Monkey Hunt: Lee Birch Thriller, #1

By Callum Cordeaux

It started in the first Gulf War and finished during the second Gulf War. 
A slick, sick, soul stealing killer is dining out on the good people of Brisbane, and the cops are nowhere close to catching him. Mike Torrens, an ageing ASIS undercover operative, comes to town looking for a thief who has stolen a stash of heroin from his bosses, but his search goes nowhere and lands him under the spell of the Slasher. For Torrens life will never be the same and he certainly won't be the man he used to be. His encounter with the Slasher puts him on a desperate path of ridding the modern city of Brisbane of an ancient pestilence. But now as an overweight female in her early twenties what are the chances of success?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Len Arthur Publishing
• Release date: Sep 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781524244590

Callum Cordeaux

Callum Cordeaux is a part time writer, part time surveyor living in Toowoomba in southern Queensland. His writing passions involve a deep love affair with science fiction and good crime thrillers.  He can be contacted on facebook at www.facebook.com/callum.cordeaux or on twitter. 

Book preview

Chapter 1

A HUGE YELLOW DIESEL thundered by, dragging a string of swaying, screeching freight wagons heading for the port. An electric train slid past in the opposite direction with almost no sound at all, passengers standing, swaying, heading for work. It was a Monday with traffic busy through Brisbane’s Roma Street Station.

At one of the platforms Mike Torrens stood on the step of the Citylink Airtrain, pausing for a moment to look over the depressing sea of black and grey suits. He’d been pulled out of Jakarta a week earlier, then, out of the blue, sent north to find one man in a city of almost 2 million. Torrens wasn’t a man hunter and was starting to regret having said yes. Brisbane was a big city and if his man wanted to play hard ball, as Torrens suspected he would, he’d take some bringing in.

When he stepped out into the thinning crowd many of the commuters had already disappeared down the exit tunnels. Torrens barely glanced at the ornate century-old wrought iron supporting new galvanised iron that formed the curving platform covers, he’d seen them before. In stark contrast to the old station the modern concrete and steel of the Transit Centre towered above.

Torrens drew more than a few angry glares, dressed as he was in the green uniform and red beret of the Royal Australian Corps of Military Police. He was once again reminded of the military’s low regard in the lead up to a new Gulf War. In spite of nearly fifteen years’ service he’d never before worn the MP uniform. Something that now caused him a little discomfort, more for the lack of anonymity it forced upon him. In his right hand he carried a folded suit bag and a small overnight bag in the other.

He followed the steadily moving crowd as they streamed through the access tunnel up to the Transit Centre. Torrens was not tall, nor short, his face good looking but unremarkable in its lack of distinguishing features. Dark hair, slightly greying at the sides, could be seen below the red beret. If he’d been wearing one of the suits which now surround him he would have blended with the crowd, the only distinguishing feature, perhaps, a hint of fluid grace in the way he moved.

As the crowd thinned he spotted a newspaper stand and walked across and purchased the local Courier Mail. The headline was depressingly similar to the stories that had been running for months in the Sydney Morning Herald. The serial killer was still on the job and the tally was growing. Brisbane was quickly gaining international notoriety for the string of grisly murders that had the police stumped. The Slasher was a highly visible killer with an unvarying style but the police were no closer to catching him than they were three months earlier when the deaths had started.

Torrens’ memories of Brisbane were of a tranquil place with wide, tree lined streets that ran beside one of the best city rivers in the country. He remembered relaxed sunny afternoons on the veranda of the Regatta Hotel watching the rowers grunting their way up river. He remembered the beer, Brisbane’s own Castlemaine’s XXXX. Not brilliant, but after half a dozen who cared. It was a city some said had never really grown up. But now it was growing up, fast.

The place of earlier memory was gone when he stepped onto Roma Street. Overcast skies lent a sombre tone to the early morning. Dark sky scrapers reared above, so many more than on the last visit. Commuters with heads down scuttled away to their workplaces like so many pale cockroaches.

