The Fires and the Bullets

By Pen Avram

A seemingly accidental gas explosion destroys a suburban house. However, when Kroupa and Hendrych arrive on the scene their investigation leads them to two rival bikie gangs and a bloody feud, seemingly without end. As the death toll rises, the pair find themselves in a race against time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pen Avram
• Release date: Jul 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465779632

Pen Avram

This one-time piano mechanic turned Master of Applied Science (Critical Enquiry/Social Ecology) fled to the West from the former Soviet bloc, finally finding his home in Australia. Growing up in a family touched by the horrors of the holocaust and communism, Pen Avram has spent his life studying what drives people of different faiths around the world to act the way they do. His insights now inform the mysteries investigated by the intrepid team of Kroupa and Hendrych. And Sara is a real dog, blood an bones.

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THE FIRES AND THE BULLETS

A book by Pen Avram

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

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Pen Avram on Smashwords

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Copyright © 2011 Text - Pen Avram

Copyright © 2011 ArtWork Design - Pen Avram

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CHAPTER 1: MONDAY

Fire

A shop in downtown Boarsville burned down. In fact, to be precise, it exploded. The fire started after midnight and at 1:27 am an anonymous caller contacted the fire brigade. However it was too late. The shop owner, Darryl Shannon, who had lived in the flat above the shop, died in the fire. Or so it was assumed by the horde of onlookers that quickly gathered at the scene, after they had been woken up by a series of explosions.

The police was called in and from the devastation, a few clues, and the suspicious time of the incident, they quickly came to suspect foul play. In the remnants of the destroyed house they found evidence that the gas bomb outside the shop and the gas flow regulator had been tampered with. However, forensic experts would have to report before this could be confirmed.

Nobody could have survived the large gas explosion or the fire that followed it. There were scraps of twisted metal from a number of portable Swap Gas bombs kept for customers, who bought them for their barbeques and camping stoves, to use in nearby settlements. Most of the fittings and goods in the shop were destroyed beyond recognition by the blast. When the forensic experts arrived, the unpleasant task of identifying the barely recognisable body began.

The shop had stood at the corner of Holmesford and Port streets since before the WW2, and Darryl Shannon had bought it around a decade ago. All the houses in the streets were old and unkempt; the dirty stucco was peeling off most the walls, the windows, which still opened into the street, were dirty and in urgent need of repainting. But now this all stood in darkness; only the fire illuminated the neighbouring houses. The screams and yells of the excited crowd pierced the normally quiet night air.

Kroupa has a first look

Detective Chief Inspector Kroupa tried to reach the scene, elbowing his way through the pandemonium caused by the numbers of inquisitive neighbours. Small children wearing pyjamas were standing on tiptoe, yelling at each other, while their parents held their hands tightly, fascinated by the scene. He had to get through the cordon of police and firemen, who were protecting the people from injury and trying not to disturb any evidence or clues as to the origin of the fire.

Kroupa finally reached ground zero, waving his police badge as he went. As soon as he could, he began collecting names and addresses of possible witnesses. Nobody seemed to have seen anything, but everyone had heard the explosions. The full gas bombs were going off, one after the other, they all agreed. Such a disaster had never happened before, at least not during the last twenty-five years of the town’s history.

I’ve said it for ages. The army will eventually kill us all. We’ve all been targets, from the first day the military arrived; and those who said we were well protected have now been proven wrong. It is wrong to believe that the more guns and gunpowder we have here, the safer we are. That’s nonsense, as you can see, an old lady exclaimed, gesticulating wildly and only occasionally wiping the hooked nose that dripped in the centre of her witch-like face with the back of her hand. But nobody listened to her. Nobody that is, except for one old man.

Shush, you old hag, this is no for pointing the finger, he hissed at her.

You shush, she hissed back and stopped arguing.

Did you see anything? Kroupa asked her.

How could I, with the throng of those gawks pushing in front of me, teeming like hungry ants. Why do you ask, anyway?

Kroupa moved away from her, without answering.

I did! I saw something, an old, hunched man said in a husky voice, approaching him. You are with the police, aren’t you?

Kroupa nodded. Did you? What did you see? What is your name? Do you live close by? He asked all these questions in one breath, while taking out his notebook. He assumed the man would remember his questions. And he did.

My name is Douglas Lowery and I live directly across the road from the shop, answered the old man. I saw someone about twenty minutes before the blast, doing something by the side of the house… by the wall on the left side when you face the shop.

Did you see what they were doing? came Kroupa’s next question.

I couldn’t tell you. It was pretty dark and the light from the streetlamp doesn’t reach that far, but I am sure there was someone there. I really can’t tell you anything else.

Does anyone else live in your house? Anyone who could perhaps tell me a bit more? Kroupa asked hoping for a positive answer.

Yes, my neighbour, Sam Fitzgibbon, but he wasn’t at home. He’s been away somewhere. I haven’t seen him for a couple of days. He’s with the airforce. He carries himself well. He’s no decrepit old fool like me. You may find him at the airfield. I’m sure they have some accommodation for those blokes over there; that may be where he’s staying.

I may need to have a few more words with you later. Are you in the house directly opposite?

Yes, number six. The flat is on the left, when you face the house. Captain Fitzgibbon lives on the right-hand side. And if you’ll now excuse me, I would like to retire. It is quite late to still be up – and too early to get up already, Mr Lowery concluded philosophically, shuffling slowly to his flat and satisfied to have been involved in the case. He didn’t think that Detective Chief Inspector Kroupa would contact him again.

Kroupa tried to find more clues, but it was late at night, the people around couldn’t help him; they were thrill-seekers who were only woken up by the first explosion and arrived at the scene when the house was already on fire. Now the crowd was thinning, the children needed their warm beds and besides which, there was nothing else to see. The fire has been almost extinguished, only a few sparks here and there kept popping up in the dark. The police were sieving through the rubble and the firemen were packing up. Only the light beams from the powerful police torches continued to pierce the darkness and the crunching sound of their boots hinted at their presence.

Kroupa waited until he was satisfied that there was nothing more he could do. He opened his notebook and counted the number of witnesses. He counted three, including Mr Lowery. The other two were an old couple, who lived about fifty metres away and claimed to have seen someone running from the crime scene just seconds before the blast. They admitted that they couldn’t swear to what they saw, but they were almost certain that someone – someone limping – had scuttled away. Kroupa knew that this was not going to be a simple case. He wondered who was the corpse burned in the fire, and why the explosion? Who wanted to kill that person? And why? He needed answers: the identity of the victim, the motive and the opportunity. But, he would think about this later… First, he would return to home, drink a bottle of pale ale (of which he had enough supply in his oversized fridge) and go to bed.

CHAPTER 2: TUESDAY

Miriam Tierney

Early next morning, at about half past six, a woman of about fifty, dressed in a summer floral dress and with a customary kerchief, covering her permed hair and tied under her chin, went to work to clean the shop before opening hours. When she arrived, she gasped in disbelief. The shop was no longer there. All that remained was the charred rubble, cordoned off by police tape. There was also a policeman on guard.

What happened? the woman asked in disbelief.

Who are you? replied the policeman, standing with his hands behind his back.

What happened here? She was in shock. Then she registered the question, "I’ve come to do my cleaning, like I do every day. My name is Miriam Tierney. I’ve been cleaning the shop