Far corner on your left

He might not be gold-medal at inscrutability, but Donny didn’t miss much.

‘Fuck me, a debt collector. Ooh, I’m scared,’ he mocked as Andy sat down in the booth, the darkest and furthest from the front door. Donny’s top half was slim, and covered by a smart jacket over a blue business shirt. He had a sensible haircut, side part, and tortoiseshell glasses. If Andy met him at a party, he would have guessed middle management at a bank.

‘I bet you are,’ replied Andy, smiling. ‘Just passing, felt like a beer, thought I’d pick a pub where I might know someone.’

‘How sweet.’

It was sarcasm, but Andy didn’t believe it. Killing was lonely work. There was the occasional psycho who hated everyone, but most of them liked a chat, same as anyone.

‘Why you round here?’ Donny asked.

‘On my way back from the Central Coast,’ Andy said, eyeing Donny closely, but trying not to show it.

No reaction.

‘Bullford Point, actually. Know it?’

‘Heard of it, yeah.’

Neutral words, but had there been the briefest, smallest movement of eye and mouth before he replied? A micro-twitch?

‘It’s got it all, man. Bush, beach, bay. Never been there?’

‘Nah.’

Nothing unusual this time. Maybe he had imagined the twitch.

‘Go. You’ll thank me.’

Slight smile. ‘Maybe I will.’

Did the smile contain a certain knowingness? Or was he overanalysing?

Andy would have liked to linger on the subject, but didn’t dare. You don’t want someone like Donny thinking you were taking the piss. Instead they talked footy, cricket, the Hinge date Donny had been on the previous night (‘Dropped her home, but bottled out of the kiss.’).

After an hour, Andy made his excuses. As he walked out, he wondered about the twitch and the knowingness. Had he imagined them?

CHAPTER 52

As dusk fell, Barb sat inside and watched the rosellas eat seed through the glass doors. The cockatoos were yet to cotton on to the resumption of dinner service.

Her phone rang. ‘How nice to hear from you, Andy. Eaten the rest of the banana bread, yet?’

‘Yep. Very good, but listen. I spoke to a guy, and he twitched.’

‘It’s probably nothing, but worth getting checked out. I have a friend who has Parkinson’s, and that was an early sign.’

‘No. He twitched when I mentioned Bullford Point. But when I asked him if he’d been there, he said no, and didn’t twitch. But then I said he should visit, and he smiled in a sort of knowing way.’

‘Right?’

‘I think he was telling the truth that he hasn’t been there.’

‘So he didn’t kill Karen?’

‘I don’t think so. The twitch happened when I mentioned Bullford Point, not when I asked him if he’d visited.’

‘I’m usually quite good at keeping up, Andy, but I’m afraid you’ve lost me.’

‘He hasn’t been there, but Bullford Point means something to him. Maybe he’s planning a visit.’

‘You mean …?’

‘For a job. I might be wrong. I probably am. But I might not be. Do you know anyone up there who someone might think needs killing?’

‘No.’

‘I do. That nice lady who’s looking into two deaths that everyone thinks have been solved.’

Barb’s free hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh, goodness.’

‘So, be careful. Like I say, might be wrong, but thought I should tell you. Maybe a trip away for a few days?’

‘I’ll consider it carefully. Thank you, Andy.’

After he rang off she did a lap of the house, checking locks. Downstairs, in Julie’s room, the sliding window wasn’t shutting properly, so she fetched her toolkit and fixed it.

Back upstairs, she went to the fridge, extracted a bottle of wine, then thought better of it. Better to keep a clear head. She remembered the Strangler detective, John Mayne, saying that if you were the only one who knew something about a killer, you were in danger, because the killer had a reason to shut you up.

At first, investigating Joe’s death had been … not a game, it was too serious for that, but a puzzle to be solved. In addition, she supposed, it was her way of dealing with his death.

Now, she was more convinced than ever that Joe was murdered, and the only way to find out the truth was to keep asking questions. But what if one of the people she was asking them of had actually killed Sal, Joe or Karen? Would they be tempted to shut her up too?

Shadows lengthened, night closed in and she had no one to share it with. Even the birds had gone quiet.

CHAPTER 53

Barb sat in the bus stop at the bottom of the hill. She had often seen Viv riding his bike in the early morning, and was hoping he would do so today.

She had woken early after an uneasy sleep, relieved to find that she hadn’t been murdered, arrived at the bus stop at 7 a.m., and been waiting an hour, browsing news on her phone and trying to care about it.

She glanced up the hill for the eight hundredth time, and there he was, flashing past. Instead of hiding, which might invite suspicion, she waved brightly and then walked up the road to her car.

She knew he was a serious rider, so expected he would be out for around an hour. She would give herself half that. She drove up the hill, turned right off the main road, right again, along a pot-holed dirt road, and into the dirt driveway of a plain, small, dull brown brick house, without views, backing onto the national park.

Given Andy’s warning that someone might – might – be out to get her, it felt oddly safer to be breaking into Viv’s house than to be at home.

They had been oiling a deck in Killcare when Joe had told her about breaking and entering.

‘You knock on the door first to check it’s empty.’

‘What if someone answers?’

‘Ask if Trevor’s there. They say no, then you look at your phone and go, “Sorry. I see what I’ve done. Wrong house.”’

‘What if there is a Trevor there?’

‘No one’s called Trevor anymore. If no one answers, go round the back. I carry a portable speaker, put on loud music, and smash a window. Then in. Dying art but, cos no one has cash anymore. Just jewellery and iPads, if you’re lucky.’

Barb didn’t have to worry about any of that; she used to clean Viv’s house. She walked around the side, lifted a watering can and picked up his spare key.

She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but expected she would know if she found it. Could the by all accounts ruthless way in which Joe had treated his family over the years have worn away all Viv’s brotherly affection? Add to that Viv’s inherent weirdness and his resentment at being short-changed by his mother’s will … was it enough for him to kill his younger brother?

Inside, the first door on the left was a bed-less, plain bedroom, containing a bike wheel, pump, various spanners and allen keys, and even a spare bike. She moved on. As she headed into the living room, she suddenly stopped and put her hand to her mouth. When Andy had warned her that danger might be coming, she had thought only of herself. What about Seb? If she was a potential target, surely he was, too. She grabbed her phone and texted him.

CHAPTER 54

The best part of Seb’s morning was his fifteen-minute walk around the bay to the station. He had a car at home and a police car at work, but he did almost all his commuting on foot. There wasn’t a footpath as such, just gravel between the edge of the road and the sloped metre-high rock wall that currently led down to half-metre-deep water, and at low tide led down to sand.

As he walked, he pulled out his phone and took another look at the photo of the man that Karen Kemp, he was sure, had seen meet her criminal ex-boyfriend in the park.

He stopped. ‘You idiot,’ he said aloud.

All he had to do was feed the photo into Google Image Search and he could probably discover who it was. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Because he was an idiot.

He opened Google Image Search and uploaded the photo.

One result. Gordon Houston, board member of Denex, a mining company. Seb googled him. Former CEO of a merchant bank, now also on the boards of a small telco, a big bank and an airline. Houston was quoted in lots of media, commenting on business and the economy. Seb checked the date Karen had taken the screenshot of him. That day, the Sydney Morning Herald had run a story on unemployment, quoted Houston, and included the photo that Tom had found on Karen’s phone. She must have seen it and recognised him.

A bolt of panic passed through him. He had been keeping a timeline of events in Notes on his phone and opened it.

‘Fuck. Oh, fuck.’

The screenshot of Houston had been taken three days before Karen had seen Inspector Drummond. That meant she would have had the photo of Houston when she saw Drummond, and would therefore have shown him the photo. Of course she would have. But Inspector Drummond had told his assistant, Perkins, that Karen hadn’t been able to identify the man she had seen meet her ex-boyfriend. However, Seb had just identified Houston as being the man in the photo in under a minute. Drummond could have, too. Drummond had lied to Perkins.

Then, two days after Karen had visited Drummond, she was killed.

Had Drummond acted to protect corporate high flyer Gordon Houston from being exposed as having links to organised crime? Why would Drummond do that? Did he have a link to organised crime too? Had Drummond had Karen killed? Seb remembered what Tom had said. That when he was hiding outside Joe’s house the night Karen disappeared, he had sensed another presence. Had that been someone Drummond had sent to kill her?

Seb couldn’t think of another explanation that made sense. He really wished he could, because he had found the same photo that, it seemed, had got Karen killed, and he had sent it to Perkins, who would have forwarded it to his boss, Inspector Drummond. If Drummond was protecting Houston, Seb was now in danger.

His phone pinged. He heard a distant shouting and looked up. Viv was on his bike up near the corner, on his way back from the shop, riding hard toward him. Viv shouted again, but Seb couldn’t make out the words. Not like Viv to shout.

Viv took a hand from his handlebars and pointed at him.

Seb stared back and did an exaggerated shrug.

Then he realised Viv was actually pointing over his shoulder.

Seb became aware of another noise. An engine. He turned. A car was speeding toward him.

CHAPTER 55

He sat looking out the window. What a view. Across Parramatta and down the river toward the city. One he would never get sick of.

‘We need to settle these budget figures. How much of the pie for each of Homicide, the organised crime taskforce, cybercrime, the drug taskforce and the armed robbery taskforce?’

Decisions, decisions.

‘Armed robbery is down and will decrease further,’ he said. ‘Less cash about.’

‘Of course.’

‘How about we cut their budget by thirty per cent and reallocate it to cybercrime?’ He phrased it as a question. It was good to give others the impression they were part of the process, even if it was he who ultimately made the decisions. ‘Cyber is a big growth area. Organised crime is important, but we’re spending bucketloads and we only catch the occasional mid-level functionary, who never gives up anyone valuable because they’re scared of getting killed. I’d think fifteen percent less to organised crime and reallocate that to Homicide. The murder-solve rate is always our most visible KPI. Agree?’

‘Very sensible. What about the reorganisation of the Southern District?’

And on it went, as he tried to balance what was best for the NSW Police, the community and Veronica Daly, who ran drug and other illegal operations in Sydney’s north and west.

The thing about being corrupt – and there was no point pretending he wasn’t – is that you make one choice, in his case thirteen years ago, to get some extra money in return for doing something you shouldn’t, and that’s it. You’re in. Back then it had been a lifestyle choice. He had three kids, a mortgage, private school bills were about to kick in and, holy shit, electricity prices! These days, thanks largely to Veronica, he had a much nicer, un-mortgaged house, another one up the coast, and was able to take his family on the holidays they deserved. He didn’t spend recklessly. No flashy car, and he made sure to drop enough hints about a windfall inheritance from his wife’s wealthy, childless great aunt, so that a few weeks in Europe or South America wouldn’t raise eyebrows.

Even as the magnitude of his corruption grew, he had never been overly troubled by anxiety. To be honest, the daily tightrope he walked was exciting. It made him feel alive. Not only did he have the responsibilities and demands of his high-ranking police job, but also, lurking beneath, was a whole other set of competing priorities. Having to continually solve problems and find solutions that kept both his employers happy was endlessly challenging. How could he look like he was energetically trying to fight organised crime, whilst simultaneously protecting Veronica’s organisation? For thirteen years, he had given Veronica value for money whilst never giving anyone in the police any reason to doubt his commitment. It was quite the achievement, one that made him proud, although he doubted he would get an Order of Australia for it.

Fighting organised crime was a bit like the middle laps of the 1500-metre races he had run at school. The first lap was getting sorted out while trying not to trip over, the final lap was a mad dash, but in the middle, everyone marked time, and nothing much happened. It was difficult for spectators to tell whether a particular runner coming, say, seventh was running within themselves, conserving energy for the final sprint or, alternatively, was going as fast as they could as they desperately strived to stay in touch with the leaders. Both look pretty much the same.

And so it was with his job. Fighting organised crime was a slow, gradual process. It was hard for anyone to tell whether he was running, and pushing others to run, as fast as possible, or deliberately staying a couple of steps behind the crims, never going quite fast enough to catch them. He chased other groups as fast as he could, but when pursuing Veronica, ran within himself. He still expended effort and did everything he should. It’s just that he made sure that he didn’t get much closer.

Part of his success lay in keeping Veronica’s expectations realistic. At first he had had to educate her that just because she was paying him, it didn’t mean he could keep her organisation completely out of trouble. It just meant he could share certain pieces of information, and sometimes nudge an investigation a little off course.

One thing he did need was a poker face, especially when something from one world unexpectedly popped up in the other, as had happened when he met Karen Kemp. Importantly, correct procedure had been followed. He always made sure he saw potential informants personally in case their information related to Veronica’s organisation and he had to do some damage control.

Karen was a young woman, not conventionally beautiful, but with that game look. Unless he was projecting. He had learned about that in a workshop – imputing his desires onto another person. You want to have sex with someone, so you imagine they want to have sex with you. Quiet common, apparently. Anyway, he wasn’t going to do anything about that. Being a corrupt cop was all about discipline.

When Karen told him that her ex-boyfriend was Veronica’s nephew, and she could identify someone ‘important looking’ he had met, he hadn’t been alarmed. In fact, it could have been an opportunity. He had been almost too successful in pushing investigations away from Veronica recently, and this might provide an opportunity to balance the ledger and avoid any perception that he was favouring them. As long as the fall guy was someone acceptable to Veronica, of course. She understood that sometimes arrests had to be made. In fact, they had had strategy meetings about which particular arrest would create the most noise, whilst causing Veronica the least inconvenience. Sometimes, she even suggested a particular employee be targeted, hinting it would save her the trouble of ridding herself of a less than stellar worker. In effect, she was outsourcing her human resources issues to the police.

He started to get concerned when Karen showed him the photo she had found of the man on a news site, because he knew he was important to Veronica. Gordon Houston was on several big boards. Once a month, he met one of Veronica’s people in a park, and shared some of the confidential decisions those boards had made. That information was then onsold by Veronica to stockbrokers, merchant bankers and investors, who used it to improve their decision-making. Good old insider trading. It had become a lucrative and comparatively low-risk income stream for Veronica, and logistically much simpler than continually moving drugs around.

He had wondered what was in it for Houston. Surely he had no need for money. At one of their rare face-to-face meetings Veronica implied it was sex. ‘He has certain preferences. We facilitate them.’ He had tried not to let his imagination run wild. His preferences in that area were strictly vanilla. Life was complicated enough.

It had been Houston, apparently, who had insisted there be no electronic or paper trail, and that the safest way to communicate his information was to sit next to someone on a park bench and tell them. That made sense, but Veronica had made a mistake entrusting the task to her boastful nephew.

As soon as Karen had showed him the photo, his mind had started to race. Veronica would not want to lose Houston. Her dream was to slowly transition away from drugs toward ‘clean crime’, as she oxymoronically called it. He needed time to work out the options, so had thanked Karen, told her they may be able to help, but that it would take a few days to jump through the hoops. In the meantime, ‘Not a word to anyone. It could put you in danger.’

Just in case, he enquired about her daily routine. ‘Standard procedure whenever we consider an offer to help. We need to know about you, so, if needed, we can protect you.’ She told him she lived with her boyfriend at Bullford Point, worked in a shop, went walking in the bush or along the beach most days, and liked a walk after dinner.

After she left, he thought it through. He knew what Veronica would say. ‘Do whatever you need to protect Houston.’ So he would.

Could he give Karen a ‘Help’ letter for court and bury Houston’s name? No, too many checks and balances. Files to open, forms to fill out. Could he tell Karen that the information she provided wasn’t of any value? Not believable. A corporate titan had met with organised crime. When she went to court for her stealing matter, all she had to do was express disappointment, anger or confusion to the officer who’d arrested her, show them the photo of Houston and, if that officer had even the least bit of diligence or curiosity and pulled the thread, his double life might be exposed.

The final option wasn’t one he turned to readily. It was always the last resort, but here it seemed unavoidable. The only way to contain the information she had stumbled upon was to kill her.

He hated it when it came to this. It wasn’t often, just five times in thirteen years, and on the credit side, there had been another four times when Veronica had wanted to have someone killed, but he had found an alternative solution, which meant that the net result of his involvement with Veronica had really only been one death. He could live with that. Most of the time.

He sighed, but it was not a sigh of regret. It was the sigh you emit when the sink is full of dirty dishes, the printer is out of paper, or rego is due on the car. A sigh signifying there is an unpleasant task to be done.

Then it was just about the ‘how’. He preferred to do his own dirty work, but not because he enjoyed it. He found killing unpleasant, but the fewer people involved, the less likely anything would leak. He would also be able to ensure that she didn’t suffer. Plus, it was good to get out of the ivory tower and remind himself it was all real, that there was a price to be paid, and to test whether he still wanted to pay it. So far, he did.

Two nights later, he drove to Bullford Point, going the long way to avoid police cameras, parked a kilometre from Karen’s house and walked, noting the big blocks, plentiful vegetation and poor street lighting. Plenty of places to hide. He reached Karen’s house, noted the van with plumber’s signage in the driveway, secluded himself between a tree and a bush, and waited.

Karen emerged at 7.05 p.m. He was about to follow her when a man emerged from the same house and trailed her from a distance. Odd. He followed them both to a house near the water, next to the jetty. Karen knocked, a man opened the door, they kissed and he pulled her in. So that’s why she liked a walk after dinner.

The man following Karen hid in some bushes. Her boyfriend, no doubt. That could complicate matters. Perkins hid among some other bushes up the hill. After twenty minutes the boyfriend, who hadn’t been able to stay still for longer than ten seconds, emerged and walked back up the hill. Sensible fellow. Complication removed. A couple of minutes later the plumber’s van drove past, heading out of town. Goodo.

Karen left an hour and a half later. He followed her back up the hill toward her home, pulling on his black leather gloves. Her route took her past a track he had noted that led up into the national park. That’s where he said, ‘Hello.’ She turned, and he showed her the gun. Told her he’d shoot if she made a sound. Saw her recognise him, and her eyes go wide with fear. Walked her up and over the hill, grabbed her from behind and broke her neck. He had learned how on a police training course. Irony, much?

He had considered taking her phone, because it contained Houston’s photo, but these days, nothing digital properly vanished. If he took it, Homicide would think there was something incriminating on it and fine-tooth comb the contents. If he deleted the photo, it would still be in the cloud, a red flag for anyone noticing the discrepancy.

He did, however, cautiously approach the house, note the van’s continued absence, and find the back door unlocked. He entered, found their bedroom and packed most of Karen’s clothes into a lavender bag that looked more likely to be hers than his. There was obviously tension in the relationship, so if he made it look like she had left him, it would delay any search and muddy the waters. Just in case. It was the little things.

On the way home, he dumped the bag and contents into three public bins in Gosford. As he drove back down the freeway he felt bad, but reminded himself that he had had no choice. It was a bit like killing a spider in your house. You feel sorry for it, you didn’t want it to die, but then again, it might frighten the kids.

He had not been concerned Homicide’s investigation would lead to him. Even if they discovered that he had met with Karen, he had done everything properly. He would simply say she had wanted to give information about a person involved with organised crime, but had been unable to identify the person she had seen, so no file had been opened. As it turned out, they never came. Instead, it appeared, they suspected the man Karen was having an affair with – Joe Griffith. He had hoped they wouldn’t arrest Joe. Ideally, he would draw all the heat of the investigation, but they would fall short of having enough to charge him.

Then he discovered that Joe had overdosed, which again made him feel bad, as no doubt the stress of being the major suspect for a murder he didn’t commit contributed. However, his death also closed the case, which was a great result. Swings and roundabouts. Never a dull moment.

CHAPTER 56

Seb leaped from the gravel at the side of the road onto the rock wall and jumped into the water. The car whizzed past the spot he had been a second ago, and screeched to a stop.

Seb sat in the water, stunned. The car door opened. A man in black jeans, skivvy and balaclava got out holding a gun. Instinctively, Seb reached for his holster, but he only put it on when he arrived at the station each morning.

