The Kiwi Connection

By John Meskell

The Kiwi Connection is a thrilling read from start to finish and follows William Stewart from New Zealand to Australia with his parents when he was 10 years of age.
He excelled in school, as well as boxing, representing Victoria over a period of years. Due to a lack of parental guidance he became involved with a hoodlum element in Melbourne.This life of crime eventually found him in jail with a Chinese Cambodian drug dealer for a cell mate, where he learned everything he needed to know about drug trafficking.John’s ace investigator, Reg Kelso, who features in several of John’s novels, is also involved in this story. This story of murder, mystery and betrayal is a good read that is hard to put down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Meskell
• Release date: Aug 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311379061

John Meskell

John Meskell joined the Queensland Police Force in the year of 1957 after reaming around the world for many years as merchant seaman. He was gifted with a very adventurous life indeed during his worldly travels, and resided in many foreign countries. On his return to Australia and after serving a compulsory probationary period as a Constable he was sworn into the Queensland Police Force that same year. He retired on the 10 January, 1988 as a Detective Inspector grade two, after serving the State of Queensland for thirty years and six months. He was the Detective Inspector and Crime Coordinator for the South East Region of Queensland, then became the Officer in Charge of the Queensland Gold Coast District Criminal Investigation Branch and Juvenile Aid Bureau. Indeed as it can be imagined, he certainly had an interesting and varied career, travelling extensively within the States of Australia, overseas and of course in Queensland.He also attended the Queensland Institution of Technology where he obtained Qualifications in Social Psychology, Criminology, Law, Police Administration, English, and Principals of Management. His experience as a Detective in the Queensland Police is reflected in the novels he has written. It gives them a realism that emerges as first class readability. Although his novels are fiction, they are mostly based on real events.

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The Kiwi Connection

Copyright © JOHN MESKELL i i 2014

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CHAPTER ONE

THE JAGUAR CONVERTIBLE SNAKED its way through the dimly lit streets before slowing down and then stopping and reversing into a dark laneway. The driver dressed in dark clothing, slid out from behind the wheel and walking to the entrance of the alleyway glanced furtively up the street to the right and left, it was eight pm with most of the houses in darkness. The only sign of life was the characteristic blue glow emanating from television receivers, easily distinguishable through the curtains of suburban homes.

To the West, twenty kilometres away a storm was brewing as forked lightning licked through low clouds, accompanied by a low rumbling of thunder. Wind gusts came in spasmodic bursts, hurtling old newspapers and dust ahead of its fierce onslaught. With a sudden drop in temperature an eerie atmosphere suddenly enveloped the area as whole and the wind suddenly, with no apparent reason dropped off. The surrounding area suddenly became quite still with lightning becoming more prominent and distinct, which gave the driver of the vehicle an added incentive to hurry.

A street sign was fixed to a telegraph pole indicating the location of Prescott Street in the southern suburb of Woodbridge which loomed out of the darkness. Parking the vehicle beneath a tree situated a short distance away and stealthy with extreme caution, the driver walked in from the intersection. It was only a matter of a minute before number sixteen appeared attached to a post box next to a front gate, which swung half opened. Pushing the gate open, it swung noiselessly as the intruder crept through the gardens up to the front window.

Peering through laced curtains a woman could clearly be seen lying on a lounge in front of the television screen, awake and watching a current movie. The intruder looked around cautiously once more but could see nothing untoward and felt safe. Distant flashes of lightening caused the only illumination on the front porch.

Surprisingly, the front door was not locked and it slowly edged open, allowing the intruder to silently creep into the foyer of a hallway. A furtive peek around the lounge room door showed the woman languishing in apparent comfort, still blissfully unaware she had unwelcome company with her within the house. The intruder could easily distinguish that the television receiver was turned down low and the woman watching it was eating chocolates.

The glow of the television receiver revealed the woman in semi-darkness sending a blaze of rage and hate surging through the body of the intruder. A disused fireplace held an ornamental receptacle containing a number of brass pokers. The intruder slipped into the lounge room on hands and knees towards the receptacle with eyes darting furtively around here and there but still the woman on the lounge had not detected the intruder’s presence.

It was the noise the intruder suddenly made while rushing to the poker stand and withdrawing one of the pokers that enabled her to realize that she was not alone. With an alarmed look her eyes opened wide and she saw the poker sweeping downwards at her head. She tried to call out with her heart racing heavily and instinctively, she threw up one of her arms in self-defence to ward off the blow. The poker struck heavily, breaking her arm and completely nullified any further feeble attempts of defence. Desperately, she clutched at the intruder with her good arm and while struggling; the woman dragged a bracelet from the wrist of her attacker. It fell to the floor and rolled beneath the lounge.