He stepped across to the first cab in the rank and opening the back door threw his bags on the seat, then opened the front and got in with the driver. The cabbie asked him in accented English, Eh, where to, mate?

Torrens replied in flawless Vietnamese. The army barracks at Enoggera, please?

A delighted grin lit the man’s face as he replied in English. Sure, mate. You in the war?

Before my time, eh. I spent some time in your part of the world, with the Australian embassy.

The driver had a puzzled look on his big jawed face. In starting off he’d just cut off the driver of a large Nissan Patrol who proceeded to blast him on the horn. He ignored the noise and looked over at Torrens and asked, What was the military police doing in a diplomatic mission?

Torrens’s estimation of his driver rose. I wasn’t in the MPs back then. Changing the subject, asked, Why don’t you speak in your own language?

No, was the firm reply. I only speak Vietnamese at home, not at work. Best to be Aussie?

Yeah, Torrens agreed. How long you been here?

Nineteen years. My kids, they speak English perfectly. But not too bad, I was a late starter. Great place. His face hardened. "Was great place till that bastard started killing people, now people afraid to go out at night. Like Vietnam at the end of the war."

Mike didn’t say anything. He’d never experienced Vietnam in wartime but from all he’d read it was bad. They drove on in a slightly less comfortable silence, then he noticed the ID which was attached to the centre of the dashboard. The photo had been taken a few years earlier and John Nguyen sported a severe military style haircut. He had a look about him, the lack of a smile adding something to the photo that wasn’t immediately evident in the smiling, congenial face of the driver next to Torrens.

On a whim Torrens asked, What did you do in Vietnam, John?

Nguyen glanced across and his face suddenly looked more like the hard younger man in the photo. He looked back at the road. Nguyen drove on in silence. Torrens didn’t press, he knew the man was thinking about what to say.

Finally, John Nguyen cleared his throat as they pulled to a stop at a red light. I worked for American Intelligence in the war. I got left behind when they left. He looked back at the road. Wasn’t very nice, those years after the war. I did what I had to, to stay alive. Not pretty. People got hurt. Some people, who trusted me, got hurt. I had some money and I packed up my family and we left on one of the boats. That was after things got real bad. If we stayed there I would be dead now and probably my family too.

Torrens felt sorry he’d asked the question, but Nguyen’s story was the ongoing saga of Asia. Torrens had lived in many of the hot spots in recent years, outwardly attached to diplomatic missions but quietly working as an undercover agent. His most recent postings had been to Dili in East Timor and to Jakarta and he often found it difficult to see a future for the ordinary people caught up in the strife that had its multiple origins in overpopulation, racism, corruption and institutional poverty.

Torrens had witnessed the horror of the Kuta Beach bombings from the perspective of the Balinese. While he carried the rage at seeing young Australians cut down in the flush of youth, he also felt the shame of the Indonesians for the part their own countrymen played in the senseless slaughter.

The barracks gates were ahead, and Nguyen waved a hand. Where do you want to go, mate?

Go in the main gate and we’ll find out where the base commander is at, Torrens instructed.

The taxi pulled into the entry and was stopped by a closed boom gate. Two ADF guards were on duty, both armed with pistols in belt holsters and Torrens could see a pair of Steyr Automatic Rifles handy inside the booth. Before Bali, security on open display would have been discouraged, now a kind of paranoia was the order of the day.

Torrens wound down the window and asked directions to the Commander’s office. You’re not going to be able to take the cab inside the compound, mate, the young sergeant said. You don’t get in without a bomb check. It’ll take you longer to drive than it will to walk.

I’ll get my gear then Torrens said, getting out. How much do I owe you? he asked the cabbie.

$24.50 will do, said John Nguyen.

Torrens passed over $25 at the same time noticing the heavy calluses and scar tissue on the sides of Nguyen’s hands and knuckles. He said, Keep the change. You into martial arts?

Yeah, Peter Moon’s gym in the Valley. Come by.