Seb picked himself up, backed away, then turned and galloped through the water, knees high. He threw a look over his shoulder. The man strode purposefully toward the rock wall. It was getting deeper and Seb veered right toward a long pier. After several waded steps, he risked another look back. The man was now on the rock wall, raising his gun. Seb dived, and churned half a dozen strokes of frantic freestyle until he was underneath the pier, where he manoeuvred behind a wooden pillar and gasped for air. To his left, a spout of water leapt upwards. Then another to his right. They were the sort of splashes a rock might make, but even without looking around the pillar – he didn’t dare – he knew what was being aimed at him was something much more deadly.

*

Viv was on his knees hiding behind a parked car, his bike lying next to him. About twenty metres down the road the man who had been shooting at Seb stopped. Or had he just paused? Viv cautiously peeked over the bonnet at the man’s car, making a mental note of the number plate. The man stood on the rock wall staring at the pier, then strode purposefully toward it. Viv assumed Seb had swum under it to try to hide, and the shooter was off to finish the job.

Viv was scared, but then anger surged. How dare someone start shooting at someone in his home town! Before he knew it, he had stood and was shouting, ‘Hey! I’ve called triple zero!

The man turned.

‘The police are coming! They have your number plate!’

The shooter stared at him, then at the pier, and fired three shots into the water near the middle of the pier, snapping Viv out of his temporary boldness. He dived back down behind the car. Soon he heard a car start, and wheels screech and he peeked over the bonnet again. Man and car were gone.

Viv ran to the pier, looking for Seb.

CHAPTER 57

In Viv’s living room a big screen stared at a worn armchair, which was perpendicular to a less used-looking sofa. Against the far wall was a bookshelf. Science and history books, which left Barb both unsurprised and disinterested.

Where would you hide something if you were Viv? He lived alone and Barb suspected he didn’t have many visitors. Viv knew Seb was ‘writing a report’ into Joe’s death, but he would have no cause to think he was a suspect and bury anything incriminating in a hole in the bush.

Barb entered his bedroom and started opening drawers. In the bottom drawer of his cupboard she found a plastic bag containing three syringes. On her phone, she pulled up the photo of the syringe found next to Joe’s bed. Identical.

That didn’t mean Viv had killed Joe, she told herself. It just meant he had some explaining to do. She picked up one of the syringes and examined it. Then she heard a door open.

CHAPTER 58

Seb sat on a rock staring at the ground. He was only now realising that the water had been cold, but he didn’t know if it was that or the near-death experience that was making him shake. Viv had waded in and helped him to shore, and now he stood above him.

‘What the hell!?’ said Viv, eyes wide.

‘I think you saved me, Viv. He was coming to get me, until you shouted. Thanks.’

‘What the hell?’ Viv repeated, softly, eyes glazed.

Seb didn’t know the answer, but he did know that he didn’t want to go home or to the station, both places the man who had just tried to kill him would expect him to be. He did want to get warm though. ‘Can I have a shower at your place?’

Viv didn’t look thrilled, but, given the circumstances, could hardly refuse. ‘We’ll have to walk. Is it … safe?’

Seb looked around the bay to the school. It was coming up to 8.30 a.m. Cars were starting to offload kids, and would continue to for the next half hour. Added to the school traffic was a growing stream of work-bound cars, meaning that, whilst just a few minutes ago the road had been almost empty, the bulk of the walk to Viv’s would now be along a reasonably busy, and therefore safer from assassination, road.

‘Yeah. He won’t come back now.’ But would he later?

‘I got the number plate,’ said Viv.

‘Good one,’ said Seb. ‘Although it was probably stolen and has already been dumped.’

They walked along the road, Viv pushing his bike. ‘Are you going to call the pol— other police?’

‘Who do the police call in an emergency, right?’ Seb’s automatic regurgitation of an in-joke he had first heard on day one of training left Viv staring at him, bewildered. Should he call it in? If he did, the cavalry would descend. The attempted murder of a police officer was a big deal, and he would be asked lots of questions by detectives, maybe even by those Homicide pricks. Did they do attempted murders, or only successful ones? In any event, it would blow things sky high, and the scrutiny would probably make any further progress in his on-the-quiet, multi-regulation-breaching investigation into Joe and Karen’s deaths difficult. Besides, why investigate an attempted murder when he was already pretty sure who had ordered it. Inspector Drummond.

‘I’ll do it later,’ he said.

As they walked, Viv recounted everything that had happened, as if he thought Seb hadn’t been there, said ‘What the hell?’ a couple more times, and then lapsed into silence. Seb was relieved Viv wasn’t good at small talk because he didn’t feel up to it.

As they entered Viv’s house, Seb heard something or someone approaching from the back, and started to panic. Viv wasn’t a dog person, was he? Was it the killer? How could he have known he would come to Viv’s? For the second time that morning he felt for his gun and for the second time remembered he didn’t have it. Footsteps approached. He backed toward the front door, as Barb appeared.

‘Hello there,’ said Barb brightly, her smile and eyes a little too wide.

‘Barb? Why are you in my house?’ asked Viv.

‘Sebastian. Why are you soaked?’

‘Barb?’ repeated Viv. ‘Why?’

‘Let myself in with the spare key,’ she said, as if that explained everything. ‘I had some of Joe’s things to drop in.’

‘What things?’

‘Oh. There’s the silly thing. I forgot them. Left them at home. Getting doddery.’

‘Are you holding something behind your back?’ asked Seb.

‘Umm …’ Barbara slowly brought her right hand in front of her.

‘Barb, why are you holding a syringe?’ asked Seb.

‘You found some old syringes of Joe’s?’ suggested Viv.

‘No, Viv.’

He stared at her, eyes cold.

*

They had agreed to hold all questions until Seb had had a shower. Whilst he did, Viv sat at his kitchen table as Barb made three cups of tea, trying to minimise the time her back was to Viv. Not because she thought he was going to leap up and attack, but, well, she couldn’t rule it out.

The kitchen, like the kettle, was small and functional, hardly big enough for the round table it contained, which Viv had surrounded with two extra plain wooden chairs he had fetched from out the back somewhere. Barb had half expected him to come back with an axe, and had made sure she was close to the knife rack when he returned.

‘Milk?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Sugar?’

‘No.’

When she ran out of things to ask about and do with tea, she sat the three cups and herself at the table, as far away from Viv as she could manage, which wasn’t far at all. As they wordlessly sipped, the syringe lay accusingly between them. Why was Seb taking so long with his damned shower?

‘Why was he wet?’ she asked.

Viv explained.

‘Oh, my goodness.’ Andy’s warning. She felt terrible she hadn’t warned Seb earlier.

Seb reappeared, wearing one of Viv’s tracksuits. It was too big for him and the legs covered his feet in a way that looked surprisingly non-terrible, almost like a new fashion innovation of all-in-one pant-shoes.

Barb stood up. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Bit shocked. But warm.’

They both sat.

‘Who was it?’

‘Didn’t give his name,’ said Seb, taking a long, noisy slurp of tea.

‘Obviously, someone trying to kill you is important, but there’s also this syringe,’ said Barb, taking charge. ‘Which first? Sebastian, you’re the one who nearly got murdered. You decide.’

‘Viv, could we ask you about the syringe?’ Seb said.

‘It was in his bedroom. Three of them, actually,’ said Barb.

‘You broke into my house,’ Viv said to Barb.

‘Not breaking. I used the spare key.’

‘Without my permission. Illegal.’

‘Pretty sure you’re not a diabetic, Viv,’ said Seb. ‘Unless it was recently diagnosed?’

Viv looked as if someone had given him a kite and he was trying to work out whether it would fly. ‘No,’ he said, eventually.

‘There are various types of syringes,’ said Barb. ‘This one is the same type as the one found by Joe’s bed.’

Viv looked shocked. Barb suspected he didn’t have the skill set to be a convincing actor. But was he shocked about the syringes being the same, or just that she’d noticed it?

‘Viv, can you describe your relationship with Dev?’ requested Seb.

‘What? I don’t have one.’

‘She has said that she thinks she could get you to do anything she wants. Now, if she has been manipulating you, getting you to do things, it’s better you tell us about it now.’

Viv’s face screwed up like a crumpled face washer. ‘No. Nothing like that.’

‘Why the syringe, Viv?’ pushed Seb.

Viv looked from Seb to the syringe to Barb to Seb again. He took a deep breath and seemed to gather himself. ‘Firstly, it was an illegal search and anything found during it is not admissible evidence in court. Secondly, I have no obligation to answer any questions. Thirdly, despite that, I want to put on the record that I had nothing to do with my brother’s death and continue to believe it was a self-administered drug overdose.’ He leaned back and crossed his arms.

‘Fourthly,’ said Barb, ‘why have you got syringes in your bedroom?’

‘I don’t have to answer.’

‘Look, Viv,’ said Seb, ‘I don’t know if these syringes are enough for Homicide to re-open their investigation into Joe’s death, but they might be. If they’ve got nothing to do with it, tell us. Otherwise, my obligation, illegal search or not, is to tell Homicide what we’ve found. They would then, I imagine, get a warrant to search your house and formally interview you.’

Viv looked resolutely at the wall. ‘Hypothetically, if I had broken the law by possessing drugs and that was all, what would you do? Hypothetically.’

Seb spread his arms. ‘As you say, it’s an illegal search. What can we do? If it’s just possession, I’m not fussed.’

Viv looked at the syringe again, and took a deep breath. ‘Steroids.’

‘Huh?’ was all Barb could manage.

‘You didn’t look under my bed. They’re there.’

‘Why?’

‘Cycling.’

‘But … your races are amateur, aren’t they?’ Seb asked.

‘Lance Armstrong didn’t cheat for money. He cheated because he wanted to win. I’ve been club champion three times, won thirty-eight individual races, second twenty-three times.’ His jaw clenched. ‘Then someone new and faster arrived, and I stopped winning. I trained harder. No good. He’s younger than me, and always will be. Maybe he uses them, too. If he does, then I’m just making it fair.’

‘If it’s just steroids …’ began Barb. ‘Tanya the drug dealer didn’t want to identify you, even though she was identifying other people for me. Arms were twisted, not by me I hasten to add, and it’s only a metaphor anyway, but she still wouldn’t say what she sold to you. That made me think it must be something awful. But steroids?’

‘It’s a new thing for her, apparently,’ said Viv. ‘Doesn’t want anyone to know because she’s supposed to leave steroids to some other dealer. Market segmentation. Told me to swear not to tell anyone. As if I was going to.’

‘How did you find Tanya?’ asked Seb.

‘Joe. A few years ago, he came home and told Mum he’d quit drugs. I didn’t believe him, so I followed him, and that’s where he went. A couple of months ago, I knocked on her door.’

‘I guess it explains you shouting at a man with a gun,’ said Seb. ‘Bit of ’roid rage?’

Viv considered this. ‘I did feel angry.’

‘You should watch that,’ said Barb. ‘What about the syringes being the same?’

‘Coincidence, obviously,’ said Viv. ‘I ordered them from Amazon.’ He narrowed his eyes at Barb. ‘Did you think I killed him?’

‘Umm … it was a lead, so … Anyway, you’ve cleared it up. Although …’

‘What?’

‘Well, if I was going to kill someone by overdosing them with drugs, I’d work out a cover story in case anyone ever discovered I’d bought the drugs.’

‘Come on. If I killed him, and I didn’t, you think I’d be dumb enough to keep the syringes?’

Barb wasn’t sure if Viv was more offended that she suspected he killed his brother, or that he lacked the brains to dispose of the evidence.

‘But if you want further proof.’ Viv stood, turned, and pulled down his lycra shorts.

Barb leaned as far back as she could. His underpants were sky blue and dotted with tiny bike riders on tiny different coloured bikes. Beneath them, on his lower cheeks, were several small puncture marks, some fresh, some old.

‘Do you think I’d shove needles in my bum for a cover story?’ he said, pulling his pants back up. ‘You should go now. Seb, you probably want to work out who tried to kill you, and I don’t want to be involved in that.’ He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and held it out. ‘I wrote down the rego.’

Seb took it and heaved himself up. ‘Viv, if you hadn’t shouted at him … well, thanks.’ He extended his hand.

Viv peered at it suspiciously and then briefly, uncomfortably, nodded.

CHAPTER 59

At Barb’s house they had another cup of tea.

‘Do we cross Dev and Viv off the suspect list?,’ asked Seb.

Barb shook her head. ‘No. Just because Dev’s alibied on the night, doesn’t mean she didn’t plan it. And Viv using steroids doesn’t mean he didn’t kill Joe. Maybe he was dumb enough to keep the syringes. I do feel, and yes it’s just a feeling, that Joe’s death is about more than an immediate financial motive. It’s not just that Dev needed the development to happen, or that Viv wanted the house. I think it goes back to what happened to Sally, and the reason she left Sydney.’

Seb’s head was starting to muddle. A man had shot at him. Several times. He shook his head vigorously, like a dog just out of the water.

‘I’m sorry. I’m rattling on and someone just tried to kill you.’

‘I saw the text you sent telling me to be careful. How did you know?’

‘I know a guy.’

‘What sort of a guy?’

‘A bad guy, but he’s actually quite nice.’ Barb told Seb about Andy, how she had quizzed him on neck-breaking and wet work, and his warning that a hired killer might be on his way to Bullford Point. ‘And when he told me, all I thought of was myself. I totally forgot about you until this morning. I’m so sorry.’

‘Luckily they missed. Both car and bullet.’

‘Who? Why? Any idea?’

‘I think it was because I’ve worked out who arranged to have Karen killed.’ Seb explained how he found the photo of Gordon Houston. ‘Then I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.’ Second stupidest, he reminded himself. ‘I sent it to the police inspector’s assistant, who would have shown it to the inspector.’

‘Why is that stupid?’

Seb did some more explaining, slowly, because it was complicated. ‘The only thing that makes sense, is if Inspector Drummond is in bed with organised crime. Three days after Karen shows him the photo, she’s killed. Then the day after I send the same photo to his office, someone tries to kill me.’

Barb’s brow furrowed. ‘Remember what Detective Mayne said: if you find out something and only you know it, you’re in danger. As soon as you tell others, you’re safe.’

Seb nodded. ‘You’re right. I’m going to call Internal Affairs.’

Barb nodded, then said, ‘Sorry, I’m probably missing something, but why are you so sure it’s the inspector? You sent the photo to his assistant. If someone there is corrupt, does it have to be the inspector? Couldn’t it be the assistant?’

‘No, because he told me it was the inspector who met with Karen, not him.’

‘Yes. He told you that’s what happened. How do you know it’s true?’

‘Well, because …’ he began, and then stopped, because he realised there weren’t any good words to go after that. ‘Shit.’ He picked up his phone and flicked through his contacts. ‘I did training with someone who works at the Parramatta office.’ He found Audrey Roberts’ number and dialled. She picked up on the third ring and he did small talk for the minimum acceptable time.

‘You still working in Parramatta?’

‘Yeah. In Fraud.’

‘Quick question. What’s Inspector Drummond like?’

‘Why?’

‘I’m thinking of applying for a transfer there,’ he began, the lie just appearing in his head, as if he had a ChatGPT implant generating them. ‘But I’ve been on my own a lot up here on the Central Coast, which means I have a lots of autonomy. It would be a big change, so I just want to suss out the lie of the land, find out what the big boss is like.’

‘He’s all about five-year plans, strategic principles, values and mission statements. Sounds like bullshit, but he’s actually making changes that seem to be improving the way we do things. Less of a boys’ club, more evidence-based decisions, less dick-swinging “hunches”. No interest in operational matters, though.’

‘What about his assistant? Perkins, is it?’

She chuckled. ‘He’s more than an assistant.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He runs the joint. Perkins takes Drummond’s principles, which are vague shit like, “Better community engagement”, and turns them into specific policies. Makes them happen.’

‘Let me give you a hypothetical. If a civilian wanted to give information to get a “Help” letter for court, they have to go to the inspector, right? If it was just some random off the street, who would conduct the actual interview? The inspector, or Perkins? Or someone else?’

‘Oh, Perkins for sure. No doubt. The inspector wouldn’t do that. No way. And Perkins wouldn’t delegate it. He’s a control freak.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, and rang off.

When Constable Hackett had told him she had referred Karen Kemp to Inspector Drummond’s office, she said, ‘They won’t tell you shit.’ But Perkins had told him lots about it. Why?

John Mayne had said that one reason he’d agreed to speak to Joe about the Strangler investigation was to find out how much Joe knew. Had Perkins done the same to Seb? Had he asked him to come see him so he could work out how much Seb knew about Karen, and how dangerous Seb potentially was?

Perkins had praised Seb, and told him to get in touch with anything further he discovered. Seb had swallowed it all, felt special, but perhaps Perkins had only done it to ensure he got access to anything further Seb unearthed about Karen’s murder.

Seb remembered that at the end of their meeting, he had suggested to Perkins that the lack of anything in the Homicide file about Karen being an informant just meant the file had already been shut. And Perkins had responded, ‘Exactly. No conspiracy.’ Seb hadn’t even considered there might be a conspiracy, so why had Perkins said that? Perhaps because he knew there was one.

CHAPTER 60

‘Right. I’ll implement all that, sir. If that’s it, I might make an early getaway today. Tae kwon do.’

‘Yes, of course, Paul.’

Perkins took a final look out the window across the river and then returned to his smaller, viewless office. You can’t have everything. Being the big boss would create too many expectations from Veronica. Far better to be a rung down, the power behind the throne, especially when the person sitting on the throne, Inspector Drummond, was disinterested in detail and very open to suggestion on how his waffly, theoretical philosophies could be translated into properly costed policies.

After Karen Kemp’s Homicide file had been closed, it had seemed the matter was over until Constable Sebastian Baxter had contacted him. Perkins had a choice then: dead bat or cuddle. He could have said, ‘Sorry, classified information, can’t say,’ but the risk was that a curious, proactive officer might poke about on his own, which he had clearly done a bit of already. Instead, he’d decided to cuddle him like a favoured child, make him feel important, sate his curiosity, tell him how amazing he was, and then hopefully he’d piss off.

Sebastian had lapped it up like a patted dog. Perkins was sure he’d share anything further he discovered, and yesterday, he had, that damn photo of Houston that the constable had presumably found in Karen Kemp’s phone. Good proactive police work. Also, fuck! Sooner or later Sebastian would work out that Kemp must have brought the photo in with her when she came to see him, and that would be something of a smoking gun.

So he had another problem to solve. He had quite liked Sebastian. Good police officer, but they’re the ones who find out stuff. Once again, he ran through the options. Sebastian had proven to be tenacious, so there would be no talking him out of it. No buying him off either. After thirteen years, Perkins could smell a cop with the potential for corruption, and Sebastian was odorless. Try as he might, the only way of protecting himself Perkins could think of was to kill the constable. Bugger. It had only become necessary to silence a fellow officer once before. That was six years ago and he still had bad dreams about it.

This time he couldn’t get away himself – father-daughter dinner at the school, and cancelling so late could appear suspicious, and would infuriate his two teenage daughters – so he called in a professional. Texted ‘Donny’.

How about them raiders

He did actually go for the Canberra Raiders, but the text had nothing to do with that.

Next he wrote Seb’s name and address in block capitals in code, and left the piece of paper in a plastic bag under an oddly shaped rock under a particular tree in Parramatta Park. You didn’t want to be texting that stuff.

Now, back in his office, his phone pinged. Donny.

Reckon we might lose this weekend

An unsuccessful attempt. Fuckity fuck. This was why he disliked outsourcing. He replied.

There’s always next week

Code for: ‘Try again as soon as you can.’

Then his phone rang. Well, well, well. Constable Sebastian Baxter.

*

Seb had been put through to Senior Constable Joanna Dawes, a calm, middle-aged-sounding officer in Internal Affairs. He told her how he had continued to investigate Karen’s murder after Homicide closed the file, met Perkins, sent him the photo he found on Tom’s phone, the attempt on his life, and what he had discovered about Perkins and the inspector’s division of labour.

‘We’re going to look at this closely, and consider starting up an investigation,’ she said when he finished.

‘Well, you better do it quickly, because as soon as I hang up I’m going to call Perkins and tell him that you know everything I know.’

