Death on Dangar Island

By G.P. Field

Professor Israel Wren is a birdwatcher of the highest order. After protecting an egg-filled nest from predatory Myna Birds, he's able to recognize - among a chorus of multi-species bird chatter - the mating call of a lilac-breasted roller, a species that hails from Africa, not Australia.
So when his friend Gary, an ex-lifeguard, calls the Professor to tell him that he found a dead girl on the beach, we have a strong inclination that Wren's powers of observations are going to come in handy.
Before the police can arrive, professor Wren wastes no time in examining the body of the dead girl. Apart from noting the girl's heavy makeup, tattoos and piercings, he notices that's something's very off about the situation.
Much like the relationship between Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot and Inspector Jaffe, Professor Wren irritates local law enforcement by questioning what appears to be a foregone conclusion: that the dead girl died of a snakebite.
We soon learn that the half Zulu, half English Professor Wren isn't merely a birder. In fact, he's not even a professor of ornithology. Rather, he's a professor of English literature who, having co-authored a textbook still used to train detectives in Australia, built up a reputation as a master solver by volunteering his time to help the real police solve cases. Although he thinks of himself as a former "criminologist," it's clear from the get-go that his powers of observations haven't diminished in the least.
We know from the start that the professor will no doubt solve the murder, and that Gary - who is far from his equal - will no doubt play a part. But as in any great mystery, the pleasure is in the journey, and that is something that Death on Dangar Island has in spades.
Field is adept at creating character and plot, but I should also mention that he's a first-rate wordsmith. Apart from transporting us to a very believable location in Australia, he also uses his considerable powers to employ Professor Wren with a palpable voice: "It's true that many people use Twitter as a megaphone for inconsequential thoughts, my friend. They tweet without thinking, without due consideration. As you know, I simply use it to collect information and occasionally ask a question or two. Not everyone uses Twitter to broadcast what they had for breakfast. "
Like his character, GP Field's writing is anything but inconsequential.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.P. Field
• Release date: Feb 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310229008

G.P. Field

G.P. Field owned and ran a bookstore for many years. After selling his store, he took a part time job as a lifeguard, started writing, and went back to university to become a high school teacher. One night G.P. woke up with a person in his head. Despite many attempts to exorcise this fabrication, Israel Wren has refused to budge. Indeed, the person of Israel Wren has grown to become a very real part of G.P.'s life and inhabits his books and stories with a remorseless persistence. G.P. lives on the rugged coastline of regional Australia with his wife and daughter. He loves blue skies, vast saltwater vistas and grassland to the horizon. When he has a quiet moment, he likes to sit in the sun and dream up stories.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

He twisted awkwardly in his camp chair as he watched the marauders arrive. Two waves of the beasts flew in, razor beaks poised, alien-yellow eyes seeking their prey. They found the nest.

Israel pushed up out of his low-slung seat and bustled through the undergrowth towards the myna birds. He couldn’t let them get away with it: he had to do something. Cursing his aging body, he still managed to duck down and scoop up a fallen branch without breaking stride. ‘Footsack!’ he cried, brandishing the stick at them. They scattered in a cloud of feathers and angry cries.

A small dome of woven grass sat on the branch just above his head. He sighed, hitched up an immaculate trouser leg, placed his foot against the trunk and hopped up, grunting as he grasped the base of the branch and pulled his face level with the nest. Three small, matt-white eggs with reddish splotches sat in the tiny space. He dropped back to earth and the tension ran out of his shoulders. They were still there, all three of them.

Whistling an off-key tune under his breath, Israel ambled back to his spot under the tree. He lowered himself back into the camp chair, retrieved his sun hat and picked up his binoculars from where he’d dropped them in the rush.

The mother fairy wren returned first, her diminutive, rotund body landing effortlessly on the branch near the nest, her remarkably long tail pointing to the sky. She looked inside and gave a chirp. The father joined the mother on the branch: Israel leaned forward and fiddled with the focus of his binoculars. The bird’s forehead was a vivid eggshell-blue. This astonishing pale blue was superimposed over a black mask and a midnight blue throat. In his opinion, the breeding male of the superb fairy wren was an ornithological jewel. He allowed himself a grim, self-congratulatory smile. The mynas were an introduced species and the wrens were native. He was justified in intervening, wasn’t he? Sometimes in life it wasn’t enough to stand by and watch; sometimes you just had to get involved.