The woman was no match for her assailant, who easily pulled her arm away and brought the poker down on her head, again and again. The ferocity and force of the attack knocked the woman unconscious and with a sigh, she slid to the floor, but still the intruder did not stop. Stirred by a frenzy of uncontrollable bitterness and hate, the poker struck the inert head of the woman time and time again. Blood splattered up the walls with the force of the ferocious onslaught and finally the assailant stopped, breathing heavily from exhaustion.

Recovering, the attacker quickly began to search the house, pulling open drawers and tipping their contents onto the floor. Finding nothing in the bedrooms, the intruder recommenced the routine in the kitchen, toppling the contents of condiment tins out onto the kitchen bench. One of the containers yielded a bundle of money held together with a rubber band. Quickly thrusting the money into a pocket, the intruder wiped the containers over with a tea towel before fleeing into the night.

Outside, heavy spots of rain were beginning to fall and sharp whip-like cracks of thunder heralded the oncoming gale about to descend. There was no traffic on the roads as the driver pushed at a button raising the hood of the convertible. The oncoming fusillade of rain began to fall and the windscreen wipers clacked back and forth as the car glided ghost-like though the deluge.

Although, the driver was beginning to feel a little easier, the horror of what had transpired back at the house had not yet began to register. Heroin, used to foster courage prior to the invasion of the house was beginning to lose its effect and the only thought in mind was to get as far away as possible without being seen in the area.

It was thirty kilometres to the other side of the city where a party was in progress with the car being loaned to the driver for the purpose of obtaining drugs. Now there would be no problem on that score and not only did the money mean that the driver could now return with the drugs as promised, but that rotten bitch back in the house had now met her demise.

Meanwhile, Basil Netrose was taking his time while driving to his home in Prescott Street because of heavy rain falling in torrents and as he crawled along the rain seemed to intensify which caused him a few problems with his demister in the car being faulty and not operating, as he would have desired. It had been faulty for some weeks and despite his intention to get it repaired he had not got around to it and now he was paying the supreme price for his neglect, with the windscreen continually fogging.

It was a fierce storm with rain pelting into his car’s windscreen in spasms of ferocious onslaughts causing him to drive at a slow speed while continually wiping at the condensation on his windscreen with a rag. Fortunately there were no large hailstones prominent within the onslaught of the heavy rain. Flashes of lightening briefly illuminated the road and surrounding area. But for the storm, Basil would have been home at least an hour earlier but he had been held up at his office by a number of piddling matters requiring urgent attention and finally he came to the street and his home.

He drove slowly into number sixteen and pulled into the driveway running alongside his house. The garage was open and after parking his car he took his brief case from the front seat and prepared for his run up the side of the house to the front door. He did not have an umbrella with him and hated getting wet at anytime.

Running up the front steps onto the patio, he noticed that the front door was ajar. ‘That’s unusual’, he surmised. ‘Whatever could Margaret have been thinking to leave the front door unlocked’? ‘Margaret’, he called out, I’m home’.

He could see the glow of the television from the lounge room but there was no answer. Suspecting nothing, he went into the lounge room and almost fainted at the horrific sight that greeted him. The sweet repugnant smell of blood nauseated him and he could feel bile surging up into his throat when he saw the smashed and battered head of his wife. He could not stop the vomit hurtling from his mouth and perspiring furiously, his heart raced and pain wrenched at his stomach.

‘Oh my God, Jesus Christ’, he groaned between his hands now clasped over his face. He rushed to the telephone and dialled the police number. Only minutes passed before he heard the first police car with a blue light flashing pull into his driveway, he met two police officers at his door.

‘We’ve got a call there’s been a murder here’ said the uniform sergeant.

Basil coughed and placed his hand over his mouth to hold back the feeling of throwing-up again. ‘In there’ and pointing in the direction of the lounge room, he said again, ‘In there’.

The policemen left him, one came back and said, ‘Jesus Christ, whatever you do don’t go back in there again, stay out here and don’t touch anything within the house ‘

‘I’m going to call the detectives’, and hurried outside to the parked police car.

Basil Netrose was an accountant with a local Motor Vehicle Factory and he had been employed with the same firm for over twenty-five years. He was a diligent worker and his job entailed working back on most nights to catch up with the huge volume of never ending documentation.

He was 45 years of age, of average height and build, and his biggest worry in life was losing his hair which had thinned out considerably. He was well respected by his work colleagues and was looked upon as being ‘maybe too religious’ and sometimes a bible basher. However despite his religious beliefs, Basil never at any stage attempted to influence his friends with his own evangelist hypothesis. Margaret was Basil’s second wife his first wife had died during a boating accident. He had one daughter named Barbara from that happy union, nicknamed Bunny

Several more cars pulled up outside Basil’s house. Burly plain clothes police surged into his home and a man and a woman equipped with flashlight and cameras with other paraphernalia hurried past him into the lounge room. Flashes from the cameras lit up the house in spasmodic bursts as they went about their chores, photographing Margaret’s body and other parts of the home.