‘No, no, we need to investigate him secretly. That’s the way—’

‘He has a hit out on me!’ Seb heard his voice go high and panicky. He tried to hold it together. ‘He is trying to kill me because he thinks I’m the only one who is onto him. I need to tell him that you know everything too, so he realises there’s no point killing me.’

‘Look, I’ll talk to my boss, and maybe we can offer you some protection.’

‘Thanks, but I’m going to protect myself. As soon as he knows that I’ve told you, I’m safe. I can give you fifteen minutes. No more.’

‘Fifteen …? This is not how we do things.’

‘Or I can ring him now. Your call.’

There was a long pause.

‘Fifteen. Text me that photo straight away.’

CHAPTER 61

Perkins answered the phone. ‘Seb. What a surprise.’

‘Hi. I’m not saying someone trying to run me over and then shoot me today has anything to do with you, but just on the off chance it did, I want you to know that other people now know that Karen showed you the photo of Gordon Houston, and that you did nothing about it. It’s not a secret only I hold, so if anything happens to me, it doesn’t help you.’

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Okay, fine, say that. But get the message. Something happening to me does not help you.’

The line went dead. Perkins considered what he’d heard, but not for long, because he had to move. He had anticipated this day many times, and knew what to do.

First he texted Donny to call off the hit.

Not going to the game this weekend

Then he opened the cabinet at the back of his office, twiddled a dial, swung open the door of a small safe and extracted a leather wallet containing a passport – his photo, another name. Time to go. He had plenty of money in various bank accounts. All would be well.

He strolled briskly along the corridor, caught the lift to the ground floor and crossed the foyer. Just inside the building’s entrance stood four people. No uniforms, but obviously police. Show nothing. Be polite. Bluff. Get past.

He smiled broadly without slowing. ‘Afternoon.’

‘Senior Sergeant Perkins, we need a word,’ said a tall, serious-looking woman.

‘Very happy to. In a rush now, but let’s do first thing tomoz.’ He was impressed with the casualness of his tone. Relaxed, carefree, colloquial.

They blocked the exit.

‘It needs to be now.’

PART 4

CHAPTER 62

Barb reclined on the couch, feet up, something she had never done when Dennis lived there. It had seemed improper. Now she couldn’t care less. What a day. Viv on steroids, Seb being shot at and then exposing a corrupt policeman who, it seemed, had very likely arranged Karen Kemp’s murder. She knew Joe couldn’t have killed her. One solved, more or less. Two to go.

She turned her mind to Joe’s podcast. She had hoped to find some sort of clue within the recordings, but hadn’t, really. Perhaps all Joe had put together was a collection of fragmented memories that shed no additional light on what had happened to Sal. He had searched, but not found.

And yet, Joe had acted as if he had found something. They had been in the car on the way home from cleaning a client’s gutters, a job Barb was very pleased to have a partner for, especially one who showed no fear of heights, when Joe had mentioned that Leanne was coming up to do an interview.

‘It’ll be interesting. Given we jumped into the drugs pool together, I don’t know how happy she’ll be that I’ve pulled myself out while she’s still in it.’

‘Perhaps you can help her?’

‘Plenty of people tried to help me over the years. Doesn’t do any good until something clicks in your head.’

‘What makes it click?’

‘Dunno. They say you have to hit rock bottom, but I hit it plenty of times and didn’t do anything. For years you can’t, then one day you can. Anyway, I’m making progress with the podcast. Someone told me something about Leanne and Sal that I didn’t know before. Be interesting what Leanne says about it.’

‘What did they tell you?’

He tapped the side of his nose. ‘All in good time.’

The thing was, Barb had listened to everything Joe had recorded, and couldn’t recall anyone saying much about Leanne and Sal, except that Leanne didn’t like Sal, which Joe, surely, already knew. Where, then, was the new information Joe had been interested in? She frowned. Had she missed something?

Only one way to find out. She slid her feet off the couch and grabbed Joe’s laptop from the coffee table.

Two hours later she was none the wiser. She had listened to everything except Leanne’s interview again, and no one had said anything that Joe wouldn’t already have known about Sal and Leanne.

*

Barb had suggested he watch a funny movie to relax after the day he’d had, but Seb had decided on a podcast. He opened a beer and plonked down on the sofa, full of defrosted spag bol. He wished Uber Eats would hurry up and get to Bullford Point.

He took a swig. Someone had tried to kill him. Fuck. It was still kind of unbelievable. He wondered how Internal Affairs were going with Perkins. Dawes had texted that she would update him in the morning.

Barb had emailed him the final sound file she had found on Joe’s computer – ‘Sal’s Last Night In Sydney And After’ – and told him he should listen to it. Sound quality was better with headphones, but he was too spooked to block his aural early-warning system, so he just pressed play on his phone.

Listening to everyone describing that last night made him feel uncomfortable again, especially the bit where Joe confronted him about why he had returned to the pub after leaving with Sal. Joe had thought he was lying, and he was right.

After Joe and Sal became an item, Seb had convinced himself that his conclusion that he’d be a better boyfriend for Sal than Joe was not entirely self-serving. Joe was reckless. Joe was a cheater – because he had still been with Leanne when he and Sal had got together. Often, Joe was a good guy, but Seb was sure he was a better one. As humans had done for thousands of years, Seb tried to work out how to get what he wanted. If he wanted to be with Sal, first she and Joe had to break up. How, then, could he make that happen?

Sal was always punctual, whereas Joe had a more fluid relationship with time. Seb exploited it. Sometimes it was as simple as being at the pub with Joe and, knowing Sal was expecting Joe to come around at a particular time, keeping him there a bit longer by shouting a last round or two, knowing Joe would never say no to a free beer. If Sal mentioned Joe was coming over after work, Seb would pop into the pub as Joe finished his shift, suggest a drink or a bite to eat, and afterwards, that they walk home, because that took longer than the bus. Joe would turn up late and a bit pissed, Sal would be irritated, and Seb would feel both mission accomplished and guilty.

When Joe and he were at the pub, often with Gary, of course Joe talked about Sal. He said nice things, but also let slip a few frustrations. It wasn’t hard for Seb to innocently drop them to his flatmate.

‘How are you going on that new song, “Sparkling”?’

‘I’m really happy with it. Why?’

‘Oh, Joe was saying the chorus wasn’t quite there yet.’

‘The chorus is the best bit. What did he …?’

‘Oh. Maybe I got it wrong. Sorry.’

More tension seeded.

It worked the other way too. Sal would confide in him, and he used that with Joe.

‘Back in the good books yet, Joe?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘No, nothing. Just, it seemed maybe Sal was a little pissed you were, apparently, late the other night.’

‘Fuck me. Ten minutes!’

Seb had even, at rehearsal, gently pushed back at parts of songs he knew Joe had written – ‘I don’t think the middle eight is working’ – to try to get Joe defensive and strident, knowing Sal wouldn’t like it. Seb knew he was behaving badly, but he could also see it was working. The couple’s ease was being gradually replaced by tension, in-jokes by sharp comments, smiles by eye-rolls.

Eventually, they broke up. Mission accomplished. Ends, means. He told himself that all he had done was to slightly speed up something that had been inevitable. Sal and Joe were fundamentally incompatible.

Then he had fucked it all up and Sal had run away.

His phone pinged. Claire.

Visiting soon?

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He had completely forgotten she had asked to see him, which in itself was pretty extraordinary.

Yes of course. Sorry, been snowed under with work

Perhaps better not to mention the assassination attempt.

Will get there as soon as I can

Another reason he wouldn’t sleep well tonight.

CHAPTER 63

Maybe she should listen to Leanne’s interview again, thought Barb.

Twenty-two minutes later she sat back, frowning. Joe had told Barb that he was going to ask Leanne something new about her and Sal, but there was nothing like that in the interview.

She opened Dev’s interview and clicked to the end.

JOE: I think that’s everything. Thanks so much, Dev.

DEV: Happy to help. Great to reminisce about old times, and about poor Sal. While I’m here, just curious, how are you feeling about our offer?

JOE: I’m impressed you managed to wait this long before asking. Let me just turn this off.

She clicked to the end of Gary’s interview. It ended with: ‘Thanks, I’ll turn this off.’ And Viv’s, Monica’s and Seb’s were similar. Leanne’s, however, ended differently.

JOE: After Sal disappeared, what did you think we should do with the band?

LEANNE: I wanted to keep going. No one stopped when I had to stay in Bullford Point and finish school. What was the difference?

That was it. No thanks. No goodbye. Why had Joe ended her interview more abruptly that the others? Could the end of the interview, perhaps containing the new thing about Sal that Joe said he was going to ask Leanne about, have been deleted?

Barbara remembered something from Monica’s interview. She opened it and listened through again until …

JOE: Did she have any other friends up there? Boyfriend?

MONICA: No boyfriend. She didn’t really socialise. When she had free time, she just liked to stay home, chill, do yoga, study, play guitar, write in her journal.

There it was. A glitch. A tiny change in the quality of the sound, and then …

JOE: Did anything unusual happen before she died?

Barb had vaguely noticed the noise the first two times she’d listened, but thought nothing of it. She was no sound engineer, but she guessed that it was an edit. Had Joe cut something? Or could someone else have done it? Could the reason there were no clues in the podcast be because someone had removed them?

CHAPTER 64

‘Morning,’ said Barb, as she entered the station. She placed two coffees and a laptop on the counter, raised the piece at the end, came through, regathered her luggage, put a coffee in front of Seb and pulled a chair to his desk. ‘Isn’t it good you’re never busy?’

‘I wouldn’t say never.’

‘It means we have lots of time to talk. I know you usually have a flat white, but I thought after the shock of yesterday a cappuccino might be a welcome treat. How are you recovering?’

‘Fine, thanks. Much better now they’ve caught him.’

‘Perkins has been arrested?’

‘He’s “assisting Internal Affairs with enquiries”. That means they’re telling him how much trouble he’s in, and trying to get him to spill on others involved.’

‘Goodness. Well done, you. Amazing job.’ She opened Joe’s computer. ‘Now for the next problem.’

She explained her suspicion that there had been deletions from Joe’s podcast. ‘If something has been cut, would there be some way of getting it back? I’m not asking you because you’re male, by the way. I’m asking you because you’re young.’

‘He might have backups,’ mused Seb.

‘Whatups?’

‘In the cloud. Or to an external drive.’

As far as Barb was concerned, Seb might as well have been speaking Etruscan, or saying something about car engines.

‘Let me see.’ Seb poked and moused the computer. ‘Connect to our wi-fi …’ More poking. ‘Wow. No backups into the cloud.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Either Joe never made any … But everyone backs up their computer. It happens automatically. Or all his backups have been deleted.’

‘How would that happen?’

‘By someone deleting them. But no one would delete their backups. Why would you?’

Barb hoped the question was rhetorical. She was so far out of her depth there might well be a giant squid beneath her. She didn’t even know what questions to ask.

Seb took pity on her. ‘A backup is a safety, so if something happens to your computer, you’ve still got everything. If someone wanted to remove something from Monica or Leanne’s interview, just cutting it wouldn’t be enough, because you’d still be able to access the original version from an earlier backup. To properly get rid of it, you’d also have to delete all the backups.’

‘And that’s what happened?’ Barb ventured cautiously.

‘Exactly.’

She felt like she’d solved Wordle first go.

‘Joe’s computer had heaps of free space, so there was literally no reason for him to have done it,’ continued Seb.

‘So does that mean that if there were clues in the podcast, and someone cut them, and then deleted all the backups, they’ve gone forever?’

‘Unless Joe backed up his computer to an external hard drive as well and put that somewhere.’

‘To a what?’

‘It’s a device about the size of a phone.’

‘Right. Got it. Umm …’

‘Yes?’

‘Would that be a mobile or landline phone?’

Seb smiled. ‘Mobile.’

‘Right. But why would someone go to the trouble of cutting bits of Monica and Leanne’s interviews? If they wanted to get rid of something, wouldn’t it be easier to simply delete the whole sound file?’

‘Yes, but also more obvious,’ said Seb. ‘Joe’s killer wanted it to look like there was no killer. Leanne knows she was interviewed, as do others, so if her whole interview disappeared, it might look suspicious. But who’s going to notice a little cut?’

‘Me! Eventually. Pity it was Leanne’s interview.’

‘Why?’

‘The others would be more likely to remember what they had said. With Leanne, well, she can be a little … addled.’

Seb nodded. ‘What about Sal’s housemate, Monica? If she said something about Sal and Leanne, she might remember it.’

‘I don’t even know her surname, but her number might be in Joe’s phone. I’ll try to track her down.’

They both sipped their coffees, accidentally in unison.

‘I had another thought,’ said Barb. ‘If you were being strangled, you’d fight like heck, yes?’

Seb immediately looked uncomfortable.

‘Don’t think about her,’ urged Barb. ‘Imagine the victim being someone you don’t like. Joseph Stalin.’

‘I don’t actually know much about Stalin.’

‘Very unpleasant. Take my word for it. Now, the first victim was very old, the second had cancer. Sal was small, but according to Monica she had been doing regular yoga, plus when people are desperate, they find extra strength. I bet you swam faster than you ever had yesterday when you were being shot at?’

He nodded again.

‘Choke me.’

Seb stared at her, alarmed. ‘What?’

‘Pretend, obviously. Come.’ She moved to the old sofa by the wall and lay back on it. ‘Stand above me and put your hands on my neck. You might need to rest a knee on the cushions.’

Seb reluctantly obeyed, lowering a knee to the sofa and, as lightly as he could, resting his hands on her neck.

‘If you were trying to kill me, you’d need two hands, which means you couldn’t hold or block my hands.’ Barb started waving her hands around. ‘The harder you push, the more you lean down, yes?’

Seb gently experimented. ‘Yep. Leaning down, I can apply more pressure.’ He glanced nervously over his shoulder. ‘I really hope no one walks in.’

‘If they do I’m going to scream, “Help! Stop!”’

‘Not funny.’

‘But if you were strangling me and someone walked in, well … who would they call?’

‘Ah, that joke.’

‘Back to business.’ Barb reached her hand up and touched his cheek. ‘I can reach your face or neck. I could scratch you, punch you.’ She turned her head to the side and craned her neck, while grabbing his wrist and pulling it toward her mouth. ‘I could probably bite your wrist. If I was doing either of those things, and you were trying to strangle me, what would you do?’

‘Ignore it and squeeze harder.’

‘Exactly. To stop me scratching and biting, you’d have to stop choking me, so you’d press on until the job was done.’ She looked satisfied. ‘You can let go now.’

‘Oh, sorry.’ Seb released his hands and almost jumped away from the couch.

Barb got up and paced up and down the side of the station next to the sofa. To get out of her way, Seb sat on it.

‘So for the next few days,’ Barb said, ‘the Strangler might have had scratch marks on their face or neck, or bite marks on their wrist. She stopped and covered her face with her hands.

‘You okay?’ Seb asked tentatively.

‘Just trying to put it all together. Here goes. Sal fled Sydney because someone assaulted her. She didn’t tell any of her friends and, six months later when she visited Viv, moved the photo of them all so she couldn’t see it, suggesting to me it was one of them. She was considering reporting the assault to police, but before she did she was killed, and a bloodied shirt she had as evidence of her attack went missing.

‘Seven years later, Joe does a podcast about it, starts to find out things, and also ends up dead. The people who know most about Joe’s podcast are the people he interviewed, who also happen to be Sal’s closest friends. Dev, Gary, Leanne, Viv and umm …’

‘Monica,’ added Seb.

‘Well, yes, Monica. But also, umm …’

‘Oh. Me.’

‘Yes.’ Barb hurried on. ‘Now, I’m not saying someone in your friend group definitely killed Sal and Joe, but they’re definitely the strongest suspects. And as we discussed, Dev and Viv aren’t cleared. Nor are Gary and Leanne.’

‘What about me? As far as you’re concerned, am I cleared?’

‘Yes, of course. Definitely … I mean, technically, no … but let’s say yes.’

Seb opened his mouth, about to try to grapple with her response, but decided to conserve energy. ‘Would Leanne and Dev have had the strength to strangle her?’ he asked instead.

‘They’re both bigger than her. Mayne said the Strangler may have controlled his victims with a gun, perhaps a replica. They use the gun to make Sal lie on the sofa, stand above her, put one hand on her throat, drop the gun and use both hands. So, yes I think so.’

Unpleasant images formed in Seb’s mind.

Barb continued. ‘Here’s the thing. Maybe someone remembers back then, just after Sal died, seeing one of you – one of them,’ she corrected, in response to Seb’s withering look, ‘with a scratched or bruised face, or a bite mark on their wrist. Maybe someone has a photo taken just after she died. Do you have any?’

She sat beside him on the couch.

Seb pulled out his phone and scrolled. ‘Pretty sure I wasn’t in the mood for photos after … Nope. Nothing for weeks.’

‘But maybe some of the others have some. It’s a lead.’

‘Agree.’ Seb drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘I listened to the last bit of the podcast.’

‘Good. I listened to it again last night, too. I had a question. Sal’s last night in Sydney, you slept at Joe and Gary’s place. After you went to bed …’

‘A.K.A. passed out on the couch …’

‘Do you remember anyone going out, or coming in?’

‘No, but I’d drunk a lot. I was out.’

‘If we think Sal was assaulted that night, you could see it two ways. Everyone who was sleeping in that house has an alibi – you, Dev, Gary, Joe and Viv. But, really, no one does. Anyone could have come home and then snuck out again. Did you see anyone when you got to their house?’

‘Just Gary, and he went straight to bed. I assumed the others were in their rooms.’

‘And of course Leanne doesn’t have an alibi either. We don’t know where she slept. You said you and Sal left the pub to walk home together, then you decided to come back?’

‘Yep,’ said Seb, suddenly self-conscious. He tried to arrange his face into a neutral expression, but he seemed to have forgotten how.

‘That doesn’t really make sense to me, I’m afraid,’ continued Barb, frowning. ‘I just wonder if there’s more to it?’

Seb looked blankly at her. Or tried to. Was he smiling? He tried to make his mouth a straight line.

‘In the podcast, Joe said he thought you had strong feelings for Sal, and you might have had a disagreement with her that night. I’ve noticed how upset you get when her death comes up. I mean, of course you do, as a friend, but is it perhaps more than that? If you did have strong feelings for her, then that night at the pub, everyone else was around, and then, finally, you’re alone, walking home with her. She was single again, you’d drunk quite a lot. It just seems unlikely you’d turn around and go back to the pub unless … Did you, perhaps, find yourself telling her how you felt? And did you return to the pub, as Joe suggested, because it didn’t go well?’

He felt frozen. They sat in silence a long time, side by side on the couch, Seb staring straight ahead at nothing. He could sense Barb studying him, until, without making a conscious decision, he started to talk.

‘I’d fallen for her before she got with Joe. When they broke up, I tried to be patient. Told myself to go slow, and I did. I was a good friend, listened to all her break-up stuff, but … I didn’t know how she felt about me. Didn’t know if she knew how I felt. It was driving me crazy. That night as we walked home, I blurted it out.’

‘How did she react?’

‘In my mind, I imagined us falling into each other’s arms, but … she said, of course she liked me, but she’d just got out of a relationship and we were all in a band together, so it was complicated and she needed to simplify her life, not complicate it more and … I just got this feeling of doom, like everything was collapsing, and I said something stupid and angry and stormed off.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I can’t really remember. That she was hiding from the truth or something pathetic and ridiculous like that. Then, next morning when I got home, she was gone. I assumed it was because of what I’d said. That it was the last straw for her. I was the person she thought she could talk to and trust, and then suddenly I’d become yet another problem for her. Ever since, I’ve thought, if I’d just kept quiet, she wouldn’t have left and …’ he found it difficult to get words out ‘… she wouldn’t be dead. It’s my fault.’

Barb put her arm around his shoulders.

‘You poor boy. Carrying that all these years.’

Seb nodded, unable to speak.

‘But now, you know you weren’t the last straw. Because someone assaulted Sal, and it must have been later that very night, after you’d left her.’