Love to, but I won’t be here that long. Thanks anyway.

Nguyen reversed out into the street and headed back to town, giving a little blip on the horn as he took off. Torrens turned back to the duty sergeant.

I’ve got an appointment with Colonel Mitchell.

Yeah, he’s expecting you. I’ll walk you down, but first I’ll need some ID.

Torrens pulled out his wallet and extracted his ID card. It showed him wearing a military dress uniform, with the name of Tim Robinson, Staff Sergeant and gave his date of birth the 4th of January, 1957. The date was the only thing genuine about the card. However, the ID would stand up to anything short of a major investigation. It was just one more in a string of covers he’d used since 1994. In that time he’d gone under almost as many bogus names as he had postings. He used his real name so infrequently now it was a pale alternative, rarely realised.

The sergeant handed back the card and then put out his hand and said, Welcome aboard, Tim. I’m John Eccles.

Torrens shook the hand firmly and said, Nice to meet you, John.

Here, let me take one of those bags, Eccles offered as he picked up the suit bag and started through the security gate. As they made their way past the sentry box he said to the corporal inside, You hold down the fort here, Jacko. I’ll be back in ten minutes.

Righto, could you grab me a coffee when you come past the canteen please, Sarge? asked the corporal.

Yeah, no problem.

As they walked down the road to the main offices, Eccles asked, Where are you from, Tim? I haven’t seen you here before.

Torrens had been at Enoggera before as a trainee, but wasn’t about to mention it. I’m based at Holsworthy at the moment, only just been sent there.

Shit, that’s where I had my first posting. I grew up on the North Shore so it wasn’t far from home. Hey is Jago still there?

Yep, Lieutenant Colonel now. Torrens had in fact met with Ross Jago and Torrens’s ASIS controller a day earlier to determine the best course of action for the trip to Brisbane. The meeting was not something they’d wanted to advertise and had been civilian and very low key in a room at the Hyatt in Sydney.

I heard that half the barracks got burnt at the start of the year.

Yeah, not as much damage as people think. Mainly the pistol ranges. No one hurt anyway, Torrens replied.

I hope you don’t mind me saying, but aren’t you a bit old to be a sergeant in the MP’s? asked Eccles.

Late recruit, Torrens said dryly, silently cursing the lack of planning that had gone in to the mission. The cover had to fit the story and neither was particularly good. But Torrens knew the job could be over within a few hours. He hoped to be on a plane back to Sydney within the day, but he realistically conceded a successful conclusion was likely to be some days off.

The only thing distinguishing the administration office from the rest of the pale green demountables along the stretch of bitumen road were the three white flagpoles set in concrete at the main door. The central one carried the Australian flag, the other flags he recognised as the Queensland flag and the 1st Joint Regiment colours.

I’ll leave you here, said Eccles. Kelly, the receptionist, she’ll send you the right way. He headed off across the road towards a building Torrens assumed was the canteen.

The receptionist was young and darkly attractive, probably in her late twenties or early thirties, and dressed in neat civvies. Can I help you, Sergeant? she asked as he pushed through the swinging doors. It was cool and crisp inside the building.

Tim Robinson, he replied by way of introduction. I have an appointment to see Colonel Mitchell.

You’re expected, Sergeant. He’ll be a little while but you can wait in his office.   Can I get you a coffee?

Great, thanks. I’ll have a black with one sugar.

Go on in and I’ll bring it in to you. His office is the first on your left down the corridor, she said pointing to the corridor to Torrens’s right. You can leave your luggage out here if you like. I’ll keep an eye on it.

Torrens took his newspaper and moved off down the corridor, the sound of his boots on the linoleum floor echoing off the bare walls. A black and white nameplate with the name Colonel Dennis Mitchell confirmed that he’d found the right room. Opening the door he was drawn to a view of the mown parade ground visible through wide plate-glass windows. The parade ground was a large area surrounded by barracks buildings on three sides, but dominated by two huge spreading Moreton bay figs whose long, leafy branches overhung the parade area in places. In the distance he could see vehicles moving about with groups of soldiers in fatigues loading the trucks.