CHAPTER TWO

SATURDAY NIGHT

The sinewy torso of the fire twirler glistened in the light of the flames. A snake tattoo curled out from his low-slung jeans and across his abdomen. He spun the devil-sticks faster and faster until the lit ends became glowing amber circles throwing sparks off into the night.

With her back arched and her glossy lips parted, she watched him as he stared at her. She looked away. What did he want, sympathy? How pathetic. No, she knew what he wanted and he wouldn’t be getting it. Maybe he would try to talk to her about it again tonight – heart to heart. Maybe he would try to change her mind. Sorry baby, not going to happen.

She gazed out from under thick, black lashes, the hefty weight of the snake delicately balanced over her shoulder. The fire twirler lifted a bottle to his lips and tilted his head back. There were a few hushed ‘ooh’s and ‘ah’s as he blew a stream of flames into the air. The small crowd of revellers that had drifted drunkenly from the house now solidified into an audience, clapping and yelling out encouragement. Spurred on by their enthusiasm, he paused to turn up the volume on the portable stereo behind him before he launched back into his routine.

She stood with them, smiling indulgently at his theatrics.

Then she noticed the pale woman.

The woman watched her intently from across the semicircle of onlookers.

The snake shifted on her shoulders and she patted its solid, comforting form as she maintained eye contact with her watcher.

The crowd seemed to huddle closer.

A spike of adrenaline quivered down her spine. Something was going to happen tonight: something wild. She could feel it deep inside her, and she was thrilled.

A shadow flitted in and out of the group at the edge of the darkness. A sly half-smile of recognition; she went to investigate. He was here!

She took his hand, and together they walked into the trees.

The pale woman followed them into the darkness.

CHAPTER THREE

SUNDAY MORNING

They were beautiful; the flamboyant lorikeets, the raucous cockatoos, the sea eagle as it soared above.

In a small clearing on Dangar Island, Professor Israel Wren smiled up at the impossibly colourful lorikeets as they flitted about, high up in an old gum tree. Their bright orange chests and beaks contrasted with the vivid indigo blue of their heads and the bright green of their wings and necks. He squatted, motionless, on a sun-warmed rock in a grassy patch, hemmed in on all sides by thick eucalypt forest. He closed his eyes for a moment and the sounds of the birds filled the shadows and spilled out into the sunshine. On the forest floor near the rock, four fat, white cockatoos waddled across the grass. Every now and then the largest one would crane its neck, arch its sulphur-yellow crest and caw crankily at the others. The eagle circled the sky above, an effortless silhouette suspended on a thermal current as it watched and waited.

For a moment the glade quietened, leaving only the faint chirrup of cicadas.

Then, a shock. The harsh mating call of a lilac-breasted roller belonged in Africa, not Australia.

He reached for his top pocket.

It was Gary.

‘What can I do for you, my friend?’

‘Iz, get down here quick as you can. You’ll want to see this before the cavalry arrive.’

‘What is it?’

‘A girl … a dead girl …’

Israel straightened his slight frame and scampered back down the dirt track, his mind in overdrive. ‘Where is she?’

‘Nearby – come back to the house and you’ll see us.’

‘Yes, I am coming now.’

There was nothing else to say. Gary Warburton was an ex-lifeguard and ambulance officer with years of experience. Israel knew at least two things already: the girl was definitely dead, and the authorities were already alerted and on their way.

The professor did not question his friend’s impulse to phone him: he had a history with police investigations and, while his formal qualifications were academic, he’d something of a knack when it came to people – dead people in particular.

Gary fretted in the middle of the track in front of their rented house on Bradley’s Beach. The usual slump in his shoulders was gone and his tall frame jerked from side to side like there was a current running through him. ‘She’s here.’

Without waiting for the professor to reach him, he spun on his heel and stepped over a low clump of spinifex near the edge of the beach. Israel followed, and found him standing protectively over the figure of a young woman curled up on the sand.

Clad in a red miniskirt and a black tank top, she lay on her side, halfway to the foetal position.

‘Hmm,’ Israel’s voice was deep with regret, the sound vibrating out from the very back of his throat. He stepped closer and looked her over with something approaching reverence.

She had raven black hair, and her face was covered with thick makeup. She stared back at him blankly, through heavy mascara, her marble-glazed eyes oblivious of his presence.

Gary edged closer and knelt down near her legs. ‘Looks like a snakebite.’ He pointed to a pair of puncture marks in the fleshy part of her calf.