‘Exactly,’ he said despairingly. ‘After I’d left. If I hadn’t of said all that, we would have gone home together, and maybe whatever happened, wouldn’t have, because I would have been there. It’s still my fault.’

CHAPTER 65

After Sal died, from the outside, Seb’s life looked the same. Uni, work, home with a new flatmate, occasional nights at the pub. But the lights had dimmed. Everything had gone grey. Her absence was constantly present.

He didn’t drop out of uni, but he did stop caring and barely passed the year. By then, it was clear the police had failed to find her killer. He applied to police college. He wanted to make amends for his failings with Sal. Maybe he could become a detective and solve crimes, even prevent them.

After training he was posted to Blacktown, a big station with a clear pathway to detective. There was lots to learn, responsibility to earn, progress to be made. A year in, he attended a call to an apartment. A woman had been stabbed, and he watched her die as the paramedics did their best. The next day her boyfriend was arrested and Seb realised the essential pointlessness of becoming a detective. Even if you caught the killer, it was too late. The person was still dead. Soon after, he saw a posting to Bullford Point. Everyone else thought ‘backwater’. He thought ‘home’.

It was a two-person station, and his boss knew how to live the easy life while still hitting his KPIs. Setting up random breath-testing sites every second Saturday at one of three sites all the locals knew didn’t seem like cutting-edge policing, but it was low stress. He was comfortable, and that would do.

After two years, Seb’s boss retired, his position wasn’t filled, and Seb was alone and in charge. He could always become a detective later, he told himself, and sometimes even believed it. Occasionally, the desire to solve important cases still tugged, but he would remind himself how he had deliberately tried to break up Joe and Sal’s relationship, and then caused Sal to run away from Sydney. He had behaved badly, and as a result the woman he loved had died. Was he really responsible enough to be a detective?

He had never had a girlfriend, despite opportunities. He had a one-night, two-night, even a three-night stand, but then always found himself retreating, finding little things to be irritated with, and making excuses until the message was received. None of them, after all, were Sal. Days, weeks, months passed. Then, when he finally met a woman he did like, it was all stuffed up because, once again, he was lying and cheating.

CHAPTER 66

Sitting on her balcony, munching her usual breakfast of two slices of toast with strawberry jam, Barb admired the birds’ busy feeding routine, manoeuvring up and down the rail to peck at the seed she had just put out.

As she sipped her tea, she wondered if there was more that Seb hadn’t told her about what happened on Sal’s last night in Sydney. Could his disappointment at Sal’s rejection have bubbled over into anger? Could alcohol have disinhibited him to the extent that he had grabbed Sal, and perhaps more? Could it have been he who assaulted Sal, and had the shock and upset caused her to run away? It seemed so unlike the Seb she knew, though. On the other hand, she found it almost impossible to believe that Joe had spent years lying and stealing, or that Dennis had had an affair, and they had. People surprise you.

Back to work. She opened Joe’s phone, found Monica’s number and called her. No answer. Should she leave a message? But what? ‘Hi, we haven’t met, but I listened to the podcast interview you did with Joe about your murdered housemate, Sal, and I think a bit of your interview was cut, and wondered if you remember everything you said, because I think Joe was murdered.’ It would sound like the rantings of a mad woman. She hung up. She would ring again later.

Her phone pinged. Dennis.

Just got an electricity bill reminder, so letting you know. Hope all well

She read it three times. How was she supposed to reply? How was she supposed to feel? Being an accountant, he had always paid the bills, whilst she had taken care of shopping, gardening and fixing things. Since he had left, she had discovered that paying bills didn’t actually take long at all, once you got the hang of that online banking. You could even set it up so they paid themselves! He had definitely got the better of that deal.

She didn’t get many texts. She scrolled down and didn’t have to go far before she found Joe’s last one, sent the day he died.

Really enjoy working with you, despite the messy car. You should get an archaeologist in there. Who knows what they’d find? In fact maybe there’s one lost in there somewhere already!

Cheeky. Typical Joe. The first time he had been in her car, he’d said, ‘Your house isn’t like this.’

‘Well, the house doesn’t have wheels, for one,’ she’d replied.

‘I meant … your house is very tidy.’ He’d glanced sideways at her, perhaps nervous he had overstepped.

Barb had only been slightly offended. ‘My husband wasn’t a neat freak, but I just felt that keeping the house tidy was the right thing to do. But the car was mine, so I did what I wanted.’

He chuckled. ‘You were rebelling.’

Perhaps in her own quiet way, she had been. She opened the text from Dennis to reply.

Thank you

Polite, but neutral. Play it cool.

If she had been rebelling in letting her car get messy, she didn’t need to do it anymore. She grabbed a garbage bag and headed outside.

CHAPTER 67

Seb had arrived at the station early, just before eight. Stomach clenching, afraid of what he might find, he had started looking for photos taken by Gary, Leanne, Viv, Dev, Joe and himself shortly after Sal’s death on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and any other platform he could think of. He wished he had access to their phones, but this was a start.

He had had Insta and Facebook at the time, but didn’t post much. On his Facebook he found a few group photos from before Sal died, but none after. He remembered her funeral, in Bullford Point. Awful. No one took photos at funerals.

Leanne next. He didn’t expect much. At the time she and Joe were delving into drugs, not exactly living a life that prompted lots of happy snaps. ‘Hi, peeps! Here’s me shooting up!’ Sure enough, no social media accounts for her except Facebook, which had been dormant at the time. He was weirdly still able to access Joe’s Facebook, despite his death, but nothing doing from back then.

Gary had Twitter, Insta and Facebook, and thousands more followers than the rest of them combined. His feed was mainly witty observations and jokes, plus promotions for gigs and whatever else he was doing. No photos from that period.

These days Dev had a vigorous social media presence, filled with pics of her beaming in front of real estate. Back then, she had already started to use Insta and Twitter to market herself to the world. At gatherings, she was always the one insisting on group selfies, and when he scrolled back that far there were plenty. But again, understandably, none in the weeks following Sal’s death.

Viv, surprisingly, had a well-maintained Facebook page containing many recent photos of him on bikes, next to bikes, bikes alone, and bike shoes. His account stretched back to uni days, but there was nothing of the group after Sal’s death.

*

Barb opened the front door of her car. Inside, three corn chip packets stared insolently at her from the passenger seat. She loved corn chips. After a hard day’s work, they were the perfect gobble on a drive home. She put the wrappers, plus three empty apple juice bottles and other papers and plastic into the garbage bag before moving to the back, where things got really ugly. You could hardly see the seat through the empty corn chip packets, juice and soft drink bottles, and plastic packaging from the window latches, door handles, etcetera she installed for clients. She binned them, then kneeled to reach under the seat. More corn chip packets, two Snickers wrappers and thirteen dollars in coins. Did shops even take coins anymore? Would she have to find one of those old-style bubble-gum machines? She pushed her arm further under the seat, her shoulder muscles complaining. Or was it the ligaments? She pulled out more wrappers, then reached under again and felt from side to side. That seemed to be it. She started to extract her arm and it brushed something metallic. She grabbed it and pulled it out.

It was a small, black rectangular prism, a couple of centimetres high and about fifteen wide and broad. On one side was a USB hole. She had never seen a computer backup before, but would bet this was one, especially as it had a piece of masking tape stuck to it with the word ‘ARCHAEOLOGIST’ written on it.

She pulled out her phone and looked at Joe’s last text.

Really enjoy working with you, despite the messy car. You should get an archaeologist in there. Who knows what they’d find? In fact maybe there’s one in there somewhere already!

He’d sent her a coded message, telling her where his backup was. Why? She thought back to the last time Joe had been in the car, the day he died. They were walking down the driveway of the Simpsons’ holiday house in Kincumber to tidy their garden when he’d doubled back. ‘Forgot my bag.’ She hadn’t even thought about how difficult it would be to forget a bag that had been sitting on your lap. He must have had the backup in it and hidden it under her passenger seat. Why hadn’t he just asked her to mind it? Probably because he hadn’t wanted her to ask lots of nosy questions.

But why hide it? He must have thought he was getting close to uncovering the truth, and been worried someone might interfere with his computer. The backup was a precaution, one he hoped he would never need. He knew she never cleaned her car, and kept it unlocked, so he would have been able to retrieve it anytime. Then in his final text, sent later that day, he had given her a clue. Just in case.

CHAPTER 68

‘Every police station has a spare computer, but if I want a new kettle I have to buy it myself,’ Seb had complained as he pulled the laptop from a cupboard. He and Barb now watched a virtual disk spin on its screen as Joe’s backup regurgitated its contents.

Eventually, a message. ‘Download complete!’ Even the computer was excited.

‘So now we listen to everything again, to see what’s missing,’ said Barb.

‘It’s simpler than that,’ replied Seb. ‘We just look at the length of each interview on the backup and compare it to the same interview on his laptop. `If they’re the same length, the interviews are the same. If they’re different lengths, something has changed. Then we listen to the longer backup version, and work out what bits were deleted.’ He paused, glancing at Barb. ‘You’re looking confused. Or is it overwhelmed? Okay, you discovered this, so I’m going to do the comparing. I’ll text you when I know something. You go and have a nice walk or something.’

‘Are you sure?’ Barb asked.

‘Yes. I’ll need some quiet time, so if you see anyone approaching the station, tell them I’m in Woy Woy at a siege. Unless Frieda’s lost her cat again. That’s a genuine emergency.’

CHAPTER 69

Barb walked around the mangrove track, wondering if they were on the verge of a breakthrough. Her phone pinged. Dennis again.

How are you going with things?

She stared at it. What did that even mean? What ‘things’? Was there a subtext? If so, what? That he still cared? That he felt guilty? That he missed her? That he was alone and bored and wanted to text someone? Or was it just a bland enquiry into her welfare?

How should she respond? Great!! Never better!? Make him feel like he was missing out. Or was that too transparent? Lonely and missing you? Definitely not. Neediness pushed people away. Besides, whilst that answer had been true for the last few months, was it still true now? Sometimes, definitely. Right now? Not really.

All good here. You?

That seemed neutral. As she walked, she couldn’t stop herself checking her phone for a reply every few minutes.

Eventually, anticlimactically, it came.

Fine thanks

Her tyres deflated. No point replying to that. She wondered if his flurry of texts – well, three in a day – was an indication that he was regretting his decision to leave. Would he eventually tire of Ellen and want to return? If he did, would she take him back? Could things between them ever return to normal after what he had done? Could they find comfort and peace again, or would she be forever sniffing his shirts to check for perfume?

If she did take him back, would that mean she was weak? Apparently Beyoncé’s husband cheated, and they were still together, not to mention Hillary Clinton, and they were both feminist icons, weren’t they?

She imagined him begging her. ‘I’ve been a fool. Please!’

How would she respond? If the alternative was being alone, perhaps it was worth a try. But she was getting ahead of herself. He hadn’t asked.

She wondered how Seb was getting on. Had she made a mistake in leaving him alone with Joe’s computer backup, potentially a vital piece of evidence? He was, technically, a suspect. If he did have something to hide, could he tamper with those computer filey thingies?

It was hard not to get mixed up when he was both her nice, sensible crime-investigating partner and someone who could have killed Joe.

Another ping. Seb.

Have discovered podcast recordings that were deleted from Joe’s computer!

CHAPTER 70

They sat at Seb’s desk, staring at the computer.

‘The first bit that is on the backup, but not on Joe’s laptop, is a part of Joe’s interview with Monica,’ said Seb.

‘Yes, I thought I heard something that could have been a cut.’

‘Here it is.’ He clicked.

JOE: It was pretty weird. All of us in the band used to spend so much time together, then Sal left and we never saw her again. Did she talk about the band?

MONICA: A bit, yeah. She lit up when she did. They were good memories for her. I think she missed it. But she saw at least one of you again.

JOE: Who?

MONICA: A woman.

JOE: Leanne? Dev?

MONICA: Leanne was her name, yeah. She came to our place.

JOE: Really? When?

MONICA: Umm … maybe three weeks before Sal died.

JOE: Did you meet her?

MONICA: Briefly. She looked kind of worn out. Straggly blond hair, old shirt. She was cold cos she didn’t have a proper coat, just a cardigan.

JOE: That’s her. It’s weird, though, cos Sal wouldn’t let any of us know where she was. She hardly replied to our texts, and the person in our group she was least close to was Leanne.

MONICA: Sal said Leanne was quite persistent about wanting to see her. I got the impression maybe Sal felt guilty or responsible for her or something. Would that make sense?

JOE: Yeah, I guess. So, what happened?

MONICA: She arrived and Sal made her a cup of tea, but I had to leave for work then.

JOE: Did Sal say anything about what they talked about?

MONICA: Umm … She said they talked about you.

JOE: Me? Right. What?

MONICA: No idea. She just said, ‘We talked about Joe.’

The recording stopped.

‘That’s it. There’s also this extra bit from Joe’s interview with Leanne,’ said Seb. He clicked.

JOE: So apparently you visited Sal in the Blue Mountains.

LEANNE: Who told you that?

JOE: Her flatmate. Why did you want to see her? You didn’t even like her.

LEANNE: Wanted to talk to her about something.

JOE: But she was blanking the rest of us. Why did she agree to see you?

LEANNE: Cos I asked her nicely. A lot.

JOE: Why didn’t you tell me? I was really worried about her.

LEANNE: Cos she made me promise not to. And cos if I had of, you’d have run up there like a puppy dog.

JOE: What did you want to see her about?

LEANNE: Just wanted to talk to her. None of your business.

JOE: It’s years ago now. Sal’s gone. I’m just curious.

(SILENCE)

LEANNE: Once, on the radio, I heard this guy who’d been bitten by a shark. He said after it happened he was having nightmares about it. He went and talked to this shark expert who told him that the shark, after having a bite of him, was never going to come back. Sharks don’t like the taste of people. He wasn’t what the shark wanted. After hearing that, the nightmares stopped.

JOE: Okay.

LEANNE: I wanted to know if she was coming back.

JOE: To the band?

LEANNE: For you, dickhead. Cos if she did, I knew you’d dump me again.

JOE: Right.

(SILENCE)

JOE: And was she?

LEANNE: Nope. She was definite on that.

JOE: Huh. Fuck. Maybe you should have told me that.

LEANNE: Would you have believed me, or just grilled me for her address?

(SILENCE)

JOE: How was she?

LEANNE: She was … better. I always thought she used people to get what she wanted.

JOE: I don’t think that’s true …

LEANNE: Hey, you’re interviewing me, right? Not the other way round.

JOE: Okay, just saying.

LEANNE: I know, she was fucking perfect.

JOE: Anyway. How was she better?

LEANNE: She seemed more mellow. In Sydney she was all frazzled. She was more relaxed.

JOE: Did you ever tell anyone else her address?

LEANNE: Nope.

JOE: You sure? Cos hardly anyone knew where she lived.

LEANNE: What are you saying, Joe? I’m lying?

JOE: I’m not saying that. But what if Sal wasn’t killed by a multiple murderer. What if …?

LEANNE: Fuck’s sake. You think I told someone where she lived, and they killed her? That’s fucking crazy. Or maybe you think I killed her? That it? I’m the Blue Mountains Strangler? Seriously, you’ve gone fucking mental with this.

JOE: I’m just saying, everyone thinks it was a random killing by a lunatic. If you wanted to kill someone, it’s the perfect cover.

LEANNE: If I wanted to kill someone!? You think it’s me? Fuck you, Joe!

JOE: No. When I said ‘you’ I didn’t mean you. I meant ‘someone’.

(SOUND OF CHAIR MOVING)

LEANNE: Fuck you.

JOE: Leanne! Come on.

(FOOTSTEPS)

JOE: Leanne! Did you tell anyone where she was living?

LEANNE: Can’t believe you’re still obsessed by her. Been fucking dead seven years!

(DOOR SLAMS)

‘Wow,’ said Barb. ‘That must be the bit Joe was talking about when he said he had discovered something new about Sal and Leanne.’

‘Right. So Joe was definitely working on the piggyback theory, that Sal was killed by someone imitating the Strangler.’

‘The key information in there is that Leanne knew where she lived.’

‘Exactly. Here’s the third and last thing cut from the recordings. It’s from the section on Sal’s last night in Sydney.’

JOE: What’s your last memory of her that final night at the Marlborough?

DEV: She was in a short green dress, with a flared collar. Maybe a silver necklace. She always looked great. Luckily I’m good-looking too so I wasn’t jealous, but I have to work at it harder than she ever did.

GARY: I remember I said something I thought was funny, and she just stared at me. I thought, ‘That joke didn’t work,’ but then she burst out laughing. That big, generous, open-hearted laugh. Wish I could remember what I said. But then a few minutes later I saw her looking quite fragile, like she was carrying the weight of the world. I can still see her like that.

JOE: Can you remember what she was wearing that night?

GARY: Gee. Um … I think white overalls. Bangles?

(PAUSE)

GARY: It’s so sad.

VIV: The last time I saw her I think she was wearing a brown-and-red striped shirt. Long sleeved. I have quite a good memory.

SEB: I think she was wearing jeans with, maybe, a light blue T-shirt shirt with flowers on it.

LEANNE: How the fuck am I supposed to remember what she was wearing? Who cares? Jesus. This the bit where you want listeners to cry?

JOE: We didn’t talk much that night, but I remember her sitting there, laughing. I think she was wearing flared red pants and a black Rolling Stones T-shirt with the tongue – but maybe that’s from some other time. It all blurs.

‘Odd,’ said Barb. ‘Why cut out people discussing what Sal was wearing the last time people saw her?’

‘I know. It’s strange. And everyone remembers her wearing something different. Although, I suppose, that’s not unexpected, given it was seven years ago. And that’s everything. All those bits were all cut out of the individual interviews too, so it would have taken some time to do.’

‘That’s definitely everything you found that wasn’t on Joe’s laptop?’ Barb asked, eyeing him closely.

‘Yeah. That’s what I said.’

‘Just … double-checking. Okay. Let’s try and work out what happened the night Joe was killed. He’s at the club, and someone slips liquid morphine into his drink.’

‘Yep. He complained his lemonade tasted bad.’

‘He goes home, passes out, the killer uses the spare key to get in, shoots him up, watches him die, then … how do they get into his computer?’

‘Passcodes are often pretty simple, and … Joe’s had a fingerprint sensor, so the killer could have used Joe’s finger.’

Barb screwed up her face. ‘Yuck.’

‘They get into the computer, listen to all the podcast material, delete everything that points to him or her, then delete all the backups. It would have taken ages. I added up the interviews, Joe’s edited sections and his monologues. Two hours and forty-three minutes to listen to it all, then to do the cuts and deletions probably another half an hour or so.’

‘The deleted bits are clues,’ said Barb. ‘That’s why they were deleted. Leanne knowing Sal’s address is the big one. That makes her the main suspect, doesn’t it?’

Seb nodded. ‘Unless she told someone else. When Joe pressed her on that, she got angry and walked out.’

‘Could Leanne have been the person who assaulted Sal on her last night in Sydney?’

‘She hated Sal because of what happened with Joe. I can imagine her assaulting her. But the assault was sexual, which seems less likely.’

‘But not impossible. Love and hate. Two sides of the same coin. Why don’t we ask her?’

CHAPTER 71

They found Leanne working at the shop and asked for a quick word. Sue raised eyebrows, but it wasn’t busy and she nodded assent. They walked down to the jetty, ignoring the benches – Seb didn’t think the three of them sitting in a straight line was ideal for an interrogation – and instead stood in a triangle.

‘I understand that when you were interviewed by Joe for his podcast, you told him you visited Sal in the Blue Mountains, right?’ said Seb.

‘So?’

‘Joe asked you if you told anyone Sal’s address. You said no. Then he asked you again, and things got a bit heated and you walked out. Why?’

‘I was just sick of all his stupid questions. All that bullshit about her. Happened years ago. Ancient history.’

‘It seems you were one of only a few people who knew Sal’s address.’

‘Really? What about her flatmate? People who worked with her? Neighbours? The fucking water board?’