He was lost in memories of earlier days when the door opened behind him and he turned to see the receptionist come in with a coffee mug in her hand, she held a biscuit pack in her other hand. Thought you might like something to eat as well. He gave her a smile as he took the cup. Her pale blue eyes lit up with interest as she smiled back and backed out through the door closing it. Torrens felt the unfamiliar rush of excitement leaving him as the image of her face faded from his mind.

Nice girl, he said softly to himself as he sat and opened the paper to the serial killer story. He sipped on the coffee.

The killer was indiscriminate. His victims ranged from prostitutes to schoolgirls and businessmen to homeless alcoholics, the only commonality was the extreme brutality of the murders and the fact that all were killed under the cover of darkness in the City or in Fortitude Valley. All had suffered multiple knife wounds, none of them likely to be fatal on their own but in total enough to kill. It appeared as if the killer was engaging in an excruciating torture that ultimately resulted in the death of the victim.

None had been robbed. The killer was in it for the thrill alone making the chance of further murders highly likely.

A most unusual aspect of the murders was that all had occurred in highly populated areas, yet there were no witnesses. No one had even reported screams, which seemed implausible given the slow and prolonged nature of the deaths.

Someone in the media had nick-named the killer, Slick the Slasher, no doubt a comment on the murderer’s capacity to remain unnoticed combined with his gruesome facility with the blade. To date the known tally was eleven; all killed over a three month period. There were three in one night in October, followed by another a week later. But there were periods of up to a fortnight without a killing. The investigation was going nowhere; the police had nothing and the killer was leaving no clues.

Another story caught Torrens’ eye further down the page, it was brief and to the point. The heading read, ‘High-Grade Overdoses Worry Police.’ The story, in a few paragraphs, detailed fears that a new shipment of high-grade heroin was on the streets and listed a number of deaths and hospitalisations due to overdoses. The number of incidents wasn’t high but there were ‘grave concerns’ that emergency services were only dealing with the tip of an iceberg.

Torrens had finished the article when the door opened. The man who stepped in and quietly closed the door behind him was dressed in camouflage fatigues, the Colonel’s insignia sewn on his shoulder. The name tag on his pocket simply proclaimed the name, Mitchell.

Torrens stood and offered his hand and said, Tim Robinson, sir.

Dennis Mitchell shook his hand firmly and gave Torrens a doubting look, We’ll work with that for now. Jago’s man, huh?

Mitchell was not a large man, but he gave the impression he would be dangerous to get on the wrong side of. He was in his early fifties, obviously very fit and a man in control. Piercing blue eyes offset the gingery hair that would have once been fire red. His face showed the laughter lines of easy friendship, but at present he was far from there. Ross Jago would have told Colonel Mitchell nothing about the reasons for Torrens’ trip.

Why don’t we sit down? What can I do for you, Tim? the question was blunt and to the point.

When they had taken their seats at opposite sides of the desk, Torrens said, I have a request that might help us with one of our investigations. It relates to one of your men who was transferred from Holsworthy last year. We have reason to believe he might be involved in something illegal here in Brisbane.

What sort of something illegal we talking about?

Torrens turned the newspaper around and held a finger on the story of the heroin overdoses.

How does that involve one of my men? the Colonel asked after quickly reading the article.

Well, that’s the embarrassing part...

Dennis Mitchell snorted derisively. Embarrassing huh? From my experience you guys don’t get embarrassed. Spit it out, Sergeant Robinson.

Torrens started again. The department I represent uses a number of avenues to gain advantage with certain people we wish to influence. I’m not talking Australia. These are countries where drugs are regarded as an untraceable form of currency. The drugs in question here, I believe, were one of our minor assets which was held at Holsworthy until last April. We believe that Corporal Wilson Tate transferred to Enoggera at that time and helped himself to the heroin before he left. And we believe he’s now flogging it.

