Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Glossary
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
Acknowledgements
Felicity Young was born in Hanover, Germany, in 1960 and went to boarding school in the United Kingdom while her parents were posted around the world with the British Army. When her father retired from the army in 1976 the family settled in Perth. Felicity married at nineteen while she was still doing her nursing training and on completion of training had three children in quick succession. Not surprisingly, an arts degree at the University of Western Australia took ten years to complete. In 1990 Felicity and her family moved from the city and established a Suffolk sheep stud on a small farm in Gidgegannup where she studied music, reared orphan kangaroos and started writing.
Having a brother-in-law who is a retired police superintendent, it was almost inevitable she would turn to crime writing.
Her first novel, A Certain Malice, was published in Britain by Crème de la Crime in 2005, and her second, An Easeful Death—the first Stevie Hooper crime novel—was published in 2007 by Fremantle Press.
To Mick with love
Glossary
The following is a list of Internet slang, abbreviations and symbols used in this novel. ;) :wink2moro:tomorrowF2F:face to faceGr8:greatLOL:laugh out loudOMG:Oh my GodPIR:parent in roomROFLMAO: rolling on floor laughing my arse offSME:send me emailSqueeeeeee:expression of gleeTDTM:talk dirty to meRock spider:prison slang for paedophileFan fiction:stories written by fans about book and TV characters
For other useful abbreviations, please refer to: http://www.noslang.com/top20.php
Prologue
Night. On the highway a car breaks away from the line of crawling headlights, turns down one side street and then another until it comes to a halt in wasteland near the river’s edge. Under the full moon the river gleams soft as polished silver. Three figures get out of the car; they seem to be men, though they appear as no more than silhouettes. One is tall, one is of solid build and the other is small and as slight as the bamboo that grows in clumps along the river’s edge, and trembles almost as much.
If the small man is frightened, the tall man is clearly terrified, standing hunched against the car as if he is cold. It is not hard to imagine the stink of his fear, fetid as the drying pools near the river. The solid man yanks the tall man away from the car and shoves him stumbling towards the water’s edge. The small man follows, head lowered, hands rammed deep in his pockets.
The water laps at the shore. Mosquitoes drill the air.
The heavy man shouts and shoves the tall figure to the ground, then kicks him in his side. The small man turns his back, as if he cannot bear to watch. Heavy man barks an order. Small man shakes his head and looks with what must be longing back to the parked car. Tall man screams like a woman and the small man’s gaze is drawn to the sound as if to a train wreck. If this were a film the camera would follow his gaze back to the solid man squatting over the tall man, his weight pinning him down, a blade flashing in his hand.
Then a burst of flame slices the blackness and the man with the blade topples over with a cry. His quarry eases out from under him and slowly pushes himself to his feet. He makes a sound that is part sob, part groan. He looks around him, but the sound of the shot has been absorbed into the silence. He puts his hand to the neck of the man he has shot and leaves it there a moment. Then he plucks the knife from the limp hand.
‘Help me,’ he pleads to the small man who cowers shaking but otherwise motionless.
The small man shakes his head, takes a few steps back on the rocky ground.
‘God help me,’ the tall man mutters again. He takes the knife and begins to slice at the dead man’s face. He is no longer panicking; there is now a sense of calm purpose about him. After a while he looks up and says to the small man, ‘I know who you are.’ He stares at him for a moment then turns back to the gruesome task of carving and slicing, hand gloved with blood and glistening in the moonlight.
‘And I know you too,’ the small man shouts in a high-pitched cry as he turns his back and runs.
1
Monday
EXCERPT FROM CHAT ROOM TRANSCRIPT 080207
TIMTAM: thnx for the pic. Ur 1 hot chick
ANGEL12: wt about u?
TIMTAM: a bit like the drummer in the SMs ;)
ANGEL12: squeeeeeeee!!!
TIMTAM: ive got the stuff u wanted – wanna meet F2F?
Detective Sergeant Stephanie ‘Stevie’ Hooper wiped her sweaty palms against the legs of her jeans before checking her oversized watch. ‘Not long now,’ she said softly into her collar mike.
‘These creeps are never late,’ came Tash’s response through her earpiece.
Stevie looked across the grass to a ragged patch of bush similar to the one where she hid.
‘See anything?’ Stevie kept her voice low.
‘Not yet.’
Stevie scanned the adventure playground, deserted cafe area and car parking bays beyond. On the lawn nearby a young couple organised a picnic breakfast, spreading out the blanket and unpacking their basket. She noted with appreciation how the mother’s gaze never strayed for more than a few seconds from the two small boys tussling in the sand beneath the slide. It was still early morning, there were few others about.
‘Hey,’ Tash whispered. ‘A white panel van’s just pulled into one of the parking bays across the road. A guy’s getting out.’
Stevie peered towards the car park. ‘Description?’
‘Trilby hat, grey boardies, white T-shirt—he’s coming down the path near the lake, heading towards you. It’s Mason, it has to be.’
The man entered Stevie’s line of vision, keeping to the shadows of the path and looking about this way and that.
‘Yup, got him now,’ she said, watching the man as he sat down on a bench beside a park signpost, looked at his watch.
‘You ready?’
‘Tash,’ Stevie smiled, ‘I was born ready.’
She took a breath and stepped from the shelter of the scrub and casually approached the man on the park bench, hands in the back pockets of her jeans, bubble soled trainers springing across the spongy grass. She adjusted the collar of her shirt so that the microphone was well hidden.
The man tensed when she sat next to him, and wriggled as far to the end of the bench as he could go. A fly floated through the sunshine and settled on his nose. He gave it an angry swipe and stood as if to leave.
Now or never, Stevie thought, taking a breath. ‘Hey,’ she called out. The man turned and she said, ‘Cool hat.’
‘Yeah.’ He was younger than she’d expected, late twenties at the most. He had the name of a local rock band printed on his T-shirt.
‘It’s like the hat the drummer of the Stoned Mullets wears, isn’t it? I love that band, one of my faves.’
The man grunted and turned away. She got to her feet and stopped him with a tap on the shoulder.