Without a word, Israel retrieved the phone from his pocket, knelt down and held it sideways to the puncture marks, using a ruler marked on the case to judge the distance between them. His eyes drifted up her calf muscle to the tattoo. Two snakes entwined in a double helix circled her lower leg, their mouths meeting in lust or violence.

‘The poor thing. The poor thing,’ he muttered, as he moved around the body, taking a series of photos; his gestures careful and respectful, his tongue making a sucking noise against his teeth.

Finally, he put the phone down and rested the back of his hand against her forehead.

Gary shook his head. ‘She’s cold. Been dead for a while, I reckon.’

‘In your career did you attend to many snakebites?’

‘Snakebites? Well, nah, not really. I was trained to treat them, though.’

The professor looked up at his friend. ‘Are you sure this girl died from a snakebite?’

Gary shifted his powerful frame, scratched at his thatch of silver-blond hair and narrowed his eyes. ‘Yeah. Looks like it, mate.’

Israel had always been uncomfortable with the Australian term ‘mate’. It brought to mind the act of procreation. He bent closer and took another photo of an unusual piercing running through the dead girl’s lower lip.

‘I am not sure this unfortunate young woman did die from snakebite, my friend.’

‘The cops won’t like that, Iz –’

‘Oi! Don’t touch that. Move away from the body.’

The voice came from a few metres away. Gary and Israel both looked up sharply as a uniformed police constable strode across the sand towards them.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE D.I.

‘Please remain calm and continue to wait here. Detective Inspector McKinnon will be able to see you soon.’

Israel stopped in front of the officer and glared at his well-pressed uniform. He raised his eyes and met the policeman’s stare before he stalked back to his seat beneath the awning. The deck was starting to bake as the sun crept across the timber floor. It was now uncomfortably hot and they’d already waited more than two hours. Being held against his will angered Israel, even if his gaol cell happened to be the balcony of a holiday home with a tranquil view of the water. It was almost as if they were the criminals. He pulled out his smartphone and started to tap away furiously.

Gary sat in the open and took in the view; his long legs extended, feet up on the lower rung of the railing. The river sparkled and the little boats moored off the beach bobbed in the gentle swell.

The house Gary had rented for their holiday was a modest weatherboard affair wedged between grandly named Grantham Crescent and the gentle curve of Bradley’s Beach. Their accommodation wasn’t luxurious, but it was clean and well kept. The best feature was a large covered deck overlooking a strip of golden sand and the emerald river beyond. In the distance, a maze of heavily forested bays and inlets eventually found their way out to the Pacific Ocean.

Surrounded by vast tracts of the Ku-Ring-Gai Chase National Park, Dangar Island gave the impression it was far from civilisation. In fact, the island lay close to the northern suburbs of Sydney. There was something unusual about the place, an atmosphere Israel couldn’t quite quantify. Despite the thick native vegetation, the place felt like a village, the houses sitting snug together, as if finding solace from their proximity. The narrow lanes and the absence of vehicles enhanced a sense of gentle domesticity in the face of the primeval landscape.

‘I don’t imagine they get much of this kind of drama in such a quiet little place,’ yawned Gary as he stretched his broad back and shoulders. High cheekbones caught the light as he tilted his face to the sun.

Israel looked up from his phone and his face softened. He stood and stretched before he moved across the deck to stand next to his friend out in the heat. ‘There are troubles everywhere, my friend. Perhaps incidents like this are not so unusual. Strange things can happen anywhere – even in quaint holiday enclaves like this. Even murders …’

‘What do you mean murder? The girl’s death was an accident. A straight-up case of snakebite.’

Israel glanced towards the constable, who seemed wholly engrossed picking dirt out from under his fingernails. ‘I would not be so certain, my friend,’ he muttered. ‘I sense something unusual happened here last night. There are signs the incident is not as straightforward as it appears. If this young woman’s death is simply labelled an accident and dispensed with, I suspect it will be a travesty of justice.’

Gary rolled his pale blue eyes but kept quiet. He looked straight ahead for a moment before he turned back to his companion. ‘Speaking of strange … those emo kids on the ferry last night, Iz, they were strange. All done up, weren’t they? I bet our girl was hanging out with that lot. She looked the type. There must have been a party on. They were loaded up with booze – remember?’

Gary was right; the young people travelling with them on the ferry the previous evening had clearly spent a good deal of time on their outfits. They also decorated themselves with heavy mascara, black lipstick, piercings and tattoos. Just like the dead girl.

