Tropic of Death (2 page)

‘If you’re talking about the boot in the report, how could my name possibly be inside it?’

‘When the crime lab boys in Brisbane extracted the foot they found a soggy beer coaster with four words written on it:
Van
Hassel Sex Crimes
.’

‘You’re sure about this?’ said Rita. ‘It’s not some sort of mix-up?’

‘I’ve got the lab’s digital photos on the screen in front of me,’

answered Jarrett. ‘I’ve done a database check - I even Googled the words - and you’re the only one it can refer to.’

‘I believe you,’ she said. ‘Though I’m less than thrilled that my name was under a severed foot.’

‘Yeah, it’s all a bit gross. Welcome to my horror show.’

‘Describe the beer coaster to me,’ she said.

‘A square cardboard mat with the Four X label on it. Could’ve come from any of the dozens of bars we’ve got around here. This is backpacker central. The words were written on the back with a ballpoint pen, so they survived a soaking.’

‘And what about the foot?’

‘Chopped off post-mortem with something like a heavy meat cleaver, and still wearing a white Nike sock. The DNA matches the other body parts, so it’s the same victim.’

‘Well, no pun intended, but I’m stumped,’ she told him. ‘Got any theories?’

‘I toyed with the idea that a psycho might’ve deliberately planted evidence but I’ve ruled that out. The body parts weren’t meant to be found. Whoever dumped them miscalculated, and the tide did the rest. So that leaves me with one working theory, for what it’s worth.’

‘Let’s hear it.’

‘I think our victim might have heard, or overheard, something about you while he was in a bar up here. So as not to forget, he picked up the nearest thing to hand - a beer coaster - wrote down your name and squad, and concealed the information in his boot because he was worried it might be discovered on him.

Before he could contact you, he was murdered, dismembered and dumped at sea. What do you reckon?’

‘Could be.’

‘Of course, that leaves me with the burning question: what’s your connection up here?’

‘I can’t think of any,’ she sighed. ‘But I’ll check back through the files.’

‘Thanks. At the moment this case is going nowhere. The man in the mud is starting to haunt me.’

‘Anything else I can do?’

‘Just one thing. You can say hello to a colleague of yours, Detective Sergeant Erin Webster.’

‘You know Erin?’

‘Yeah, she’s uh …’ He paused. ‘She’s a friend of mine.’

‘Mine too.’ His hesitation made Rita curious. ‘How do you know her?’

‘We worked a case together a few years back when I was still stationed in Sydney. A Victorian rapist was on the loose. Erin was sent up as liaison.’

‘I see.’ Rita thought she caught a hint of irony, but she just said, ‘I’ll pass on your greetings.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’

As she hung up Rita was intrigued, not so much by the decapitated head but by Jarrett’s association with Erin. This was her closest friend inside the force, someone to confide in, a woman to share secrets with. But there’d never been any mention of Jarrett.

Why? She got up and crossed the squad room to where Erin was working at her desk.

As Rita approached she observed her friend more closely than usual. She was poring over a document, highlighter in hand, a frown of concentration on her freckled face. Typically, there was a restless energy about her as she shifted in her chair; the sign of someone who’d rather be out in the field than pushing paperwork.

It was in her background. With her soft hazel eyes, shapely figure and copper-coloured hair pulled back loosely, she had the looks of a country girl from the Wimmera. That was her appeal, along with her provocative smile and a crude sense of humour that had men chasing her even though she was married with a three-year-old son.

But while the marriage was rocky, the only suggestions of infidelity surrounded the husband, a uniformed inspector who insisted on remaining one of the boys. Erin’s days of playing around were supposed to have ended with her wedding vows, or so she’d said, but Rita had her doubts. There was a perennial friskiness about her friend that needed to be satisfied. The more Rita thought about it, the more convinced she was that Erin was not only capable of jumping into bed outside a marital relationship that was part workplace, part battlefield, she was also slick enough to conceal it from her husband, her colleagues and her friends.

Rita stopped in front of her desk, hands on hips. ‘So what have you been getting up to?’

Erin looked up. ‘Well, right now I’m going through the transcript of a public masturbator’s trial from 1978. The old scuzzbag’s reoffended.’ She threw down the highlighter. ‘What about you? Got the nod yet?’