Fingerprint and scientific personnel arrived and for the next two hours his home was a hive of activity. Subsequently the Coroner arrived, solemn faced to inspect the body and finally the undertaker arrived, to carry Margaret’s covered body away. By this time, Basil was in a state of severe shock, he could not stop trembling and a plain-clothes policewoman approached him.

‘Do you feel up to answering a few questions?’ She quietly asked.

Basil nodded and sighed, ‘Yes, alright. Good God Almighty, this’s terrible,’ he sobbed, the tears streaming down his cheeks.

‘Look if you don’t feel up to this, I can come back later?’ she kindly said. ‘But the sooner we get this over with the better you’ll feel’.

Basil nodded, ‘No, no, I’ll be okay,’ he replied.

She had a tape recorder in her hand, and said, ‘I’m going to tape our conversation. Just tell me what happened here if you can, what time you got home, what you did, what time was it when you rang the police, did you have any money in the house, things like that.’

Basil related to the police officer everything he could think of which might be of assistance to them. Another detective joined them but he waited until Basil had finished before he spoke.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Monural and I understand you’re the husband of the deceased woman?’

Basil nodded. He wiped his red eyes with his handkerchief.

‘Forgive me but I have to ask you this question, it’s a matter of formality as far as we are concerned, were you able to identify the deceased woman as your wife?’

Basil choked and nodded, ‘Yes’

‘Did you have any money or valuables hidden away in the house?’

‘No not really, Margaret wasn’t one for fancy jewellery,’ Basil said. ‘But we did keep money in an empty sugar container in the kitchen.’

‘Do you know how much was there?’ Monural asked.

‘There’d have to be close to seven or eight hundred dollars,’ Basil replied.

‘Can you show me where it was kept?’

‘Sure’, Basil said with a nod of his head leading them into the kitchen. He saw the empty canister lying on its side on the kitchen table.

‘It was kept in that tin,’ he said.

‘Alright Mr Netrose We’ll be going in and out of here for the next twenty-four hours or so. This house is now a crime scene, we’ll want a statement from you later but we’ll not worry you tonight. Do you have anywhere else you can go?’

Basil coughed, his throat felt hoarse and dry, ‘Yes, I’ve got a friend I can probably stay with, can I use my phone to ring him?’

Monural nodded,’ Sure, don’t touch anything else while you’re in the house’.

The following day, a distraught Basil Netrose went to the local police station where he made a formal statement. It was the second most traumatic moment he had experienced in his life. His mind drifted back to the time he and his first wife Jean had met.

At the time they had attended the same bible class together and at first he was shy, feeling ill at ease in her company. However, as time went on he began to overcome his timid ways and her bubbling friendly demeanour seemed to make things so much easier for him to communicate with her.

She and he were the same age and he discovered she was keen on yachting, which was his favourite pastime. Soon they were regularly sailing on his small boat in the waters of Brisbane’s Moreton Bay. The courtship went on between them and it was obvious that they were ideally suited and subsequently, they married in the Brisbane City Baptist church. From this happy union they became the proud parents of a baby girl.

‘Ah’, Basil thought, what a wonderful day. He was thrilled when he looked down at the dainty little baby cradled by his wife. The baby’s tiny arms waved at the air and her diminutive pink hands clutched at nothing. She looked so frail, pink and cuddly, her fingers so small. He nicknamed her ‘Bunny’, a name he called her, from that day on. She was christened ‘Barbara’ in the Baptist church several weeks after Jean and her newly born daughter returned home.

He and Jean were very proud parents however their dreams of planning for several more children were shattered when Jean discovered she would never be able to conceive again. The unwelcome news devastated them, however being devoted Christians they accepted ‘God’s decision’. Without completely spoiling Barbara, they bestowed all their love and affection upon their only child with the nickname of Bunny.

They were a happy family and as ‘Bunny’ grew Basil found it extremely difficult to comprehend the thinking of today’s children. Time passed quickly and suddenly Bunny was a child no more, it was still difficult for Basil to realise that after twenty years she had grown into a beautiful woman.

Reminiscing, Basil’s mind drifted back ten years beforehand to the day when he and Jean were out sailing on Moreton Bay. They were coming about in a stiff breeze when the boom of the small yacht struck Jean a hard blow to the side of her head, knocking her over the side of the vessel and into the water. She was wearing a life jacket and friends sailing behind who witnessed the accident hove to, bringing their vessel up alongside her floating body and pulled her from the water unconscious.