The constable’s flip-top mobile rang and there was a quick discussion in hushed tones.

The officer straightened his uniform and beckoned for them to follow him. ‘The DI’s ready for you now.’

They trudged through the heat along the series of tree-lined tracks that made up the ‘road’ system on the island. Many of the holiday homes along the way sat empty, quietly brooding until their owners returned to breathe life into them. Others, hidden behind wooden fences and archways, were festooned with colourful flags and wind chimes. The occasional brassy postmodern construction jutted out among the more understated buildings, and the entire miscellany was steeped in ancient eucalypt forest.

Because Dangar Island was too small to have its own police station, a temporary base was set up in the back room of the small building that acted as a cafe, general store and post office. As they came towards their destination, Israel noticed it had taken less than ten minutes to cross the spine of the island on foot. The single-storey building nestled into the bottom of the wooded hill near the water. Furnished with tables and market umbrellas, a pretty palm-fringed courtyard flagged with sandstone pavers commanded a view of the river beyond.

They were ushered towards the rear of the building, and as they approached, a door opened and a well-dressed middle-aged man bristled past them. He was bent slightly forward from the waist, his fists curled into balls.

Israel tracked the man as he walked away. ‘Was that the inspector?’ he enquired of Constable Flip-Top.

The officer smirked and shook his head. ‘No, he’s definitely not the inspector… He’s the father, I think. The inspector’s in through here …’

Flip-Top pushed opened a creaky flyscreen door and they all crowded into a small room with a cluttered, narrow computer desk and a filing cabinet, the middle drawer bent so far out of shape that it couldn’t be closed properly. Crammed into the corner, flicking between various sheets of paper, the room’s sole occupant was an overweight ruddy-faced man with a walrus moustache and bloodshot eyes.

The man nodded curtly in their direction.

‘Gentlemen, I’m DI McKinnon, and you’ve already met Constable Howell here.’ He nodded again, this time in the direction of the slender policeman, smoothing out his well-pressed uniform. The detective consulted his notes and looked up at Israel and Gary, his rheumy eyes narrowing into slits.

‘Can I start by asking whichever one of you is Mr Wren what you were doing touching the body when Constable Howell arrived at the scene?’

Israel stepped forward. ‘Of course Detective Inspector, I was merely checking the marks on the young lady’s lower leg.’

‘The snakebite marks?’

‘If you wish to call them that, Detective Inspector.’ Israel smiled beatifically.

‘What do you mean by that?’ The policeman’s brow furrowed.

‘I simply mean that I’m unsure whether those marks are snakebite marks. I would not choose to label them as such until I was sure of my facts.’

‘I see.’ He switched his gaze to Gary. ‘Mr Warburton is it?’ Gary nodded. ‘I understand you found the body and acted properly in every regard. I do have one question though. The constable tells me he heard you say something as he approached you on the beach. Something like, The cops won’t like hearing that. Is that what you said?’

‘Yep. Something like that.’

Israel smiled to himself. Gary was not one to prevaricate.

‘What did you mean by that?’ continued the DI.

‘Well, Iz had just told me he didn’t think that the girl died by snakebite, and then I told him that you blokes wouldn’t like that.’

‘Who is Iz?’

Gary pointed at his friend. ‘Professor Wren: Professor Israel Wren.’

‘Right, I see.’ The DI turned to Israel. ‘What are you a professor of, Mr Wren?’

‘I am a professor of English literature, Inspector McKinnon.’

‘Right, very good.’ The DI looked down and scribbled something on a loose piece of paper.

‘Israel Wren …’ He paused a moment and looked Israel over one more time. ‘I’m sure I’ve heard that name before. Where would I know you from?’

Israel grinned and shrugged, holding his palms up to the heavens.

The DI frowned and made another note. ‘Right, now let’s get back to the question, Mr Warburton. Why do you think we wouldn’t like the idea that our young victim hadn’t really died from a snakebite?’

Gary grimaced and opened his mouth but Israel jumped in before he could speak. ‘In my experience, Inspector, when faced with an obvious solution to a problem, the police, like all people in essentially bureaucratic jobs, prefer to take the path of least resistance and least paperwork. In this case, accepting the snakebite thesis at face value would mean a neat and quick finish to the case.’

Slightly redder in the face, the DI returned his gaze to Israel. ‘That question wasn’t addressed to you, Professor Wren. Furthermore, I’m a police officer, not a bureaucrat. Let me reassure you I’m going to get to the bottom of this incident no matter how much paperwork I generate – understand?’