Colonel Mitchell’s face had started to redden with anger. Helped himself to it! For Christ’s sake, where did you have the stuff? It sounds like you’re running a very sloppy operation, Mister Robinson. There wasn’t much use in pointing out to the Colonel that it wasn’t Torrens’ operation.

The Colonel continued, What makes you think the heroin is yours and why haven’t you acted on this before?

It happened during the bushfires. Tate took his chance, a pretty good one as it turns out. An inventory of damage took months to complete. And of course we didn’t know who’d taken it and we had to wait for it to appear on the streets before we could act.

What makes you think its Corporal Tate?

We don’t necessarily, but he had access to the storage areas which puts him in the frame and he was a known doper.

That’s pretty thin evidence. The Colonel was unconvinced. In fact the link was extremely weak, but they needed to follow every lead.

How much dope we talking here, Mr Robinson?

Ah, yeah, Torrens looked down at the floor, then back at the Colonel. The street value, somewhere in the vicinity of twenty-six million dollars.

Say that again, Mister? Mitchell’s face showed his disbelief.

It is a very high grade narcotic. It doesn’t take up much room and would have been easily transported in luggage. The big issue is the strength of the drug. The addicts are overdosing because they don’t know the strength of the hits and there will be more deaths if we don’t find this man and stop him. I’m confident that Tate has no idea of how potent the stuff is. He’s probably hoping to sell it for a couple of million, probably hasn’t any idea of its true value. If an experienced dealer was to cut it, it would fetch the higher street value. At the moment its seriously bad poison.

So, your role is to take this man back with you, is it?

If possible.

And the drugs?

The drugs too. I have transfer papers to Holdsworthy that can be effected immediately if Tate proves to be the culprit. He didn’t tell the Colonel he’d been told to burn the dope when he was sure the stash had been located.

Mitchell stood up. Well, we’d better find out if he’s the man then. The sooner you’re out of my office the better, Mr Robinson.

He pressed the buzzer on the intercom. Kelly, would you come in for a moment, please?

The silence was uncomfortable as they waited for the receptionist to come in. When she knocked and opened the door the Colonel said, Would you check if a Corporal Wilson Tate is on the base please, Kelly?

Yes, sir, straight away. She went back out.

This won’t take long, Mr Robinson, and then you can be on your way. The Colonel’s agitation was palpable.

Look, I’m sorry this has been dumped on you. I can tell you I’m just as unhappy about this as you are.

Oh, I doubt that, Mr Robinson. Mitchell’s receptionist returning interrupted him.

Sir, Corporal Tate is on three weeks leave.

Have you checked his contact details?

I tried the telephone number, it’s a disconnected number. The only other detail is an address in Paddington, sir.

Thank you, would you call the gate and have Sergeant Eccles come down please. And organise someone else to man the box.

Yes, sir. She left the office again.

The Colonel turned back to Torrens and said, I am going to ask Sergeant Eccles to accompany you to this address in Paddington. I want you to be discreet as you don’t know if this man is guilty of anything yet. I want you to call me when you know anything.

Thank you, Colonel. I know we haven’t gotten off to a very good start, but if it’s any consolation I don’t agree with the use of drugs in collateral dealings. I’ve never gone down that track and don’t intend to. He didn’t add that he’d never been in a position of needing to bargain with drugs before either.

Colonel Mitchell was a little more sympathetic and said, Yeah, I can see that you might be the meat in the sandwich, but I always say that if you sleep with dogs you can expect to get bitten. Speaking of sleeping, have you made arrangements for accommodation tonight?

No I haven’t, Colonel. I thought I’d play it by ear.

Well there are single quarters here at the barracks you can use if you like. You’ll have to make your own bed though, but I have a feeling army barracks and you are not strangers.

Yes, sir. I spent fifteen years in the regular army and Special Forces. In fact I was based here for two years. You won’t find my records. Part of the territory that comes with my job I’m afraid. I would be happy to accept a bed here. I was hoping to be in and out before I disturbed you people, but I can see this could take longer.