Basil came about and sailed up alongside them. His friend signalled he was going straight back to the jetty. Basil followed and he feared the worst, for the boom had struck Jean’s head with a hard, sickening blow. An ambulance was waiting when they berthed and Jean was rushed away. By the time he arrived at the hospital Jean had died, never regaining consciousness. His friends tried to comfort him as he openly sobbed.

He looked to the sky crying out, ‘Oh God in heaven, for what purpose have you decreed this terrible thing?’

Basil’s religious beliefs never wavered; his faith in the Lord was fortified by his upbringing and he believed everything happened for a purpose. It was a natural thing for him to believe there was a reason why God had chosen to take Jean away from him. However, at that critical moment in his life he found it hard to understand what that reason could ever be.

Basil remembered the terrible ordeal he had to face when he broke the news to Bunny and he would never forget her face when she opened the door and looked at him, ‘Daddy, Daddy, what on earth’s happened? Where’s mummy?’

She was only ten years of age and he still liked to pick her up and cuddle her. He hugged her to him sobbing, ‘Oh Bunny, she’s gone, she’s gone’.

‘Oh Dad, what are you saying, are you trying to tell me that Mummy is dead?’

‘Oh Lord’, he thought to himself, ‘How on earth do you explain something like this to an innocent little girl? How do you tell her she will never see her mother again?’

‘I want you to be very brave Bunny. Mummy would have wanted you to be brave,’ said Basil.

‘Is mummy dead?’ Bunny asked again.

Basil moaned softly to himself, ‘Yes child’, He quietly murmured, holding her tightly. ‘She’s left us and gone to heaven’.

Bunny pushed away from him, the thought of her mother dying made her furious.

‘Don’t ever talk to me about God and heaven again,’ she cried.

He hugged her tighter as she began to cry, the sobs shaking her body.

‘Oh Bunny, you are just a child, you don’t know what you’re saying,’ he whispered in her ear.

‘Don’t I?’ she lamented. ‘Well I know this much, there can’t be any God and I never want to hear his name mentioned to me again, not for anything whatsoever,’ She sobbed emotionally. ‘No God would take my mother away from me like this.’

She continued to weep until her crying subsided to a faint whimpering. Basil carried her to her bedroom and laid her on the bed. He pulled the bed cover over her and quietly retired, closing the door behind him. That episode would have probably been the worst moment he had experienced in his life. He remembered at the time, how helpless he had felt been with his feeble attempt to somehow or other explain to his gracious, and loving little daughter the terrible calamity that that out of nowhere had suddenly descended upon their lives.

CHAPTER TWO

SOON AFTER BARBARA HAD been born, Basil’s brother Nester had come to live with them. Back in those days he had recently been discharged from the Army, he was single, 40 years of age and an absolute genius with the anything to do with the subject of mathematics. Basil was able to get him a job with the same company he worked for as a dispatch clerk and things could not have worked out better for his daughter. Nester was able to coach her at home with her studies and in particular with her weakest subject, mathematics.

Nester had been at work when he learned about the terrible tragedy of Jean being accidentally killed while out sailing. He rushed home to be greeted by his ashen faced and severely distressed brother, Basil and put his arm around him.

‘My God Basil, I’ve just heard the news about Jean, what on earth can I say at such a terrible time as this?’

Basil looked at Nester with anguish etched on his stricken face, ‘There’s not much you can do or say Nester. It’s one of those things willed by the Lord. Bunny’s taken it extremely hard and with her grief, I’m finding it hard to cope with everything myself. But I’ve got to keep a stiff upper lip and all that stuff even if it’s only for the sake of Bunny.’

Nester poured two stiff scotches and handed one to his brother.

‘Here, I know you’re not a drinker but this is a time to settle yourself down, this won’t hurt you one little bit — bottoms up!’ Basil knew Nester meant well and he threw the sharp tasting spirit back down his throat. It hit the pit of his stomach and his stomach curdled with the onslaught of whisky. It took all of his self-control to stop throwing up and he left Nester to retire and privately mourn his wife’s death.

Time slipped by and almost seven years had passed, with Jean long dead, life went on. Bunny had finished her school with honours and had grown into a very attractive young lady. She was tall, 174c.m. with curly brown shoulder length hair and blue eyes, she also possessed a captivating smile which added to her popularity and her long well shaped legs complimented a well proportioned body with round hips and a slim waist. Basil was proud of her.

However, beneath the mantle of perfection Bunny portrayed there lurked another clandestine side to her. She did not and never would hold the same ideas as her father did