Constable Howell stepped closer to the detective and cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me, Sir.’

‘What is it, Howell?’ huffed the DI.

‘I think I know why you recognise the professor’s name.’

The fat man looked at him expectantly.

‘I just finished up at the Academy and we had to study this book about policing ethnics and all that. You know the one about ways they tried to get a handle on the West Indians after they started to gang up together in Liverpool back in the eighties? All those different ways they tried to control them?’

‘Yeah, what about it?’ The DI growled at Howell’s interruption.

‘I think I remember one of the author’s names was Israel Wren.’

‘The study was based in London, not in Liverpool, and it was in the seventies, not the eighties.’

They turned to face Israel. ‘I believe the title you are searching for is Strategies for the Effective Policing of Sub-Cultural Minorities’.

The detective’s scowl deepened. He gave the professor a particularly hard look. ‘I remember that book. Did you write that?’

‘No, Inspector, not all of it, but I did help to write it. I am very fortunate that I was included as one of the authors and that people still find some use for the book today.’

‘You told me you were an English professor.’

‘That is my current vocation, Detective.’

‘You didn’t think to let me know you wrote a book on policing methods?’

The professor smiled broadly, his white teeth contrasting with his flawless latte-coloured skin. ‘I apologise, Detective McKinnon. You did not ask me about my previous profession. It was a very long time ago and, no, I didn’t think it was particularly pertinent. I no longer consider myself a criminologist. As I say, that was many years ago and I was lucky to have been part of that team: I was very young and I was chosen for a specific reason.’ He held up his forearm and pointed to it. ‘They thought that if they had a young African helping with the research, they would get better better results.’ There was a brief silence.

He let that settle for a moment before clearing his throat and continuing. ‘I would like to tell you even more about my past if I could. Something that is directly relevant to the issue at hand. Apart from writing a very ancient tome about policing methodology, I have done many other things in my life. For instance, I’ve seen snakebite victims while they lay dying and after they died. A bite from a deadly snake can result in many terrible symptoms. Sometimes there are agonising headaches, sometimes stomach cramps and seizures. Often victims become disoriented and their hearts race uncontrollably. It is a very unpleasant thing to witness, Inspector, very unpleasant.’ He stopped short as a small black-and-white bird landed on the railing outside and wiggled his long tail cheekily before giving a short, shrill cheep and flitting on. Willy wagtail, Israel registered automatically.

The DI sat spread-eagled in his stained suit trying to take all this in.

‘These people you saw with the snakebites, was this in Australia, Mr Wren?’

‘No, Inspector, I saw these things in Africa when I was younger.’

‘Yes, well, snakes in Australia are different from snakes in other places. Our snakes are …’ he tilted his back in thought, ‘… deadlier than everyone else’s. I read a book recently that said one drop of venom from a western taipan can kill more than a million mice. That’s a hell of a lot of mice, Professor, don’t you think? At any rate, we’ll get some lab results from the boffins in a couple of days and that’ll settle it.’

‘I’m very glad to know that you read books, Detective …’ Israel stopped and looked at the crowded corkboard on the wall for a moment before continuing. ‘I must tell you also that I am a very light sleeper.’

The DI watched him, eyes bulging. ‘Yes, Mr Wren?’ he sighed.

‘Ah yes, my apologies. I became distracted for a moment. As I was saying, I am a very light sleeper and last night was no exception. I woke at three-thirty this morning due to an unusual noise near my house.’

‘Is that right?’ responded the inspector drily. ‘What kind of noise?’

‘It was a screech like a cockatoo or a galah, but three-thirty is an unusual hour for them. Anyway, I couldn’t get back to sleep so I got up and took a look outside. The noise came from my neighbour’s yard, and as I looked in that direction two bright flashes blinded me temporarily. I waited and watched to see if anything else would transpire, but I was tired, and after a few minutes, I returned to my bed.’

The senior police officer indicated the constable should take notes.

‘That’s interesting, Mr Wren. The doctor just indicated to me that she expected the time of death to be around three-thirty. You seem quite certain about the time.’

‘Yes. It was three thirty-four exactly, Inspector. I know because I used my phone to light the way through the house and it displays the time on the screen.’

‘I see. Well alright then. We’ve made a note of your statement. I doubt if it will have any bearing on our investigation but thanks for letting us know. Are you and Mr Warburton staying on the island for