As you go out ask Kelly to show you the quarters, at least you can leave your gear. Eccles will be along.

Thanks, Colonel, I’ll get your phone number as I go.

Yes, by all means.

Torrens went back to the front desk and informed the receptionist that he would be staying and asked if she could show him the quarters. As they walked to a building not far from the main gate he asked her, Have you been working here long?

She replied, I’ve been doing this job for the last five years, but I’ve been involved with the army for a lot longer than that.

Oh, how?

My dad’s in the army and I’ve been following him around army barracks for as long as I can remember.

Interesting life, eh?

It gets in your blood, but it’s all I know. When the job came up I jumped at it. The background helped.

Eccles met them at the quarters and Torrens was given enough time to drop his bags in the room and go again. Kelly offered to open the windows and let some air in. She watched him get into the car with Eccles, a half smile on her lips. She thought how he seemed so wrong in the uniform.

Chapter 2

ECCLES WAS DRIVING an army-green Toyota Camry station wagon. It would be a dead giveaway but Torrens decided not to comment on the vehicle, he doubted if Tate would be at the house anyway. He was starting to consider the likelihood that he’d be in Brisbane for more than just a couple of days.

They drove through the main gate after the corporal opened the boom gate for them. As they headed back towards the city Eccles spoke, glancing across at Torrens who sat, silent in thought. I see you met the Colonel’s daughter. Not bad eh?

Oh, Christ. Mitchell’s girl is she?

Well, she may be his daughter, but she’s her own person, if you know what I mean. She does what she wants regardless of what daddy says, in her private time anyway. Oh, by the way, she’s taken. She goes out with a mate of mine; Ellis Lundy. He’s on camp with most of the base at the moment. We’ve got a big exercise up at Tin Can Bay this week. They left this morning.

Mate, I wasn’t planning on racing her off, Torrens replied.

They were coming into Red Hill and Eccles turned off Waterworks Road and headed into Paddington along narrow winding streets lined with federation cottages and the occasional older terraces. A fortune in trendy money had been spent in Paddington in the previous twenty years and the place was a real estate agents dream. Being close to the city, Paddington appealed to the professional singles and childless couples. They were small low maintenance blocks. Not the sorts of places for families looking for a bit of space with a nice garden and reasonable prices, but ideal for the time poor professional with a high disposable income.

The hulking brick walls of the Castlemaine Perkins brewery loomed on the left and the houses suddenly became older, more run down, still waiting for the café set to move a little further from the city.

Eccles stopped the car at a weatherboard Queenslander on high stumps. The peeling paint had seen better days and was coloured with dark mildew in the more shaded areas. Old trees in need of pruning filled the yard space in rampant, moisture scavenging profusion. Three old Japanese cars were parked under the house rusting to death.

Torrens walked carefully up the sagging front stairs and knocked on the veranda door. He could hear high-pitched voices toward the back of the house, so he knew there were people at home. The old lattice door was suddenly jerked open and a peculiar head of spiky orange hair was thrust through the gap. He was a weird, skinny looking runt of a kid with a freckled red face partly obscured by a pair of coke bottle glasses.

He looked at Torrens and then turned back into the house. Hey you guys, we’re getting invaded. The army’s here.

Someone inside yelled, deep and overloud. Bullshit, Mono, what would you know. Followed by a peal of almost hysterical female laughter.

Mono turned back to Torrens and asked with a smile, How can I help you, man? Those crapheads are so stoned.

Torrens said, We’re looking for a Wilson Tate. He lives at this address.

What the fucks a wilsonate? he slurred.

Torrens drew a deep breath. His name is Wilson Tate, Corporal Wilson Tate. Does he live here?

No, mate. No one here by that name. Mono pushed the door shut but not before Torrens jammed his foot in the gap. The old lattice creaked ominously.

Do you mind if I come in and ask the others?

