Tropic of Death Read online

  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 w
asn’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.

  ‘Both,’ was the reply. ‘We’ve intercepted part of a technical report sent to the anti-war movement in the town. It contains classified figures on radiation emissions. We’ve traced the source to level four.’

  ‘Have you identified the leak?’

  ‘Not yet, but we’re narrowing the list of suspects.’

  ‘Surely timing is critical,’ said the Englishman. ‘You’re only hours away from a mass protest at your gates. This whole issue could blow up in your face.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that,’ said the director-general, ‘which is why I’ve called you here in the middle of the night. That’s what this meeting is about. I want agreement on our immediate strategy.’

  An American, Rhett Molloy, spoke next. ‘I hope I don’t have to stress that any breach of security is unacceptable. There’s too much at stake here.’

  ‘Thanks for stating the obvious,’ said the man sitting opposite.

  He was Roy Maddox, the base security director.

  ‘Let me make myself clear,’ said Molloy, an edge to his voice beneath the smooth West Coast intonation. ‘When I say unacceptable, I mean there can be no risk of secrecy being compromised. None whatsoever. There are no excuses. Failure won’t be tolerated.’

  ‘Don’t doubt for a moment we’re prepared to do what’s necessary to defend the project,’ said Baxter.

  ‘Defence is not enough. You have to be proactive in eliminating any threats. Even after the event, they must be traced and silenced.

  If there’s any hesitation over this, let me assure you, by one agency or another, absolute secrecy will be enforced.’

  ‘We’ve already taken steps to limit the damage,’ said the security director. ‘And we’re in the process of putting spoilers in place.’

  ‘Fine, but half-measures won’t be enough. Let’s not forget why we’re here. This is no ordinary piece of military real estate. This research establishment will produce a crucial weapon for the global coalition against terrorism.’ Molloy spoke with such conviction it sent a chill through the room. ‘We are representatives of an alliance at war. Extreme measures are justified.’

  5

  The club bouncer came outside to give his eardrums a rest and found himself confronted by a wall of rain and a skyful of pyrotechnics. The storm was at its height, but the noise of the thunder was a relief after the teeth-jarring feedback from the amplifiers. He stood in the doorway of the club and watched a cascade of water churn past the bottom step. When he’d finished his cigarette he flicked it into the puddle spreading under the entrance canopy. The butt bobbed and drifted with the slow eddy of the current. As he watched it he noticed a trickle of red swirling through the water. It aroused his curiosity.

  The longer he gazed at the red stain in the puddle, the thicker it got. Looks like blood, he thought.

  He peered up the slope through the rain. At first he couldn’t see anything. Then a lightning flash revealed a dark hump in the gutter. Might not be anything. Just a rubbish bag kicked down the alley by larrikins. They were doing it all the time. But the stain kept coming and he got a bad feeling about it.

  He went back inside the club, then emerged again and, hoisting a striped umbrella over his head, stepped out into the pouring rain. Nearly halfway up the alley he stopped beside the crumpled shape in the gutter. The darkness and the splash of water all around made it difficult to be sure of what he’d found. But when he prodded it with his shoe he caught his breath. He was bending over for a closer look when another flash came - and left him standing bolt upright. The twisted shape of the dead body seemed to leap out at him from the gutter.

  The bouncer hurried back to the club. Just one minute later he was back out again, this time with the manager. The two men stood under the umbrella with the rain soaking their shoes and trousers, while the manager shone a torch on the slumped figure and swore under his breath. Parts of the body were missing. There was no head. Where the neck should be there was a raw gaping wound still leaking blood. Part of the spine was protruding. The hands had also been cut off.

  When Detective Sergeant Steve Jarrett arrived police had already taped off the alley and a photographer was taking close-ups of the body in the glare of arc lights. A uniformed constable was helping to keep the rain off by holding one of the supports of the overhead plastic sheeting. The duty doctor sat in a police incident van nearby. He was writing in his notebook that he’d pronounced life extinct in the homicide victim. Scene-of-crime officers were examining the narrow surroundings.

  Jarrett got out of his car, turned up the collar of his jacket and walked around the parked patrol vehicles. Then he stepped over the tape and jogged down the alley. The downpour had eased to a steady shower. The lightning and thunder had receded down the coast. A faint glimmer of first light appeared beneath the rim of the clouds in the east.