‘None of us knew it.’

‘Not hard to get someone’s address. Ring them, say you’re the electricity department and you’re checking something. Done it myself.’

Barb’s eyebrows raised.

‘Not to Sal,’ Leanne clarified.

‘When did you last see Joe?’ asked Barb.

‘At the club the night he died, same as everyone else.’

‘What did you talk about?’ asked Seb.

‘Nuthin’. Just normal stuff. He had asked me to do another interview, and he was hassling me about that.’

‘For his podcast?’ continued Seb. ‘Did he say why he wanted to do a second interview?’

‘Just said he had a few more things to ask.’

Seb tried to sound as ‘this is serious, I’m a police officer’ as he could. ‘Leanne, if you gave Sal’s address to anyone, I need to know.’

Leanne shrugged. ‘Didn’t.’

‘I’m a cop, Leanne. It’d be really easy to find something to arrest you for. Pat you down or find something in your room, yeah?’

‘I’ve had a bit of experience with cops, Seb, and that’s bullshit. You can’t do either of those things.’

She stared at him defiantly until he looked away. She was right. Even if she wasn’t, he’d been bluffing. He wasn’t going to arrest her.

‘Come on Leanne. It’s important.’

‘It’s fucking not. Sal was killed by a psycho. Joe overdosed. You two are just running round making shit up and hassling people cos you’ve got nothing better going on in your life.’

CHAPTER 72

Barb sat on her deck and wondered if Leanne was right. Was she only investigating Joe’s death because she had nothing else going on in her life? True, if she was CEO of Woolworths with five children and a busy social life, she wouldn’t have time. She had lived in the same place, done the same work and known the same people for years. Before all this, yes, she had been a bit bored. But none of that meant Joe wasn’t murdered.

She turned her mind to the third deleted podcast section, in which Sal’s friends had talked about what she had been wearing on the last night they saw her.

Why would that be important? But it must be, or else it wouldn’t have been deleted by, presumably, Joe’s killer.

Each of them remembered Sal wearing something different (except Leanne, who didn’t seem to care). At least three of Seb, Gary, Dev and Viv must have described Sal’s appearance wrongly. Was that the significant part? Could the killer (of who? Joe? Sal? Both? All of them?) have somehow inadvertently given something away by how they wrongly described Sal’s clothing? Could it be like that old murder mystery trope:

POLICEPERSON: Your wife has been murdered.

HUSBAND: Oh my God! Who shot her?

POLICEPERSON: How did you know she was shot?

A rosella called. Barb didn’t speak bird, but was pretty sure it meant ‘I’ll have a large serve of seed, thanks’. She headed toward the kitchen to fetch it, but stopped halfway, frowning, and grabbed her phone. She had asked Seb to email her the three deleted podcast bits. She clicked open the third. The bird would have to wait.

As she listened, she made a list on a scrap of paper. When she finished, she found Detective John Mayne’s number and called him.

‘Hello,’ she said, when he answered, ‘it’s Barb Young, the nosy psychic from Bullford Point.’

‘Oh, yes. Solved the case yet? Or are you just calling to tell me who’s going to win the footy this weekend?’

Barb pushed out a laugh. ‘Quick question. What was Sal wearing when she died?’

‘Why?’

‘Just curious.’

‘Are you getting anywhere?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She realised what he wanted. ‘But if we are, I’ll definitely let you know.’

‘Goodo. I’ll look it up and text you.’

She paced up and down, looking at her phone every few seconds. After a hundred years, or was it just a few minutes, he replied. She read, then took a few deep breaths to try to calm down.

She rang Monica again.

This time she answered. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Monica. My name’s Barbara. I’m calling about your ex-flatmate Sally McIndoe.’

‘Right?’

‘There are some further enquiries being made. I believe you recently did an interview with Sal’s friend Joe, yes?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

Barb tried to keep the pace up and not give Monica too much time to start wondering who the heck she was. ‘Joe, unfortunately, died recently. From a drug overdose and, well, some things were a bit unusual. At any rate, I just have one question for you, if that’s okay.’

‘Um, sure.’

‘When Sal was living with you in Leura, did she buy any clothes?’

‘Umm, we did go to the markets together.’ She paused. ‘Sorry, who are you? Are you with the police?’

Rats. Was this the time to get into a long explanation about how she was involved? No. ‘I’m working with the police, yes.’ Kind of true.

‘Right.’ This seemed to satisfy her. ‘It was a long time ago.’

‘This might help. Can you remember her buying any of these?’ Barb grabbed her list. ‘A short green dress with a flared collar. White overalls. A long-sleeved brown-and-red striped shirt. A light blue T-shirt with flowers on it. Flared red pants. A black Rolling Stones T-shirt with, you know, the tongue.’

‘Umm, I’m not sure … can I think about it?’

‘Of course, but is there any chance you could think about it quickly? It’s quite urgent.’

‘Sure.’

‘Maybe you have some old photos that might help.’

‘Good idea. I’ll have a look and get back to you as soon as I can.’

Barb ended the call, walked to her now tidy car and drove toward the police station. If Mayne and Monica, or even just one of them, got back to her, she might have solved a murder. Perhaps a few murders. Imagine! Solid, dependable, boring old Barb, a crime fighter. What would Dennis say?

She turned right off the main road and parked in front of the station, next to Seb’s police car. They had done this together, so it would be nice if she was with him when she found out. Unless it was … No. She was sure. It couldn’t be him.

She got out of the car and walked inside. There he was at his desk.

‘Hello. Back again. I have news,’ she said, hurrying through the drawbridge.

He stood, looking ashen-faced.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

He walked past her, back through the drawbridge to the front door and locked it, and then returned to his desk.

‘What is it?’ repeated Barb.

‘What news?’ he said flatly.

‘Well,’ she began hesitantly, her excitement leaking away like bathwater down the plughole. ‘I spoke to Sal’s flatmate Monica about clothing. You see, Joe asked them to describe what Sal wore the last time they saw her, and everyone said something different. But what if her killer got mixed up and described what she was wearing not on that last night in Sydney, but the last night they saw her, the night they killed her in Leura?

‘So I asked Detective Mayne what Sal was wearing when she was killed, and I asked Monica if Sal had bought any clothes up there. If someone on the podcast described her wearing an outfit that she only bought after she left Sydney, it suggests they saw her in Leura, which might mean they killed her, especially if it’s the outfit she was wearing when she was killed.’

She looked at Seb as she spoke, trying to gauge his reaction, but he had a strange, faraway look on his face she couldn’t read. She felt increasingly uneasy. Why wasn’t he excited?

‘Monica or Detective Mayne might text me any minute. I thought I’d come here so …’ She trailed off. ‘Why did you lock the door?’

‘We don’t want anyone walking in on this.’

‘Quite so. But … well, you locked the door before I told you it was important. I just said, “I’ve got news.” It might have simply been that Sue’s finally put chicken burgers on the menu.’

Seb stared vacantly at her, and a long, awkward silence hung. Seb and she hadn’t always agreed, but she couldn’t remember them ever having an awkward silence before.

Barb’s phone pinged. She pulled it out of her pocket.

‘Detective Mayne.’

‘Read it,’ he said hollowly.

She bent her head to the phone, suddenly scared. What if Mayne’s text said that Sal was wearing a light blue T-shirt with flowers on it when she was killed, the outfit Seb had said she wore that last night in Sydney? What if Monica texted that Sal had bought that T-shirt in Leura? She glanced over Seb’s shoulder to the back door. Was it also locked?

She read the text. ‘He says she was killed wearing white overalls.’

Her phone pinged again.

‘And Monica says, “I found a photo of Sal wearing something I remember her buying at the markets. White overalls.”’

‘Gary,’ croaked Seb.

Barb nodded, trying to take it in. ‘Gary said she was wearing white overalls that last night in Sydney, but she couldn’t have been because she didn’t own them yet. And he said he never saw Sal after that, so how could he have known she owned them?’

‘Unless,’ said Seb, voice faltering, ‘he saw her wearing them the night he killed her. Fuck.’

‘Joe interviewed him and he said Sal was wearing the overalls in Sydney. Afterwards, he must have realised his mistake. That’s why he deleted that section.’

Another silence as they digested what this meant.

‘Why did he kill her?’ asked Barb.

Seb shook his head.

‘And why did you act so strangely when I came in?’ she asked. ‘And lock the door? It scared me.’

‘Because I already knew. I’ve known him since I was four. I was in shock, hoping I was wrong. Hoping you’d found something that meant I was wrong.’

‘How did you find out?’

He opened his laptop, and flicked and clicked until the screen showed a picture of a younger Gary wearing a smart navy-blue suit over a light-blue open-necked shirt. He smiled broadly, charisma flowing, arms flung wide in invitation. Behind him were two long desks on an angle in a multicoloured television studio.

‘Publicity photos for the panel show Gary got just before Sal died,’ said Seb. ‘His big break. This photo was taken four days after Sal died. Found it online.’

He zoomed in on Gary’s right wrist. ‘Can you see?’

Barb squinted. There was a row of four or five small indentations, the size of teeth marks. ‘Could be bite marks.’

He zoomed in on Gary’s face. ‘He’s got makeup on, but look at his neck.’

Barb leaned in. She could just make out two faint lines on the left side of Gary’s neck.

‘I looked up the shows credits, found the makeup artist, called her. Asked if she remembered Gary having a scratched neck when he did publicity photos for the show. She did. She said it looked nasty. She covered it as best she could. He told her it was a neighbour’s cat he’d been patting. But that couldn’t be true because he’s allergic to cats.’

‘Goodness,’ said Barb.

‘The announcement that Gary was hosting the TV show came about ten days before Sal died. That explains the timing. She must have seen the announcement and got angry. Felt it wasn’t fair after what he did to her. She goes to see Viv, gets some advice, and then contacts Gary. Tells him she has his blood on her shirt, maybe asks him to step down from the show. He knows that even if she doesn’t go the police, all she has to do is tweet that he assaulted her, and it’s over for him. No more TV job. He’s cancelled.’

‘So he decides to kill her,’ said Barb. ‘Joe’s piggyback theory was right. There’s a killer in the Blue Mountains, and he makes Sal’s death look like it was him.’ She drummed her fingers on the desk, frowning. ‘Isn’t that too convenient?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do we really think the Blue Mountains Strangler just happened to come along at exactly the right time for Gary to piggyback, pretty much on the day he needed them to? And in exactly the right place, the Blue Mountains? Remember what Mayne said: these sorts of killers only come around once every twenty years.’

‘So …?’

She slapped her hand on the desk. ‘Gary wasn’t piggybacking on the Strangler. He was the Strangler. He knew that if Sal was murdered, the police would look closely at everyone who knew her. For all Gary knew, Sal might have told others that he assaulted her. Maybe he knew her shirt had his blood on it. So if he was going to kill her, he needed to deflect the investigation. He invented the Strangler as cover for killing Sal. He knew that by the time the police got to victim number three, they wouldn’t look at whether any of her friends had a motive, because they’d be searching for a psycho picking random victims.’

‘You think he killed all three?’

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘Why did he delete those parts of the podcast about Leanne visiting Sal?’ asked Seb. ‘Could Leanne have been in on it with him?’

‘I doubt it. I think he deleted those parts because they tell us how Gary found out Sal’s address.’

‘From Leanne?’

She nodded.

‘I’m sure we’ve got enough to get the Blue Mountains Strangler case reopened,’ said Seb. ‘But none of it proves Gary killed Joe.’

‘Joe was starting to uncover it all. He wanted to interview Leanne again, probably to press her on who she gave Sal’s address to. Gary must have found out.’

‘But what’s the “why?”’ queried Seb. ‘Let’s assume Gary was the person who assaulted Sal, and that started everything. Why would he do that?’

‘Did you ever pick up signs that he liked her? Romantically.’

Seb frowned. ‘No. We were best friends and we talked a lot. I never got a hint of it.’

His eyes widened. ‘Oh, no. I told Gary I’d listened to all Joe’s interviews, and that I was looking into Joe’s death. He knows we’re looking.’

‘But he couldn’t suspect we’ve heard the podcast bit he deleted. How could he have known Joe hid a secret backup in my car?’

‘He wouldn’t know it was in your car, but he might suspect Joe made a backup. And he knows Leanne can expose him by telling us she gave him Sal’s address.’

Barb repeated what John Mayne had told them. ‘If you’re the only one who knows something about a killer, it’s dangerous. They have a reason to shut you up. Leanne’s in danger.’

CHAPTER 73

Gary steered the boat toward the jetty. He loved his boat. Twelve metres, slept four, little kitchen, table at the back, no stupid fucking sails. The best bit was being up top, holding the giant steering wheel, feeling like an intrepid explorer, even when he was just puttering about the bay.

One more loose end to tie and then, surely, finally, that would be it. He’d never meant to kill anyone. He wasn’t a killer. Well, he was, technically, but he didn’t enjoy it or anything weird like that. He had just been cornered, and it had been the only way out. Each time. If he could have resolved things by having a cup of tea and a chat, he would have. In fact, he’d tried. Didn’t work, so he had to turn to plan B.

It was basically self-defence. If he hadn’t done what he had, his career and reputation, everything he had worked so hard for, would have been at risk. Not to mention, possibly, his liberty. How is killing to protect all that any less self-defence than doing it to stop someone trying to stab you?

At school they were all friends. He had his fantasies, sure, like every teenager, but he saw her every day, and enjoyed just spending time with her. Sal was funny, smart, kind and, well, everything. He would wait outside her house in the morning and walk with her to the bus stop, and then in the afternoon walk her home. Those two ten-minute walks, just him and her alone, were the highlights of his day.

He tried to arrange things so they sat next to each other on the bus, but sometimes she sat next to Seb, Joe, Leanne, Dev or even Viv. That upset him, made him feel bad. Angry, even, but he became expert at hiding it.

As they reached upper high school, he understood that he was in love with her, and was torn about whether he should tell her. He had that special one-on-one time with her every day, they were in the same friend group, and he could make his fantasies – which had begun as more romantic than sexual, although the sexual bit had grown – feel so real they were more satisfying than frustrating.

In his fantasies, she was in love with him too. But what if in real life she wasn’t? What if he told her how he felt and, instead of kissing him, she backed away? She had told him about a few boys and a couple of girls who had told her they liked her, or asked her out. She found it awkward and irritating, always rejected them, and avoided them after. He and Sal had something deeper and more valuable than a teen romance. If he declared now, and she wasn’t ready, it could ruin everything. He would wait.

Nonetheless, the desire to tell her almost ached. He had thought of confiding in Seb, his best friend, but they were all such a tight group. What if he blabbed?

There had been one night in Year 11 when he had lapsed. They had been drinking at the jetty – Joe’s idea of course; he’d stolen some bottles of wine from his parents’ cellar – and late at night he and Sal had walked home together. At her house, as they’d said goodnight, without even thinking it through, he had started to lean in to kiss her. Just in time, he had seen alarm in her eyes, and turned it into a trip, falling to the ground, laughing at himself, making some joke about how drunk he was.

She’d looked relieved, they said goodnight, and he walked home, cursing himself for being so reckless. He could have ruined everything. The right time would come, he was sure of it, but until then, he had to be disciplined.

Nothing changed between them after that night, thank goodness, and when they’d moved to Sydney, he suggested they get a flat together. She’d seemed keen, but a week later told him Seb had found a place and asked her to share. That had hurt. At the time he’d told himself that when he and Sal started a relationship, it might be good if they weren’t living together immediately. In retrospect, perhaps it had been a turning point. If they had lived together, things could have evolved more naturally. Everything might have been different.

Still, he kept his love a secret. The closest he got to a hint was the band name he came up with, From Afar.

Then Sal started seeing Joe. A disaster. Heartbreaking. He was so clearly inferior to her. To see them together, knowing it should be him, felt unjust. His fantasies continued, but sometimes Joe intruded, playing parts he shouldn’t have.

Now that Sal had a boyfriend, they didn’t hang out as much. When he did see her, at band practice, gigs or the pub, it was in a group, Joe always hovering. He and Sal didn’t have their own special time anymore. He missed it. He knew she must too, but he figured Joe was probably possessive.

When Sal broke up with Joe, Gary was elated. He offered his shoulder to cry on, but she seemed to prefer Seb’s. Bloody Seb, always there in the background, never having to make a time or place to see her because they lived together. Gary worried that soon he might offer her more than his shoulder.

The urge that led to him trying to kiss her that night in Year 11 was building up again. He had contained his love at school, and again when she was with Joe. Perhaps he had hidden things too well. She might not think he was interested. If he could just explain …

That last night at the Marlborough, he had hated watching Sal leave with Seb, and suspected the worst. When Seb returned, drunkenly morose, he was ecstatic. Once Joe left, it wasn’t hard to pry the truth out. Seb blurted out his feelings for Sal and got the brush-off. Of course he had. Gormless, grey, background Seb. He liked Seb, he was his best mate, but with Sal?! Please. Any idiot could see who the two shining lights of their group were.

However, if Seb was circling, he had to act. Sal was stressed about the band, uni, Joe and money. She was vulnerable. She and Seb would wake up in the same house, talk again. Who knew what would happen?

‘Listen, mate,’ he said to Seb, ‘come and stay at ours tonight. Give her a bit of space.’

Once Seb was settled on the couch, he slipped out again and knocked on Sal’s door …

*

Gary slowed as the boat coasted into the jetty, then climbed down and grabbed a rope. He didn’t need to hook it onto anything because his passenger was waiting.

‘Hi!’ he called, smiling broadly. ‘Catch the rope, pull it in, and step onto my humble abode.’

*

Seb pulled his car into the shop, and he and Barb got out. Inside Sue was alone, frying chips.

‘Hi, Sue,’ said Seb. ‘Leanne about?’

‘Out all arvo, sorry.’

‘Know where?’

‘Gary asked her out on his boat. Nice of him. It’ll be good for her.’

Seb stared at her. ‘How long ago?’

‘Went down there about fifteen minutes ago. Great day for it.’

Seb ran out of the shop, across the square and out along the jetty. At the end, he scanned the water. Soon, Barb arrived at his side, panting.

‘No sign. Must have gone round the corner, I’m guessing to the ocean. We know how he works. He’ll make it look like something it’s not. A tragic accident at sea.’

A horn sounded. Chugging around the corner was the ferry. He scanned the water. No other boats close enough.

‘Lucky I’ve got my uniform on,’ he said.

CHAPTER 74

Gary steered around the rocks, staying in the middle of the rapidly widening channel between Bullford Point and Ettalong that was opening out into a much wider expanse of water; national park to the left, Pearl Beach further across to the right. South toward Palm Beach and into the Hawkesbury where there would be plenty of other boats, then left out past the heads into open water where there wouldn’t be.

He waved down at Leanne, sunning herself on the back deck, sipping a glass of white wine. Good. Easier to explain if she’d had a bit. He could empty another bottle over the side, make it look like she’d had a lot.

He imagined it wasn’t Leanne with him, but Sal. Just the two of them, never getting sick of each other’s company, sharing experiences and secrets, laughing at in-jokes.

That last night in Sydney, he had seen her through her window, on the couch, staring at her laptop. Should he? They were older now, more mature, and Sal was looking for the right person. That was the only explanation for her ridiculous experiment with Joe. She would have learned from that. He had done such a good job of hiding his feelings, she would have no idea he was interested. If he stayed silent, she might settle for Seb. That would be unbearable.

He gathered his courage and knocked. She was surprised to see him, but he told her Seb had been so drunk that he had taken him home to theirs, and he wanted to let her know so she didn’t worry, and also to check how she was.

He hadn’t planned exactly what he would say, which was unlike him. Once inside, he shut the door behind him, and told her how he felt. It felt so good to finally let it out. He told her that they had always shared a special connection. He was sure she felt it, too. They were the smartest, funniest and most talented of their group. Sal and he understood each other, and now was the right time to be together.

He had seen it in her eyes almost immediately. Not joy. Alarm. She hadn’t smiled and stepped forward. She had stepped back. Everything had gone wrong.