‘No.’ Rita pulled up a chair and sat. ‘Any day now, or so I’m told. But they’d better pull their fingers out or I might choose another career.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve been offered the chance to do a PhD. The workload’s horrendous but it’s tempting. I’m doing little more than twiddling my thumbs at the moment.’

‘You wouldn’t chuck in your career here?’

‘Maybe. An academic post’s an option.’

‘But you’d be wasted among a bunch of eggheads.’

‘They might appreciate me more.’

‘Well
I
appreciate you. And I need you here.’ Erin sighed.

‘You’re the only one I can really talk to.’

‘Well, while we’re on the subject of talking,’ said Rita, ‘what’s this about a liaison with Steve Jarrett?’

‘Shit.’ Erin glanced around nervously. ‘What’ve you heard?’

‘So it’s true, you tart. And you’ve never breathed a word of it.

Is it still going on?’

‘Not here!’ insisted Erin in a harsh whisper.

She got up and led Rita to the tiled interior of the women’s toilets, checking the cubicles to make sure they were alone before turning abruptly.

‘What’s been said?’ she asked.

‘Nothing I know of,’ Rita answered. ‘It’s just informed guesswork on my part.’

‘Based on what?’

‘Your track record, for a start. Your prenuptial conquests.’ Rita was still amused. ‘Plus, I’ve just got off the phone with Jarrett.

He asked me to say hello.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! Men never know when to keep their mouths shut.’ Erin shook her head. ‘Why the call?’

‘A case he’s got in Queensland. My name’s come up.’

‘And he decided to drop mine in passing, silly bugger.’ She relaxed a little. ‘Thank God it was you on the line.’

‘So, what’s the story with you two?’

‘Good beer and good timing.’

‘Come on. Spit it out.’

Erin laughed. ‘You don’t realise how fitting that is.’

‘Knowing you, I’ve got a rough idea.’

‘That’s how it started. On attachment in the Sydney suburbs.

Going off-duty with women from the station. Getting pissed at Marrickville RSL. And the question comes up in conversation: spit or swallow?’

‘As it does.’

‘By the time Jarrett joined us I was legless. He helped me out of the club. I thanked him with a blowjob in the car park.’

‘And this was after you got married?’

‘Yeah, but in the middle of a bust-up and before Tristan was born.’

‘What about since?’

‘There’ve been a few opportunities. And I haven’t wasted them.’ Erin leant against the row of basins, her back to the washroom mirror. ‘But, fingers crossed, you’re the only one who’s found out.’

‘And it’ll stay that way.’

Erin jumped forward and gave Rita a hug. ‘That’s why you can’t quit. There’s no one else around here I could trust with that.’

‘What about Jarrett? You trust him?’

‘I need to remind him what discretion means. But, yeah, he’s okay.’

‘So, what’s he like?’

‘A bit of a charmer but, underneath, a decent bloke. Good detective too. The laidback type. Thorough without being macho.’

Erin pushed aside an auburn curl that had come adrift. ‘Not a bad fuck either.’

3
Rachel Macarthur believed that a woman’s ultimate act of nurture was to protect the planet. It was a sacred duty handed down from the time of earth-mother worship at the dawn of humanity, and just as imperative today in the battle to save the environment.

With that thought in mind she prepared to declare war on the military establishment of the western world.

Rachel faxed off the last of the press releases, swallowed what was left in her coffee mug and listened to the wet static of the rain spitting against the window. She was waiting for midnight. Around her, the walls of her campaign office were hung with images of ecological disasters. There were posters and leaflets from past protests, and photos of eco-warriors being manhandled by police.

Some victories. Some lost causes. There was also a noticeboard devoted to announcements from the Anti-War Coalition, for which Rachel was the local organiser.

Her mind was on the conflict to come as she gazed through the window over the southern outskirts of the town. Beyond the rooftops were the chimneys of the old sugar mill and the line of the docks. Beyond them, somewhere in the darkness on the far side of the estuary, lay the Whitley Sands military research base.