  Inside the club officers were questioning the customers. The music and drinking had stopped, all the lights were on, no one was allowed to leave and the mood was getting ugly. Jarrett was greeted with catcalls, jeers and feral eyes. A detective constable came over to him.

  ‘E-freaks,’ he said. ‘They want to go on raving till dawn.’

  Jarrett shook his head sombrely. ‘I called the pathologist before I left. He should be here in about ten minutes.’ He looked around.

  ‘What have we got so far?’

  ‘A headless woman,’ said the constable. ‘No purse, no ID on her. No weapon at the scene. No hands either.’

  Jarrett gave him a heavy look. ‘Just what we need - another anonymous victim with missing body parts.’

  6

  The turnout for the protest was better than expected despite the fierce midday sun and tropical humidity. More than a thousand demonstrators were marching along the road bordering defence department land towards the gates of the Whitley Sands research base. Rachel Macarthur had organised it well. There was a good media contingent - radio journalists, local newspaper reporters, photographers, a TV crew - and a low-profile police presence. But where was Rachel herself? Her fellow organisers had decided not to wait for her. They started the march on schedule and hoped she’d arrive in time for the sit-down demo and rallying speeches in front of the gates. The chanting and placard-waving intensified as the marchers converged on the base entrance. The police called for backup as groups of protesters sat down, blocking the road, while others began massing at the gates and pressing against them, urged on by an activist with a megaphone. That’s when the chains and bolt-cutters suddenly appeared. Anti-war militants and eco-warriors in the crowd weren’t content to listen to speeches. Already they were cutting holes in the perimeter fence. Others were chaining themselves to the gates. From within the base, squads of military police came charging towards the breaches in the fence, ready to tackle the intruders. Placards were being hurled. It was on the verge of turning into a riot when the violence was cut short by a piercing scream.

  Everyone stopped. Police. Protesters. Even the cameras swung around to where the scream had come from on the far side of the road. All they could see at first was a woman on her knees, sobbing, her knuckles clutched against her mouth, her face staring upwards at a pylon that stood directly opposite the gates. As they followed the direction of her gaze there was a collective gasp. On a spike projecting from the metal leg of the pylon was a severed head. A woman’s head. Her dead eyes were staring at the base.

  7

  Freddy Hopper sat in the airless heat of the police interrogation room, perspiring freely and feeling in need of serious narcotics. It was two hours since his dead girlfriend’s head had been retrieved from where it had been skewered on an electricity pylon. His relationship with Rachel Macarthur was at times volatile, they’d rowed in public and his jail-time for creating the Edge of Chaos virus had giv
en him a bad reputation and bad friends. More than once he’d stormed out of their rented house and taken a prolonged break from her disapproval. But Freddy resented being a suspect in Rachel’s murder. His emotions shuffled between anger and grief as Detective Sergeant Jarrett questioned him, recording his answers on an interview tape. ‘So you can’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt Rachel?’

  asked Jarrett.

  ‘No one specifically,’ answered Freddy, ‘apart from the police, the government and the research base.’

  ‘Why are you sweating so much, Freddy?’

  ‘Because it’s bloody hot in here.’

  ‘You’re wriggling like a lizard in a tin, so I know you’re lying about something.’

  ‘I didn’t touch Rachel,’ he insisted. ‘I didn’t even see her last night. I couldn’t have. Just ask the monks.’

  ‘An officer is on the phone to them now,’ said Jarrett. ‘But tell me, for the record, what you were doing?’

  ‘I got a call from St Cedd’s yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘About four. The monastery’s computers had crashed, the website was offline, their programs were corrupted and they wanted me to come to their rescue.’

  ‘Why you?’ asked Jarrett.

  ‘Because I helped set up their system.’

  Jarrett couldn’t help laughing. ‘The holy brothers got a depraved hacker like you to put them on the net? That’s priceless.’

  ‘One of them was an altar boy at our church when we were kids,’ retorted Freddy.

  ‘What time did you go there?’

  ‘I drove up straightaway to catch the tide. I must’ve crossed the causeway to the island by five but it took hours of work to get them up and running again. A virus had attacked their software.’

  ‘One of yours?’

  ‘When are you all going to get off my back?’ snapped Freddy.