He had wanted to kiss her so much, for so long. If he did, she would surely see how good it would be between them, and everything would be as it should be. He took two steps forward and held her. Kissed her. He felt her try to push away, but he couldn’t stop. Soon she would see it was right.

She turned her head, but he wanted to kiss her mouth again so he grabbed her jaw and pulled it back around. He had thought about her body so many times, been close to it so many times, on the bus, at the beach, so many times he had wanted to touch her, but until now, every single time he had held himself back. Every. Single. Time. He had been disciplined and controlled, but when you wanted something so much, wasn’t one lapse understandable? He slid his hand under her T-shirt, pushed his hand under her bra, felt her breast.

‘Stop! Stop!’ he dimly heard, and realised he should, but he didn’t want to let go of her breast, didn’t want to pull back and see the judgement in her eyes, so he kept going, kissing her more, holding her tighter as she struggled.

‘Fucking stop!’ she shouted.

She slammed him in the nose with the heel of her hand. Blood spurted from his nostrils. Stunned, he let go. She pushed away from him and backed toward the wall, blood on her blue T-shirt, splotching the flowers on it.

‘Fucking get out.’

Why was she being so horrible? Why would you do that to someone who loved you, to someone who you loved? It was just nasty. He took four steps forward and slapped her hard in the face once, and then again.

She cowered against the wall, sobbing. He was proud of what he did next, because he was stronger than her and he could have done all sorts of things. Instead, he turned and strode out the door, slamming it behind him.

As he walked home, he tried to work out how it had all gone so wrong, so quickly. He hoped she understood that his intentions had been good, that he loved her, and that she loved him. He knew he had lost some control, but what are you supposed to do when you had played a scene out so many times in your head as a happy ending, and then the one time it is actually real, just happens to be the only time you don’t get that happy ending? How’s that for luck?

Yes, he regretted some of his actions. She probably did too, especially hitting him. She bloody well should. That was out of line. He hoped they could talk about what had happened and work out the misunderstandings. That he could explain. That she would understand.

Now, on his boat, Leanne still happily chugging wine, he turned the wheel and pointed out to sea. He hadn’t handled things as well as he could have that night, but he had long ago forgiven himself. He had had such love inside him. When it was thrown back in his face, it had stung. Of course it had. Lots of people would have reacted like that. Some would have done worse. And what she did afterwards was way out of proportion.

*

‘I know you’re supposed to drive sensibly, but can you go any faster?’ said Seb, staring across the Hawkesbury.

‘Happy to, mate,’ said the captain. Or was he just the driver? Either way, he was sixtyish with a creased, bearded face. Seb decided to think of him as the captain. More reassuring.

As soon as the ferry had berthed, Seb had pushed his way through the traffic of disembarking passengers to him, Barb following, and explained that he needed the boat to chase another. The captain and his offsider – first mate? – a twentyish guy with a blond manbun, had got it reasonably quickly. Seb hadn’t even had to draw his taser. The four of them herded off the remaining passengers and chugged away.

The captain pulled a lever and the boat’s speed increased. ‘Sick of holding her back all the time. It can go twenty knots.’

Seb had no idea what that meant. ‘I reckon the boat we’re chasing is probably heading out the heads.’

‘What is it?’

Again, Seb had no idea. He had been on it a few times, but knew nothing about boats. He didn’t even know words that described boats. ‘It … umm … it hasn’t got sails.’

‘How many feet?’

‘Feet? No idea. Why feet?’

‘You measure boats in feet. How many metres, then multiply by three.’

‘Maybe ten? Twelve?’

‘That’s tiny. Is it a dinghy?’

‘Sorry. That’s metres.’

‘Okay. We should be able to gain on it pretty decently.’

Now they were coming alongside Box Head, the southern tip of the Central Coast. Ahead of them, boats puttered around the Hawkesbury, many heading in or out of Pittwater on the southern – Sydney – side. As they passed Box Head on their left, more ocean was revealed, and Seb saw Gary’s boat heading out to sea.

CHAPTER 75

Gary glanced around. They were all alone, a few hundred metres offshore. He locked the steering wheel and made his way to the back of the boat where there was no rail, and stared out to sea.

He pointed. ‘Look, Leanne. Dolphins!’

The morning after his and Sal’s misunderstanding, he had been anxious. Would she tell anyone? Luckily, his nose showed no visible marks, so there were no awkward questions to answer. Then he discovered she had vanished. Maybe she needed to think things through. Maybe she would realise she had made a terrible mistake in rejecting him, and come back.

Over the next few weeks, his anxiety subsided. It seemed like none of the band knew, or if they did, they were keeping quiet about it. Instead, he felt angry. He had given her his love, made himself vulnerable, and she had thrown it back in his face. That was an awful thing to do to someone.

He threw himself into stand-up, and the combination of his stage presence and great material from obscure comics worldwide that he discovered on YouTube and Spotify, and then pinched and repurposed, started to get him noticed. After a few months, a television producer asked him to audition to host a comedy panel show, and he got it. He knew it would be the perfect vehicle. He had the presence and the show had four writers whose job it was to make him funny.

The day after he was announced as host, he did some auditioning himself, of agents, as there was a complex contract to go through. That evening, at home, his phone rang. Sal. He stared at the screen, took a deep breath.

‘Hi, Sal. Great to hear from you.’

‘I can’t let you do this. Not after what you did to me. I should have done something about it then, but at least I can stop you getting into a position where you’ll have the power to do it again.’

Her words came in a cold, angry rush, sounding rehearsed. He suspected what lay beneath them was jealousy. He had got the big break, not her. He understood. In her own quiet way, she was as ambitious as he. It was one of the things he liked about her.

‘Sal, can we meet and talk about this?’ he asked.

‘No. I don’t ever want to talk to you again. I could go to the police.’

He felt a bolt of pure fear.

‘Pull out of the show,’ she continued.

‘Sal, this is it. My big break. What I’ve worked for. It might not come again.’

‘Pull out or I’m going to the police. My shirt from that night has your blood on it. Evidence.’

‘That’s just evidence that at some point I had a blood nose near your shirt. We both know why my nose was bleeding. But, please, can we meet and talk about it?’

‘No. Pull out of the show or I go to the police.’

‘I need … can I have some time? It’s just a shock.’

‘Two days.’ She hung up.

When he could think straight, he assessed the danger. If she went to the police he could be charged with … what? Assault? Indecent assault? His word against hers. What did the blood prove? Nothing really. More that she had assaulted him than he her, but it would be consistent with the story she told police, and if they questioned him, he would have to think of another way of explaining it.

Whether or not he would be convicted wasn’t the point, though. One tweet from Sal and it was over for him. No comedy club would book him for months, even years. He would be dumped from the TV show quicker than you could say ‘MeToo’.

Should he pull out? ‘Not the right opportunity at this time. Want to hone my comedic craft.’ If you were lucky, you got one chance. He had just got his, and if he took it and made it work, he would get bigger audiences, more applause and more opportunities. He’d have a decent shot at clawing his way onto that narrow ledge of well-known television comedians, and if he fought hard, maybe be able to stay there. Even if he didn’t, the television exposure would give him corporate opportunities that would pay his pool-cleaning bills for years.

If he pulled out of the show, even if he did get another opportunity, what then? Sal would still have power over him. She could demand that he pull out of the next opportunity he got (if he got one), and the one after that, again and again, forever. How could he ever rest easy? The only way was if he knew that not only was she not going to go public, or go to the police, now, she was not going to do it ever.

There was a way. Distasteful, but looking at it pragmatically, if the only other alternative was to sit in limbo, permanently at her mercy, it was the least worst alternative. He had to kill her. He wished there was another way, because he loved her, but there wasn’t.

The problem was that the police would look for motive. He didn’t know if Sal had told anyone about what happened that night, but if she had, and she was killed, it would come out, and he would be the prime suspect. Then the idea came. There was a way of killing Sal that would cause the police to not even look for those with a motive to kill her. It was a bloody clever idea. Might even be a mini-series in it. He might wait a few years before he pitched it, though.

Now, Leanne looked up at him. ‘Dolphins? Really?’

‘Yeah. A whole pod. Come see.’

She stood, still clutching her glass of wine, and made her way toward the back of the boat. ‘Where?’

Gary stepped right to the edge and pointed. ‘Come,’ he said, beckoning her closer and offering his hand. ‘There’s heaps of them.’

CHAPTER 76

As they rounded the heads and headed out to sea, Seb kept his eye on Gary’s boat. Maybe it was four hundred metres ahead, or maybe half or double that. He had no idea. How were you supposed to tell with no points of reference?

‘How long till we catch it?’

The captain narrowed his eyes. ‘Five or six minutes, I’d say. Depends a bit though.’

‘What on?’

‘On whether we stop to pick up whoever just went overboard.’

*

He hadn’t offered a life jacket and she hadn’t asked. When she reached his side at the back of the boat, it was easy to shove her. A second later she was in the water, spluttering, and he was back at the wheel, chugging away from her. Idiotically, she started swimming after the boat, as if she could catch it. She didn’t look like a good swimmer, and she’d had two glasses of wine. He could just keep circling her until she disappeared. Maybe he could tease her, get close enough so she exhausted herself chasing the boat.

It was unfair to Leanne, really. Without her, he would never have found Sal.

After he had decided what he had to do, he had googled and scoured social media, hoping to find a mention of Sal’s home or workplace, but no luck. He’d put out word to their friends. Guys, I’m really worried about Sal. It’s over 5 months now. Anyone heard from her? No luck.

Who were most likely to have been in touch with her? Seb and Joe. He had a drink with Seb, who was all moany and worried. If he had been in contact, he wouldn’t have been able to hide it.

He knocked on Joe’s door. Leanne was there too. They both looked like shit, and were obviously on something. Both said they hadn’t heard from her.

But an hour later Leanne called.

‘Didn’t want to say in front of Joe, but I saw her a couple of weeks ago.’

Bingo!

He acted the concerned friend. ‘How’s she doing? etcetera’ before getting to, ‘Where is she?’

‘She made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone.’

‘Right. Understood. You know it’s her birthday in a couple of weeks?’

‘Oddly, I don’t keep track of Sal’s birthday.’

‘Again, understood. But I wanted to send her a present. Maybe from all of us. Just so she knows we’re thinking of her.’

‘Thing is, Gary, me and Joe aren’t doing too well money wise.’

The penny dropped.

‘That’s such a shame, Leanne. Tough times in the big city. I’m doing okay at the moment.’ Understatement. He was getting plenty from comedy gigs, plus parental support, and the TV job would pay a bomb. ‘Horrible to see a close friend having financial difficulties. I’m sure it’s only short term. Things will turn around, but perhaps in the meantime I could help you out. A small loan, maybe?’

She lapped it up. A bit of to and fro and they agreed on three hundred dollars. In return she let slip Sal’s address.

He figured out a plan, and then rang Meals on Wheels in Katoomba, found out what time they delivered, drove up and followed the van for its first four deliveries. He wanted it to be someone elderly so he was only taking a few years from them. He looked in the letterboxes, got the names of two residents, googled the first and found her husband’s obituary eighteen months before. He was willing to take a punt that eighty-six-year-old Dorothy Ingham hadn’t hooked up with anyone since.

He waited for hours, both bored and nervous, until 11 p.m. Getting in wasn’t hard. He had brought a screwdriver and crowbar, but the house was old and run-down, and he found a window he could open. He found Dorothy in her bedroom, asleep. It wasn’t hard.

He didn’t enjoy it. It was just what had to be done.

Sal had given him two days, but he would need a bit more time. He didn’t want to text or leave a message, so the next day he called.

‘Your request is entirely reasonable and I’m so sorry for what happened. I’ll pull out of the show.’

‘Good,’ she said, her voice softening a touch.

‘It’s a delicate situation with the producers, though. Can you give me a week to work out how to exit? I’ve signed a contract.’

A long pause, then, ‘Okay.’

‘Thanks.’

He needed a bit of an age difference for the second victim, so Sal wasn’t an outlier. He sourced the local news and found a story about a middle-aged woman with terminal cancer. Sounded horrible. Surely, he’d be doing her a favour.

A bit of googling and he had her address. She lived alone, but had carers popping in and out so, after dark, he parked in her empty street, waited until a friend left, then knocked on the door and told her he was a counsellor from the hospital. As she made him a cup of tea he put on his gloves and came up behind her.

The headline next day was exactly what he was hoping for: ‘Strangler Haunts Blue Mountains.’

Thanks to Leanne, he had Sal’s address, but how was he going to get in? Night was best to minimise the risk of being seen, but the police were now trumpeting warnings to stay safe, lock doors and windows, and not open the door to anyone you don’t know. He was a victim of his own success!

He might be able to break in, but what if he couldn’t, or it was noisy? He thought and thought, and then called Leanne.

‘I’m experimenting with some new comedy, but I need a woman’s voice that I can record and play. I just think you’d be perfect.’

They agreed on two hundred dollars, she came over, he made up some bullshit and recorded her saying, ‘It’s Leanne. Can I come in?’, ‘Please. It’s an emergency’ and ‘Just let me in’.

Next was another stakeout, a long evening in Leura. Eventually Sal came home. Gary had wondered how he would feel when he saw her. Turns out, not much. As she walked down the street toward her house, it was more ‘problem to be solved’ than ‘love of my life’. Perhaps it would be different when he got close.

Again, thanks to Leanne, he knew Sal had a housemate, and an hour later a young woman left wearing what looked like waitressing gear. Soon after, it was dark.

He was nervous as he walked to her front door and knocked. He heard footsteps inside.

‘Who is it?’ Sal’s voice.

From his phone, he played the first sound file. ‘It’s Leanne. Can I come in?’

‘Leanne?’

Sound file two. ‘Please. It’s an emergency.’

He didn’t need the third. As the door swung open he brought up the replica pistol he had bought online, twelve dollars extra for next-day delivery. If needed, his cover story was that he was using it in a routine about gun control. He’d even done one onstage. Didn’t get many laughs, but now it was tax deductible.

She looked beautiful, but he tried not to think about that. She wore white overalls over a T-shirt and bangles. Why would you wear bangles at home?

‘Shit!’ she managed.

‘Turn around and walk into the lounge room.’

‘Gary, come on …’

‘Shut the fuck up!’ he said, shutting the door behind him. His fury surprised him. He ordered her to sit on the couch, and lowered his knee onto it. ‘Don’t move, or I shoot.’

He thought he might want to talk to her, but he just wanted to get it done and move on with life. Still pointing the gun, he put one hand on her neck and squeezed hard so she couldn’t scream. Then he dropped the gun and used both hands.

A phone pinged.

She gurgled, flailed her arms and then grabbed his wrist, turned her head and bit. It hurt, but he kept squeezing. She flung her hands at his face. He raised his head to avoid her, but her nails ripped along his neck. He kept squeezing until her movements slowed and then stopped.

He felt sad it had come to this, but also relieved. She had tried to rob him of everything he had worked for.

Who was that text from? Nothing on his phone. He checked hers. Seb.

Be there about 10 on Sunday. So looking forward to seeing you

He felt his fury rise, but squashed it down. He needed to be cold, rational and swift. He retrieved the replica, shoved it into his belt, found Sal’s room and looked for her shirt. He found it in a plastic bag in her bedside table drawer. Loose end tidied!

He opened a kitchen window, because why would she have opened her front door to a stranger with ‘the Strangler’ on the loose?

Back in the now ironically named living room, he picked up her hand and used her fingerprint to open her laptop. He searched his name. Old emails of course, but nothing since their misunderstanding. Good.

Phone next. He tried face ID, but apparently it doesn’t work when you’re dead. Good attention to detail, Apple. She wasn’t one for elaborate passcodes, and he got it open with six threes. There were no recent texts between them, and just two calls. Easy to explain. She rang him to reconnect, then he had rung her back to talk more.

A journal lay next to her on the sofa. Even if she had written about what had happened that night in Sydney, he could deny it, but better if he didn’t have to. He took it. It was the sort of thing a psycho killer would do and, to be honest, he’d be interested in reading it.

He had one final, long look at her. So beautiful. He didn’t love her the same way anymore, but he didn’t hate her. He bent down and kissed her gently on the lips. She had resisted the first time they had kissed. She didn’t resist this time, which was nice, but on the other hand it was because she was dead. You can’t have everything. Then he walked out the door into the life he deserved.

Over the next few days, the news went crazy about the Strangler. He felt kind of proud. Inventing a killer had been a performance every bit as satisfying as smashing a stand-up gig.

The only loose end was Leanne. She knew that he knew Sal’s address. Luckily, she was pretty much a junkie, and as long as that continued, his money would be an effective lever.

A week after Sal died, he waited in her street until he saw Joe go out, and knocked on her door.

‘How are you coping with Sal’s death?’ he asked, trying to look bereaved.

‘It’s sad, obviously …’ She shrugged.

‘If the police ask about her address … I’ve got this TV show starting, and so I’m now officially’ – he made air quotes as he rolled his eyes – ‘“someone”, and there’s so much media about this Strangler as it is, if they find out she’s my friend it’ll become a circus. “Strangler’s Third Victim Was TV Star’s Best Friend.” You know the type of thing. No one needs that. I wonder, if the police talk to you, maybe …’

‘I could leave out the bit about giving you her address? Sure. Three hundred?’

He was sure Leanne didn’t suspect him. She was just adept at sniffing out money-making opportunities.

Well, she wouldn’t be doing any more of that, thought Gary as his boat chugged away from her, heading out to sea. He glanced over his shoulder. Not long now, by the looks of her feeble attempts at staying afloat.

Hang on. Why the fuck was there a ferry heading toward her?

*

The captain pulled the ferry alongside Leanne, as Seb got down on his knees and extended a hand. She grabbed it, and he and the mate hauled her on board, and half carried her inside to a wooden bench.

‘I found this in a cupboard,’ said Barb, appearing from the back with a blanket and draping it over Leanne’s shoulders, Leanne clutched it around her. The early November air temperature might be mid-twenties, but from recent experience Seb knew the water was still chilly.

‘Prick fucking pushed me,’ Leanne panted. ‘Wouldn’t come back. If you hadn’t come … What are you doing here?’

‘Tell you later,’ said Seb. ‘Sit here and get warm.’ He headed up front to the captain. They were only a couple of hundred metres behind Gary’s boat. He could see Gary up top steering, casting regular glances.

‘Why not call him?’ asked Barb, appearing at his side.

Why hadn’t he thought of that? He pulled out his phone. Still a couple of bars. He rang, saw Gary reach into his pocket and hold his phone to his ear.

‘Hi, Seb. That you behind me, is it?’

‘Yes, Gary. How about slowing down?’

‘Leanne fell. She’d been drinking. Didn’t have her life jacket on. I was trying to get her.’

‘Looked more like you were heading away from her.’

‘No, mate, just getting out of your way.’

‘How about you stop and we’ll have a chat?’

‘Sure. Soon.’

‘Gary. Come on. There’s nowhere to go.’

‘You don’t think so, Seb? You’ve never been much of a lateral thinker, have you?’ Gary dropped the phone and went below.

CHAPTER 77

The comedy panel show catapulted him to fame, he got oodles of money and spin-off gigs everywhere, even an ad for deodorant that he made funny. Three years later when the show got cancelled, as they all do sooner or later, he moved back to Bullford Point, and impatiently and anxiously waited for the next big opportunity.

Importantly, he had never had any sort of urge to do anything violent again to anyone. That proved he wasn’t a psycho. Just someone who had been put in a very difficult situation and had to find a way out of it.

He didn’t have a romantic life. He had seen where that could lead. He realised that Sal had had enormous power over him, and never wanted to be in such a position of vulnerability again.

Sometimes people asked him if he was seeing anyone. He just smiled enigmatically and raised an eyebrow in a way that suggested, he hoped, that he had a vigorous sex life without any long-term commitment. Sometimes women came on to him – after all, he was tall, good-looking and famous. He responded, but only for a night or two. The risks of emotional involvement, as he had seen, were too great.