She had evidence that the base was polluting the environment with radiation, and tomorrow’s mass protest would bring it to the public’s attention. It was her personal crusade, and she’d gathered enough material to call for an official inquiry. Once that started, there would be a growing clamour to shut the place down. It would be a sweet victory to see Whitley Sands returned to nature.

She looked at her watch and punched a number into her phone but got the ‘unavailable’ message. Freddy had his mobile switched off. She wanted to know why he was ignoring her again. As a computer hacker he couldn’t be bettered, but as a lover he was unreliable. The two hours she’d spent in the pub were a waste of time. He hadn’t shown up. She sighed, tapped her fingers on the desk and went on waiting for midnight.

Dead on twelve the office phone rang. She picked it up. The caller gave no name but she recognised the voice from before.

He’d promised photocopies of classified documents.

‘You’ve got them?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘When can I have them?’

‘Ten minutes, if you can get down to the docks.’

‘I’ll be there. Where do we meet?’

‘The Diamond. You know it?’

‘Of course I do. How will I recognise you?’

‘Don’t worry about that. Just come alone.’

He hung up.

She took a deep breath and phoned for a taxi.

The beam of the taxi’s headlights swept into the narrow lane that led down to the docks. A dark figure was caught momentarily in the glare. It flitted into the shadows of a doorway. The cab driver yanked on his handbrake and peered uneasily down the curve of the black cobblestones to the flickering neon at the bottom of the slope -
The Rough Diamond Club
.

‘This is as far as I go,’ he said warily. ‘It’s a dead end down there and I’ve been caught before at this time of night. Cost me all my takings and a night in casualty.’

Rachel was also gazing down the alleyway.

‘You were mugged?’

‘Yeah, down by the club. And I’m not the only cabbie. We call it Apache Canyon,’ he said humourlessly. ‘Sure you want to go down there?’

‘I’ve arranged to meet someone.’

As she got out, the driver gave her a dubious look. When she’d paid the fare, the taxi reversed quickly back around the corner, plunging the lane into semi-darkness.

It didn’t bother Rachel. She was about to get hold of hard evidence on excessive radiation levels around the base. She felt excited. The night was shifting around her and the wind was gusting. It had blown away the earlier drizzle, but rolls of thunder were approaching. Lightning flickered at the edges of storm clouds sliding over the town from the Coral Sea. Waves were crashing against the rocks at the harbour entrance.

Rachel shoved her hands into her coat pockets and began walking down the alley towards the neon sign. Her footsteps on the cobbles echoed from the brick walls of boarded-up chandlers’

shops. She was more than halfway down the alley when someone stepped out from a darkened doorway behind her, clasped a hand firmly over her mouth and fired a nail gun at the base of her skull.

It was so quick, and Rachel so unprepared, that she didn’t realise immediately what had happened. The thick metal nail ripped down through her body, severing her windpipe and jugular vein before lodging in her ribcage. Her legs crumpled under her as she fell face first into the gutter. Her fingers were sticky with hot blood as she grabbed at her throat and gasped silently for help. The scrape of shoes against the cobbles was in her ears as someone turned behind her, but she was already losing consciousness. It left her just a moment to fix her eyes on the grubby setting of her death.

Just time enough to watch the dark stream of her blood flowing down the gutter towards the fading neon sign.

4
Six men sat around a conference table on level six of the Whitley Sands research base, unaware of the deteriorating weather outside. They were in a windowless room more than fifty metres underground. The carpeting, leather chairs and landscapes hanging on the concrete walls did little to dispel the atmosphere of a bunker.

The room was sealed and shielded from electronic surveillance so the men could talk freely. No one could eavesdrop, no minutes would be taken and no record of the meeting would ever exist, yet its tentacles stretched beyond national boundaries as far as Washington and London. Officially these men comprised the International Risk Assessment Committee that convened on an irregular basis, but their true role was far more clandestine, with responsibilities in the field of security and intelligence. They formed a covert decision-making cell in the global network conducting the war on terror.

At the head of the table sat the director-general of the base, Lieutenant Colonel Willis Baxter.

‘I wouldn’t have called you here if it wasn’t urgent,’ he said.

‘But we face an immediate threat.’

The man to his right leant forward and asked, ‘From inside or outside?’ His name was Rex Horsley, his accent English home counties.