Occasionally, he perused the early parts of her diary, which he kept hidden at home. He only had to read a page or two before he could drift off into the imagined future they could have shared: walks along the beach, swimming, quiet evenings snuggled on the couch, holidays in Paris, even babies that grew up through imagined years. Sometimes it felt so good that it was hard to return to his real, solitary life.

Then, just as he was in the midst of a dazzling reinvention as a game-show host, fucking Joe cleans himself up and decides to do a podcast. Said he needed a hobby. Why not take up painting, dickhead? No one’s going to have their life ruined if you make their chin too big.

Keep your enemies close. Joe wasn’t his enemy. Gary liked him, wished him well in his recovery, but he was a threat. So he offered to be Joe’s sounding board and help him craft a narrative, so he would know if Joe was starting to get too close to the truth.

He lent Joe his car to drive to the Blue Mountains, hoping that when he returned he would tell his good friend Gary what he had found out. And he did. No cause for alarm. The police hadn’t got anywhere, so whatever they told Joe wouldn’t help.

He was concerned, however, when Joe told him he was going to interview Leanne. The next time he was in the shop, he asked Sue when she was arriving. ‘Can I pick her up from the station? I’ve missed her.’

As soon as he saw her walking up from the platform at Woy Woy station, he knew she was still on the gear. Thin, unkempt hair, holes in her jeans, and not in that trendy way.

In the car, he had done small talk, then got to it. ‘Joe’s a bit, I think, obsessive about this podcast.’

‘Typical. Always about Sal.’

‘Exactly. Look, remember back then you didn’t tell the police you gave me Sal’s address, because of my TV show.’

Leanne had smiled, already knowing where this would lead. ‘Yeah.’

‘It might be weird to mention it now. It might make obsessed Joe think he was onto some big clue, when as we know, it’s nothing.’

‘Five hundred?’

Bit of a price hike since last time, but job done. His own interview with Joe went well. He was funny and charming, as always.

A few days later, however, Joe rang. ‘I asked everyone what Sal was wearing that last night at the Marlborough. I wanted to paint a picture, but everyone remembers something different. You said white overalls. You sure?’

With a bolt of horror, Gary realised he had described Sal’s outfit on the night he killed her. He couldn’t remember seeing her in white overalls before that. What if she had bought them up there? This was bad.

‘I dunno, Joe. It’s so long ago. What did everyone else say?’

‘All different things. It’s no big deal.’

‘How’s it all coming along? Happy to listen and give you notes.’

‘Going well, thanks, Gary. One thing. Did you know Leanne visited Sal in Leura?’

‘Really?’

‘She went to her house. And when I asked her if she told anyone her address, she got all antsy and stormed out.’

Fucking Leanne. Even if he gave her more money, it would be trumped by her desperate need to please Joe. She would do anything for him. If Joe kept pushing, she would crumble and tell him who she had passed on Sal’s address to, and that would be very bad.

The next day Leanne rang. ‘Joe wants to interview me again. Just thought maybe a top-up, since I gotta lie again.’

They agreed on another five hundred dollars, and he started planning. Joe was getting too close. Gary liked Joe, but he liked his life more. If he didn’t act before Leanne’s second interview, it might be too late.

He went back to first principles: kill someone in a way that ensures no one even looks for those with a motive. No one questions a former drug addict overdosing. He researched quantities and methods. He would need something to knock out Joe beforehand. He knew a TV producer who – surprise, surprise – bought cocaine regularly. Gary got a number from him, drove down to a quiet, leafy street in Hunters Hill, and purchased heroin and liquid morphine.

He rang around, got everyone to come to the club Friday, shouted Joe a lemonade, and subtly tipped in the liquid morphine.

‘Tastes like shit,’ said Joe.

‘It’s those machines. They’re terrible. The beer’s okay, though.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

Unsurprisingly, soon after Joe started yawning. His house was a twenty-minute walk away. Gary would have liked to drive him home, but didn’t want to be known as the last person to see him alive (even though he would be), so he let Viv, who seemed eager to get away, do it. Gary gave it an hour, said his goodnights, drove into Bullford Point, parked half a kilometre from Joe’s and walked. Let himself in with the spare key, went into Joe’s room, where he found Joe unconscious in bed.

Gary loaded the syringe, tied a belt around Joe’s arm, shot him up, saw him twist and contort, foam at the mouth, vomit and eventually go still. He noticed a mouthguard and removed it, putting it on the bedside table, and pulled the covers to the side to make it look as if Joe hadn’t been under them.

He used Joe’s fingerprint to access his laptop and spent the next couple of hours listening to Joe’s interviews, just in case someone else had a listen and heard something that pointed to him. Joe had done a good job. If he’d kept pulling threads, he probably would have got to the truth. In a way, that was good, because it justified killing him. Self-defence, again.

Gary deleted the parts of Monica’s and Leanne’s interviews that indicated Leanne knew Sal’s address, and the section about what Sal wore that last night in Sydney, where he’d made his huge mistake. Everything else could stay.

Joe’s notebook was on his desk. There were a couple of pages he would have liked to remove, but it was glue-bound not spiral, and a ripped-out page might be noticed. He didn’t want to take the whole notebook, as Joe had mentioned its existence to several people at the club, so it’s absence might be suspicious. On balance, he decided it was best to leave it. Probably, no one would bother reading it. If they did, Joe’s notes were cryptic and none led to him.

He put the spare key back and, next morning, made sure he was around to offer Leanne comfort when she found out. She was both a loose end and cannon, so he would need to keep an eye on her.

Again, he felt some pride in a job well done, and started to relax. Then Seb and Barb – Barb, for fuck’s sake! – began poking about. He threw some bait to Seb to try to divert him to Viv and Dev, but they started pressuring Leanne to tell them if she’d shared Sal’s address. Leanne came straight to him again, now wanting fifteen hundred dollars to keep quiet. That was the problem with someone knowing one of your secrets. They could keep coming back for more. That was why he’d had to kill Sal.

No matter how much he gave Leanne, he was sure she would eventually crack. Once again, he put on his thinking cap, then texted her.

Nice day. Want to come out on the boat? Very relaxing! Fridge full of wine, too!

Everyone knew Leanne was erratic. He would say it wasn’t until they were past the heads that he noticed her behaving strangely. She must have had something before she got on (if they never found her body, they couldn’t do a toxicology test). She had drunk nearly two bottles of wine and wouldn’t put on a life jacket. He was just turning the boat around to take her home when she staggered to the back and went over. He threw her a lifebuoy, tried to rescue her, but she was too off her face. Tragic accident.

CHAPTER 78

By the time Gary reappeared from below, holding a coiled rope and a knife, the ferry was only a few metres behind his boat.

‘Pull alongside,’ Seb said to the captain.

Gary made his way to the front of his boat where he tied one end of the rope around the anchor chain.

Barb realised what he was intending and hurried forward to the captain. ‘Pull alongside. Quick.’

The captain manoeuvred the ferry closer. On the other boat Gary started cutting through the rope, a few metres from the end tied to the anchor.

As the boats gently bumped, Barb appeared at Seb’s shoulder. ‘He’s going to go over with the anchor.’

‘Shit.’ Seb grabbed the guard rail and stepped over. The boats were only a couple of metres apart. He caught the captain’s eyes and motioned him closer.

Gary cut the rope and tied the loose end tightly around his ankle.

‘Gary! Don’t!’ Seb screamed, but the engines drowned him out.

Gary stepped to the front of the boat, sat on the rail and swung his feet over.

Seb leaped from the ferry to Gary’s boat, slipped on the edge, half falling, before he grabbed the rail and hauled himself up.

Gary looked expressionlessly at him and pressed a button next to the anchor. The anchor plunged into the water, dragging its chain with it.

Seb ran toward the front. Gary stayed still, his eyes flicking between the unravelling chain and Seb. Seb got to him and grabbed his arm, before the descending chain yanked the rope attached to Gary’s ankle, whisking him overboard and under the water.

Without thinking, Seb dived after him. The water hit him and he grabbed the still descending chain. As it pulled him deeper, he went hand over hand down it. Below him, next to the chain, was Gary, his foot attached to the chain by the rope, being dragged down, his head and arms lagging behind, like one of those inflatable tube men outside car dealerships. Seb’s lungs throbbed. He dragged himself further down the chain, past Gary’s upper body, and grabbed the rope knot that connected Gary to the anchor chain. He started to untie the knot. If he could, Gary would be freed from the anchor and, whether he liked it or not, would float to the surface.

Seb felt a hand in his hair yank him up. He lost his grip on the rope. Gary had pulled him away.

Seb reached above his head, grabbed Gary’s wrist and tried to break his grip, but it was hard to generate power in the water. Seb’s lungs were screaming. He tried to pull himself back down the chain, but Gary held his hair, stopping him, like an owner controlling his dog.

Seb stretched, but couldn’t reach the knot. He needed air. He realised Gary could kill him if he wanted. All he had to do was keep hold of his hair until they both drowned.

CHAPTER 79

Gary’s lungs hammered, but he kept hold. No way was he letting the prick save him. If he was going down, it was this way, not to a cell.

He had loved Sal, but everything went wrong. He missed her, thought about her all the time.

Now Seb had ruined everything, just when he was getting back on top.

So why not keep hold of his hair and take him with him?

Would there be an afterlife? Bound to be. This couldn’t be the end of everything.

If there was, he might see Sal again! A fresh start. They could be together in the way he had always dreamed of.

But what if she was still upset that he had killed her? It was a long time ago. Time heals, surely. No need to hold grudges.

Seb was hitting his arm, trying to break his grip on his hair, but the water made his movements comically slow-mo and weak.

Gary smiled. He was going to see Sal again! He started to laugh, let out air, bubbles racing to the surface.

Time to die.

Seb had fucked everything up. But Sal had liked Seb. She wouldn’t like it if he killed him.

And if there was an afterlife, he didn’t want Seb to be in it to fuck everything up for him again.

He raised his middle finger in front of Seb’s face. Then he let him go. For Sal.

*

Barb sat next to Leanne, who was huddled inside a blanket, only her head visible, as the ferry motored back toward Bullford Point, towing Gary’s boat. Once Seb had been dragged on board and his breathing sounded a bit less like someone trying to blow out a fire while having an asthma attack, he and the captain had gone over to Gary’s boat, winched in the anchor, awkwardly hauled Gary’s body on board, and laid it on the deck.

Now Seb, also covered in a blanket on the other side of Barb, spoke. ‘After Joe died, Homicide told me that when a suspect commits suicide, it’s basically a confession. So I guess Gary confessed.’

‘It’s my fault,’ Leanne mumbled. ‘I gave him Sal’s address.’

‘No, no,’ said Barb. ‘If you hadn’t told him, he would have got it some other way. He was very clever. You said yourself, it’s not hard to find where someone lives.’

Leanne looked forlorn. ‘I miss Joe.’

Barb put her hand on her arm. ‘Me too.’

PART 5

CHAPTER 80

Seb had called Gosford police from the ferry to report an attempted murder, a suicide and, ‘by the way, do you remember the Blue Mountains Strangler case from seven years ago? We’ve solved it.’ As a result, shortly after they reached the jetty, sirens blared and three cop cars arrived.

He explained what he could, promised to give a full statement soon, but please could he go home and get dry first? Mercifully, they allowed it.

He had dropped off Barb at her car, halfway between the jetty and the police station, and seen her drive back toward her house. So he was surprised when, just a couple of minutes after he got home, she knocked on his door.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘A loose end. You have a shower and put on some dry clothes. I’ll make tea.’

As he showered, he tried to work out what it might be, but after nearly being killed for the second time in a few days, he seemed incapable of ordered thought. He was looking forward to the tea, though.

‘Ahh,’ he said after the first sip. ‘Best ever.’

She raised her mug. ‘Well done, us.’

‘I suppose, but …’ He trailed off, not sure how he felt, or how he was supposed to. Solving murders committed by your friends was a lot more emotionally complex than issuing speeding tickets. ‘How close do you think Joe got to discovering it was Gary?’

‘Close enough to feel he might be in danger. That’s why he hid the computer backup in my car. He knew Leanne had visited Sal in Leura. Maybe he suspected her, or maybe he suspected that she had passed on Sal’s address to someone. He wanted to interview Leanne again, and I think if he had, he would have got her to admit she gave Sal’s address to Gary. That’s why Gary killed him. He knew Leanne wouldn’t be able to resist Joe for long. And Joe would have got Sabina’s permission to talk to Viv, too, and found out about the assault on Sal. He would have got there.’

‘What’s the loose end, then?’

‘This is important, and potentially unpleasant, so I’ll just get on with it. Where did Joe get the three thousand dollars I found in an envelope in his sock drawer? My theory that Joe blackmailed someone was a reasonable one, but you never seemed interested. You were so tenacious with everything else. Followed every lead. Why not this one?’

Seb stayed expressionless.

‘I wondered if the reason you weren’t trying to find out who Joe was blackmailing might have been because you already knew.’

He stared back at her.

‘I was asking you all about handwriting, and fingerprints on the envelope, but the clue was more obvious. It was the envelope. You said I could probably find them in any newsagent, but I tried four and none stocked it.’ She pulled the envelope with ‘Joe’ written on it from her pants pocket. ‘There’s only one place I’ve seen an envelope like this.’ She pulled a second envelope from another pocket and held them side by side. Identical.

‘I picked this one up from the pile you have on your desk. When I first came to you and said I thought Joe was murdered, you didn’t seem convinced. But after I mentioned the three thousand dollars and my theory that Joe was blackmailing someone, and I said I might go to Homicide, that’s when you got interested. I just wondered if one reason you decided to help me investigate Joe’s death was because it allowed you to keep an eye on how far I was getting in working out who gave Joe that envelope of money?’

Barb left a silence, but Seb wasn’t filling it.

‘Seb? Was Joe blackmailing you? I can’t prove anything. It’s just an envelope. But maybe it’s better to tell me.’

Seb looked down. Was it better to tell her? Who knew? But he was sick of not telling anyone.

‘The night I drove Claire home at 5 a.m. and had the accident. I said I swerved off the road to avoid a truck. There was no truck. I fell asleep. Drove off the road. When I saw she was badly injured, I knew what it meant. I’d get charged with negligent driving causing grievous bodily harm, definitely lose my job, maybe go to jail. So I made up the truck. I’d woken up just as I was going off the edge and hit the brakes, so there were skid marks that could look like me braking to miss another vehicle.’

He looked up and saw not judgement, but compassion.

‘You’ve been carrying all that this whole time,’ she said. ‘As well as all that guilt about Sal’s death. You poor thing.’

He couldn’t speak for a while.

‘How did Joe find out?’ she asked.

‘Soon after he got back, a group of us were at the club. They were asking me about the accident, like I was a hero for saving both our lives. Joe was there. He got me alone afterwards.’

*

‘Sounds terrible, that accident. Truck just swerved at you?’

‘Yep.’

‘Driver must have nodded off, yeah?’ There was an edge in his voice.

‘Must have.’

‘They didn’t catch him?’

‘Nah.’ Seb was starting to feel uneasy.

‘So no one can ask him what happened. Think of the odds. Like, how many cars are on that road that time of night. Fuck-all, right? Yet the one time this guy falls asleep, there’s a car on the other side of the road. And it’s you! That is so unlucky.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Lucky for him but. You slam the horn?’

‘Umm, think so.’

‘Must have. Woke him up. Probably saved his life. Like, he falls asleep, but instead of going off the bank, his life is saved cos you just happen to be there and honk him awake. Amazing he didn’t stop and help you after that.’

‘Guess he was scared of getting in trouble.’

‘If he exists.’ Joe said it matter-of-factly, studying him.

Fear rippled through Seb. ‘What?’

‘I’ve always been able to tell when you’re bullshitting, Seb. I just can. I don’t reckon it was the truck driver who fell asleep, cos there was no truck. I reckon it was you. Been rooting that woman all night and you were tired. You made up the truck to get out of trouble. Tell me I’m wrong.’

Seb was silent.

‘I don’t care. I’d do the same. But I need money. I’ve got an urgent debt to pay. Three grand.’

*

‘Oh dear,’ said Barb. ‘He had different sides, didn’t he? But he couldn’t prove there was no truck.’

‘No, but he hinted he could tell the police that I’d told him the truth while I was drunk. That would have reopened the investigation, which to be honest was pretty piss-weak, cos I’m a cop. If they reopened it, they’d have gone over all the physical evidence, skid marks, etcetera. Maybe they would have found something. I decided the easiest thing was to give him the money.

‘And you’re right, when you came in and started talking about the money you’d found in his room, I didn’t want you to go to Homicide. Didn’t want them poking around. Maybe they’d find out about it, maybe Joe had written something down. So, yep, that was part of why I got involved.’

‘But you also wanted to find the truth.’

‘Yeah. It was both. Thing is, Claire’s memory is starting to come back. I don’t even know if she was awake when we went off the bank. She was asleep beforehand, but she might have woken up. If she remembers what really happened …’ He became aware he was twisting his hands in his lap. ‘She wants to see me, but I’m scared of what she’ll say …’

‘You worry a lot about this, yes?’

He nodded.

‘Maybe you should just tell her the truth. Maybe that’s better than worrying?’

‘Are you serious? I could go to jail.’

‘But the worry. The uncertainty.’

‘If I tell her what happened and she tells the police, I’m out of the force, facing charges and probably going to jail. It’s not just that I crashed. I lied about it. I’ve just got to keep hoping she doesn’t remember.’

‘Is that the right thing to do, though?’

‘Fuck’s sake, Barb, we’re not at ethics club. This is my life.’

Barb smiled sadly. ‘You spent years torturing yourself because the last time you saw Sal you did something you regret and you never had a chance to clear the air. This is similar, isn’t it? Surely you don’t want to be carrying another load of guilt and worry on your back for years.’

He clenched his jaw, stood and spoke tersely. ‘It’s a shit situation. Keeping quiet is the least bad option. Anyway, we’ve done a good job. Mission accomplished. Well done, us. Now it’s over. So, see you around.’

‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘Bye, Barbara.’

He watched her go, and then collapsed into the couch.

CHAPTER 81

EMAIL FROM VIV GRIFFITH TO DEV KERALA, 7 NOVEMBER 2024

Hi Dev,

Thank you for your offer to buy 28 Bayview Avenue. I agree that your offer is above market value, but after careful consideration, have decided to decline for three reasons:

Houses on the water will always be a good investment, and I prefer the income stream that renting it out can provide.

I am concerned about the controversy now surrounding this project, regarding the role that the deputy mayor played, whether the way in which council provisionally approved the project was proper, and the upcoming Independent Commission Against Corruption inquiry.

I heard that you had boasted you could ‘get me to agree to anything’ and I wanted to disprove that assertion.

All the best,

Viv

EMAIL FROM DEV KERALA TO VIV GRIFFITH, 7 NOVEMBER 2024

Viv, can we talk about this? I definitely didn’t say that.

Dev

FIVE UNANSWERED CALLS FROM DEV KERALA TO VIV GRIFFITH, 7 NOVEMBER 2024

EMAIL FROM VIV GRIFFITH TO LEANNE HITCHCOCK, 7 NOVEMBER 2024

Hi Leanne,

I have decided not to sell my parents’ house, and will be renting it out. Sue mentioned that you have decided to stay for a while, and I am looking for three tenants. Are you interested? As we have known each other a long time, I can be flexible and try to find a rent that fits your budget.

One caveat, however. If you do want to move in, I would prefer that I was responsible for finding your two additional housemates, not you. Hope that is okay.

Viv

EMAIL FROM LEANNE HITCHCOCK TO VIV GRIFFITH, 7 NOVEMBER 2024

Hi Viv,

Yes! Thanks. That would be great. I’m also looking for a job so if you hear of anything, let me know. Anything that isn’t Mum’s shop!

Leanne

TRANSCRIPT OF CALL BETWEEN CONSTABLE SEB BAXTER AND SENIOR CONSTABLE JOANNA DAWES, POLICE INTERNAL AFFAIRS, 7 NOVEMBER 2024

SEB: Hello?

DAWES: Hi, Sebastian, Joanna Dawes. Just want to update you on the Perkins case.

SEB: Oh, hi. Okay.

DAWES: We’ve found that he has significant money in offshore accounts and there is evidence linking him to Vanessa Pierce, who runs drugs and other illegal stuff. Do we have enough to convict him in court? Maybe, probably, but not sure.

SEB: Did you find out who killed Karen Kemp?

DAWES: Not yet, but we’re working on it. We’ve offered Perkins a deal to roll over and help us get Vanessa and others. Telling us how Karen was killed would be part of that.

SEB: If he takes the deal, will he walk?

DAWES: Fuck, no. He probably ordered Karen’s murder, as well as a hit on you.

SEB: Good.

DAWES: Listen, Seb. You fucked up. When you found that photo on Karen’s phone and sent it to him, that was dumb. If you’d thought it through, you would have realised that either Perkins or Drummond was probably involved.

SEB: I know. It was super dumb.

DAWES: Nearly got you killed. And you played fucking hardball with us, giving us that fifteen-minute deadline. Not cool. Having said that, I get why you did it. On the positive side, Karen Kemp’s death had been closed by Homicide, you didn’t buy it, you pushed and pushed, and because of you we caught a corrupt cop in a position of power, and cleared an innocent man, albeit a dead one, of murdering Kemp. Without you, Perkins could have kept doing that shit for years. You were tenacious and smart. Apart from that one super-dumb thing.

SEB: Thanks.

DAWES: Want to come work for us?

SEB: Sorry?

DAWES: Bad line, is it? You heard.

SEB: Is that like a hypothetical enquiry?

DAWES: It’s a job offer. Here in Sydney.

(LONG SILENCE)

DAWES: You there?

SEB: Yeah, sorry. I … I’m interested for sure, but … there’s something I need to sort out first.

DAWES: Sure. Let me know. Soon, ideally.

EXTRACT FROM CENTRAL COAST CYCLING CLUB NEWSLETTER, 8 NOVEMBER 2024

Watch out, folks, Viv Griffith is back! Just when he thought this year’s comp might be turning into a one-bike race, Sam Delaney has been beaten!!

Forty-three riders tackled the 75-kilometre Tuggerah Lake circuit. After a watchful start and middle, Sam and Viv broke away from the pack with 20 kilometres to go, and with Smiling Sam looking fresher, younger and happier, the smart money was all on him. When Sam broke away from Viv at the 5-kilometre mark, and then with 2 kilometres to go had a 50-metre lead, it looked like game over. But somehow, Viv summoned an incredible burst of energy for a final sprint, reeling Sam in and beating him to the line by a metre. What a finish!

Former (and perhaps future?) club champ Viv put it down to his new diet. ‘It’s all about the fuel you put in your body.’ Then he did something I’ve never seen before. He smiled! Good old clean living! Well done Viv.

TEXT FROM BARB YOUNG TO FORMER DETECTIVE JOHN MAYNE, 8 NOVEMBER 2024

Hi John, an update on our investigation, hopefully before you read it in the news, although with the internet it spreads so fast these days. Case solved. The Blue Mountains Strangler is Gary Turner. Give me a call and I’ll share details

TEXT FROM FORMER DETECTIVE JOHN MAYNE TO BARB YOUNG, 8 NOVEMBER 2024

Thanks for the chat. Fuck me, the psychic handywoman. Congratulations again. I feel like a bit of a dill being outsmarted by someone who fixes windows. Amazing work. Won’t be sleeping much the next few nights, going through everything and trying to work out how I could have got the bastard. Wish you’d been around seven years ago

EMAIL FROM CONSTABLE SEB BAXTER TO DETECTIVE DAN SIMMONDS, 8 NOVEMBER 2024

Hi Dan,

Just updating you on some statistics. When we met that morning at Joe Griffith’s house, you asked me how many murders I’d solved, and I said none. The answer is now five. Still not as many as you, of course, but then again I’ve only been doing it a month. By the way, you said you’d solved twenty-eight, but I guess that should be twenty-seven now, given that you had Joe down as Karen Kemp’s killer and that turned out to be wrong.

All the best,

Seb

CHAPTER 82

Seb sat alone in a windowless white room inside Gosford police station that detectives used to interview suspects. He wasn’t either (yet), but it was the only private place they could find for him to look at Sal’s journal. Police had searched Gary’s house and found it in his spare room at the bottom of a plastic container full of tax documents, removing any doubt that he’d killed her. Seb had asked to see it. He couldn’t take it offsite, so here he was.

EXTRACTS FROM SAL McINDOE’S DIARY

I’ve told Joe and feel relieved. He’s fun to be with, but volatile, and the longer we were together, the more insecure and jealous he got. I feel guilty, but the way he reacted made me sure I’d done the right thing. He was hurt, fair enough, but then he got angry and argumentative and accusatory and even kind of verbally aggressive. No thanks. It’s probably mostly wounded pride. Before too long I hope he sees it’s for the best.

I could tell Seb thought he wasn’t right for me. He was even trying to create tension between me and Joe over a song, telling me Joe didn’t like the chorus. Totally transparent and more sweet than manipulative.

‡

Talked to Seb about the break-up. He doesn’t instantly pass judgement, just listens, nods and says something sensible. A good man.

‡

Gary heard I’d broken up with Joe and called around on the way to a comedy gig to see if I was okay. I told him I was fine, because I am, and that Joe probably needs more support than me. I was tired and wanted to be alone, but it took him a while to get the message.

Gary and I used to be great friends, and he’s good company in a group, but these days, one on one, for some reason it feels awkward, like he’s trying too hard to impress me and be entertaining all the time. Maybe it’s because he’s a comedian now. Anything you say becomes a set-up for a joke.

I can’t help thinking about that night at school when he tried to kiss me. He was really drunk, so maybe it didn’t mean anything, but when we’re in a group sometimes I turn around and catch him looking away, like he’s been staring at me. Or maybe I’m imagining it. I hope I am.

‡

Dev is hassling me to write more songs. Actually, it’s more like harassment! ‘Up-tempo crowd-pleasers with killer hooks.’ Sure, no problem. Want fries with that?

She’s booked us some bigger gigs, even supporting Lite Horse at the Enmore, which is huge. I asked her how she got it, but she just smiled. She’ll go far, that one.

Texted Joe to see if he wanted to write together. I was expecting a yes or no, but instead got eight replies starting with, ‘How dare you ask me after what you did’, through to ‘Can you explain how your feelings changed so quickly’ and ending with a plea to meet and talk, and there’s no point in doing that. So it’s on me.

Just got phone and electricity bills. With the band, uni, Joe, etc. I haven’t been earning as much as I should have. Everything feels like it’s mounting up. The band depend on me, Joe thinks I’ve ruined his life, Dev wants songs. Thank God for Seb. A shoulder I can always lean on.

‡

I’m beginning to feel better. Five months in Leura has helped restore me. Always thought that ‘clean mountain air’ stuff was crap, but maybe not. Add in medication, yoga, walks, a simple life, less stress and, of course, time. I’m doing what that book says and marking each day out of ten. Average two weeks ago was 5.1, this week it’s 6.8. And I’m finally writing in my journal again!

Uni is going much better, I like my job in the café, and have started playing guitar again and have ideas for a couple of songs. Simpler ones than before, that I can play alone. There’s plenty of places up here that have musicians play. I’ll ask around.

Memories of that night still come, but less frequently, and I’m better at dealing with them. I still haven’t told anyone. Don’t know if that’s good or bad, but I don’t want to.

I’m starting to miss aspects of my life in Sydney. I needed to get away from everything, but now … I miss the band, and the people in it (except one). I miss Seb the most. We used to talk every day.

I’d like to reconnect with him and the others, but do I tell them what happened? We were such a tight-knit group, and I don’t want people to pick sides.

‡

Leanne was an unexpected person to see first, given she never liked me much. But she was so persistent, I thought, why not? Plus I feel bad about what happened with Joe and how it affected her.

I was nervous. She was too, but it went quite well. Once I told her I had no interest in Joe she relaxed. She was very hyped up, I think on more than the tea I made her. I made her promise not to tell anyone she had seen me or where I am.

Seb is next. I’m going to text him. That last conversation we had was awkward, but he was just trying to tell me how he felt. I kind of knew. It was just too soon, then that thing happened and I didn’t feel much of anything for a while. I closed down. But now I’m starting to open up again.

‡

That fucking prick. Gary has got a job hosting a TV show. He’s ‘an exciting emerging comedian’. Yeah and a sexual assaulter! His big fucking break. It’s not right. No way. No fucking way. Not after what he did to me.

After it happened, I think I was in shock. I’d known him for years, sat next to him in class and on the bus, walked home with him. I think part of getting depressed was trying to reconcile the person who assaulted me with the person who was my friend.

I even gaslit myself. Had it really happened? Was it some sort of misunderstanding? Had I unintentionally led him on somehow?

Now I know I didn’t do anything wrong.

Him hosting a TV show a few months after what he did isn’t fair.

Being on TV will give him money, power, status and opportunities to do the same or worse to other women. How would I feel if he did, and I hadn’t done anything to stop him?

‡

Saw Viv. He said going through the courts won’t be easy. It will definitely challenge my mental health, but I feel like I should. If I let this slide, maybe he’ll do it again to someone else.

‡

I’ve thought about it more. I’ll go to the police if I have to, but maybe there’s a better way. I’ll ask him to pull out of the TV job. I know how much the job will mean to him, so if he does that, he’s been punished. If he refuses, I’ll go to the police.

‡

I called him. It was awful, but I said what I had to say. I gave him two days to pull out of the show. Let’s see what he does.

‡

It’s been two days and I haven’t heard from Gary. Fuck him. Going to the cops.

‡

At midday went to the police station. I felt cold and determined and mainly ‘fuck him’. I was sitting waiting to see someone when he rang. He said he would withdraw from the show. He asked for a week to work out how to break it to his producers. I said okay. Huge relief. I feel less like a victim, more empowered, and relieved I don’t have to go through the legal system.

‡

I’m feeling better today, like that whole awful thing is over and I can get on with my life. A big step on the road back. Next one is seeing Seb. I’m going to invite him to come up here. I hope he’s not too pissed off with my vanishing act. If he comes, maybe that day will be my first 8!

That was her last entry. Seb couldn’t have read any more, anyway. The words had gone blurry.

For years he had thought that when he had told her how he felt about her on that last night in Sydney, it had caused her to run away, into the path of a killer. For years he had been carrying the guilt, doing penance by writing traffic tickets, too scared to chase any job or woman he wanted, because what if he stuffed that up too?

But what he had said hadn’t been a big deal to Sal. She knew how he felt. She wanted to see him again. She was looking forward to it.

A weight was lifting. One down.

*

In the hospital, Seb walked past the flower display. Not really appropriate this time. Once again, he wished the elevator was slower. When he emerged, he forced a smile at the nurse at the counter, got one in reply, walked down the corridor, and there was Claire.

‘Hi,’ he said.

She was alone, in a chair by the window, this time reading another Mark Watson book, Contacts. He wondered how things were going with her boyfriend and, more specifically, if that was still an accurate way to describe him. Not that it would matter after what he had to tell her.

‘You didn’t bring food.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Disappointing. I’m making progress. A hundred and seven steps so far today.’

‘Wow. Well done.’

‘Was hoping to celebrate with lollies that someone brought me. What’s wrong?’

‘I have to tell you something.’

‘Okay.’

‘The accident. There was no truck. I fell asleep. It was my fault. I lied to protect myself.’ He stared at the sheets, unable to meet her eye.

‘Why are you telling me? Did someone find out?’

‘Yes, but he’s dead. I mean … that makes it sound like I killed him to protect myself. No. He just … died. I’m telling you because … because it’s always there. The lie. Wherever I am, it’s there too. And because I … you should know the truth.’

‘I do know.’

‘You …?’

‘I remembered about a week ago. It came back in fragments, but I’m pretty clear now. I woke up, you were asleep, I screamed, you jerked awake and slammed the brakes and we went off the road. And there was nothing coming at us.’

His legs were weak. He should have sat down first. He leaned his hands heavily on the bed between them. He thought about all the days and nights she had spent in this room. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I know. You wouldn’t have told me otherwise.’

‘You’re in here because of me.’

‘Did you fall asleep on purpose?’ she asked.

‘What? No.’

‘Well, then. You remember why we were driving home at 5 a.m.? To get me home so my boyfriend wouldn’t find out.’

He hated himself for asking, but couldn’t not. ‘Are you going … to tell?’ He felt like a six-year-old who’d pushed someone over in the playground.

‘Will that help me walk again quicker? You’d lose your job, right? Get charged with something?’

He nodded.

‘That’s not what I want. I was angry when I remembered, but I’m not now. Well, a bit, but not much. Don’t know why.’

There was a long silence.

‘You don’t ever need to see me again if you don’t want,’ he said. ‘If that’s easier.’

‘Would that be easier for you?’

‘No. But …’

‘Well, then.’

‘Would you like me to go now?’

‘Yes.’

He nodded. ‘Okay. Understand.’

‘Not to the hospital shop. They have fuck-all. There’s a 7-Eleven across the road. Fantales and Minties. Having them together is really good.’

‘Oh. Umm …’

‘What now? Something else you’ve done? Hacked my credit card?’

‘No. But … they stopped making Fantales.’

‘You’re joking. No, you wouldn’t dare at the moment. Fuck, that’s appalling. Freckles, then. And, Seb?’

‘Yes?’

‘Fucking hurry. Least you could do, considering.’

CHAPTER 83

Barb sat on her balcony, sipping chardonnay as the shadows lengthened, listening to the cockatoos vandalising trees. They were back, drawn by the feed. Ah, well. The more the merrier.

Job done, she supposed. It had been exciting and they had succeeded, so why did she feel so flat? Probably because Joe was still dead, and always would be. Same with Sal and the two other Blue Mountains victims. And Karen. And Gary. Six people. Goodness.

Now what? Back to the, let’s face it, not so exciting day-to-day of oiling decks, taming gardens and fixing windows. On her own again. Working with Joe had helped fill the sizeable hole Dennis had left. After Joe died, working with Seb had. What would now?

Careful. No self-pity.

She hoped Seb would be all right. We all do things we regret. Sometimes we shrug them off, other times they eat away at us, and weigh us down for years. He was a much better person than he realised. She hoped he would come to understand that.

Her phone pinged. Dennis.

Okay if I pop over for a coffee? Discuss things. Wouldn’t mind seeing the old place again

Charming. He wanted to see the house, not her. Unless, even worse, ‘the old place’ referred to her.

She started to reply, and then stopped. Dennis had got bored of her. Fair enough. She hadn’t realised it before, but perhaps she had got a bit bored of him, too. What she had thought of as a comfortable pattern may also have been a rut. It was hard to tell the difference sometimes. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life sitting next to someone in a way that was just comfortable. She deserved more. Maybe she wouldn’t find it, but being on her own wasn’t so bad. The bed wasn’t as warm, but on the other hand, there wasn’t any snoring. She ate alone, but there was only half the washing-up to do.

To practical matters. How was she going to do the Ballards’ gutters? It was a two-storey house. At the very least, she needed someone to hold the ladder.

She poked her phone.

I need a helper for a guttering job on Monday. $30 an hour. Interested?

She hoped Leanne would say yes.

Next she texted Seb.

I’m sorry we quarrelled and I hope things work out. It’s been a pleasure working with you. Remember how in the podcast you said you became a cop because you had a ‘stupid idea’ you ‘could save the world’. You didn’t quite do that, but you did solve Karen’s murder pretty much on your own, and together we solved four other murders, and saved Leanne’s life. No small thing. You did a wonderful job and I hope you know you’re a good man

She looked again at Dennis’ message. She realised that during the last few weeks it had been him texting her, not the other way around. She had just responded. As she would again.

Sorry, I’m a bit busy at the moment

She took another sip of wine. Quite the month.

She continued to sit there as the sun reached the horizon, heaved a sigh of relief and loosened its tie. Early night tonight, then up and at ’em again tomorrow. At dawn, obviously.

Acknowledgements

No book of mine is written without sitting in a chair for a long time. I suppose you could do it standing, but I’ve never got the hang of it. So thanks to three chairs in my office (aka our living room), one arm and two dining. Each contributed in their own way. Thanks also to various seats in Ubers, trains and planes (in particular 8C on QF 739 Sydney–Adelaide), and even the odd park bench. You know who you are.

Thanks once again to first readers, Scott Lockley and Shish Lal, for their feedback and constructive suggestions, gently shared. It takes ages to read a book, much longer than it does to look at a painting, so their efforts are much appreciated.

Thanks to the extremely knowledgeable Paul Dillon for excellent and generous advice about drugs and overdoses and death.

Thanks to Alex Khromtsov from GreenByte for help working out all the I.T. stuff. Any techno-mistakes are mine, not his.

I have been very fortunate to work with Echo Publishing. Juliet Rogers is always friendly, kind, insightful and astute. Diana Hill shepherds my stories through from Word document to book with great care. Many thanks to editor Lauren Finger for so many great suggestions. It’s a pleasure to work with them all.

I want to thank two of my favourite writers, Jane Harper and Richard Osman. I’ve never met either, but as I tried to figure out how to write an intricate murder mystery that worked, I studied one of each one of their books, Survivors and The Thursday Murder Club. I learned a lot from taking two books I loved, pulling them apart (not literally, except that one time I had a tantrum, but I stuck all the pages back together) and trying to work out how they did it. Learn from the masters.

Writing a murder mystery is kind of like doing a jigsaw puzzle, but you have to design all the pieces yourself as you go. Often you get to the point where things don’t quite work, and there is clearly no way they will ever work, because you’re hopeless and you always have been, and always will be. Luckily for me, that only happens about once every forty minutes. When it does, sometimes the best thing to do is to try to forget the bloody book for a bit and hang out with my family. So big thanks to my daughters Lily, Nina and Bibi and my wife Lucy for being great company.

About the Author

James O’Loghlin is a comedian, television and radio host, and author of thirteen books. He began his career as a corporate lawyer, realised it wasn’t for him, and became a criminal lawyer and a comedian. He has hosted four television shows – including The New Inventors on ABC-TV for eight years – and presented programs on ABC Local Radio for fifteen years.

In 2021 his first play, Television, was shortlisted for the Rodney Seaborn Playwrights Award and was Highly Commended by the judges of the Silver Gull Play Award. James co-hosts the mental health podcast ‘Minding Your Mind’ with Professor Ian Hickie.

Liars is James’ thirteenth book, and second novel for adults. His first novel, Criminals, was published by Echo Publishing in 2022.

James lives in Sydney with his wife and three daughters.

Echo Publishing

An imprint of Bonnier Books UK

6/69 Carlton Crescent

Summer Hill NSW 2130

www.echopublishing.com.au

Bonnier Books UK

4th Floor, Victoria House, Bloomsbury Square

London WC1B 4DA

www.bonnierbooks.co.uk

Copyright © James O’Loghlin 2024

All rights reserved. Echo thanks you for buying an authorised edition of this book. In doing so, you are supporting writers and enabling Echo to publish more books and foster new talent. Thank you for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing or transmitting any part of this book by any means, electronic or mechanical – including storing in a retrieval system, photocopying, recording, scanning or distributing – without our prior written permission.

Echo Publishing acknowledges the traditional custodians of Country throughout Australia. We recognise their continuing connection to land, sea and waters. We pay our respects to Elders past and present.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

First published 2024

This ebook edition published 2024

Editor: Lauren Finger 

Page design, typesetting and ebook creation: Shaun Jury

Cover design: Design by Committee

Front cover images: Main image, photograph of Australian coast by Stephanie Jackson / Alamy Stock Photo. Additional details, photograph of buildings and beach by Pavel Dudek / Alamy Stock Photo.

Back cover image: Norfolk Island pines and road, photograph by Kahuroa, Wikimedia Commons 

A catalogue entry for this book is available from the National Library of Australia

ISBN: 9781760687496 (paperback)

ISBN: 9781760687489 (ebook)

echo_publishing

echopublishingaustralia

echopublishing