Mono looked down at the polished boot in the gap and then slowly eased the door back and opened it for Torrens. Sure, why not. Come on in. Do you smoke, man? Weed I mean.

No, not for twenty years anyway, Torrens said as he stepped inside. Mono was dressed in blue bib overalls without a shirt, showing off an untidy scraggle of ginger chest hair and freckles. He was barefoot. He led Torrens into the house; the inside as untidy as the outside. Textbooks lay scattered across the veranda, he noticed many with Queensland University Library labels, some lying open and upside down others piled in untidy stacks on the floor.

The room Mono led him to was a little box of a thing at the centre of the house and Torrens couldn’t think what it might once have been used for. There were three other kids of about eighteen or nineteen sitting around a bong made out of a large plastic coke bottle and the room was full of smoke. The kids were as high as they were ever going to get on pot. It was a wonder Mono had even been capable of hearing the knock on the door.

Torrens began to feel light headed within a few seconds; the grass they were smoking was potent. The little cubbyhole was hot and the two girls were stripped down to bras and panties, and they were totally thrashed. The big lad dressed in black board shorts lying back with what looked like a hot stubby of Fourex in his hand wasn’t Wilson Tate. He was trying hard to see Torrens through eyelids of lead.

Who ya looking for, mate? He slurred in a rumbling voice.

I’m looking for an army corporal by the name of Wilson Tate, Torrens said slowly and carefully. Do you know him? He’s listed as living at this address.

No, mate, no one here by that name, we only moved in a month ago and there wasn’t no one here then, no one but us now, just us, were having a good time, aren’t we girls? He slurred all the words into one sentence with a gormless smile at the end directed at the girls.

Torrens realised that his original take on the situation was correct. Tate was on the loose, and unlikely to be coming back. If he’d ever been there. It looked like he was going to have to do the job the hard way.

He thanked the kids for their time and Mono took him back to the door. Mono was very sympathetic. Hey, guy, sorry we couldn’t help you. Is this dude in big trouble or something?

Let’s just say we’d like to see him soon. If he comes around could you give me a call please? He gave Mono one of his generic business cards that only had his name and a mobile phone number. Mono peered at it for a second and then slipped it into the back pocket of his overalls. It was very unlikely that Tate would come near the place and equally unlikely that Mono would find the card again if he did. The investigation had hit a wall.

When Torrens got back into the car he said nothing for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. Eccles sniffed the air and looked at him strangely.

Dead end, mate, Torrens said. He’s never been here and I don’t think he ever will be. I’ll have to talk to the Colonel. What would be the best place to look for a heroin pusher in town?

Bloody hell, why do you want heroin?

I don’t. I want to catch a pusher.

Oh, Eccles said slowly, the light starting to dawn. I don’t know anything about that. You’d have to try the dives in the city or go into the Valley. There are plenty of junkies about but you’d have to catch them scoring a hit to track a pusher. This guy Tate’s dealing?

We think so. It’s looking more likely seeing as he’s given a false number and address. I better get on to the Colonel. Nothing we can do here. Take me back to the base and I’ll work out where we go from there.

Chapter 3

DENNIS MITCHELL HADN’T cooled down since Torrens had last seen him. He paced up and down his office while Torrens sat in one of the chairs thinking out his next move. The only consolation was that Mitchell seemed less angry at Mike, his mind focused on concluding the sorry episode quickly.

I’m going to have to track Tate down, Torrens said. And it’ll mean hitting the nightclubs. I want some information on the overdoses first though. The police and hospital records might put us on to the street pushers.

I get the feeling you don’t want the police involved in this? the Colonel noted with a question is his voice.

I’d like to bypass them, Torrens said quietly.

I don’t want to know about it, Mr Robinson.

I’d like to keep you well away from any fallout, sir.

By the same token I want one of my men to accompany you. After all Corporal Tate is one of ours, Mitchell responded quickly.

It wasn’t something Torrens was happy about but he’d been anticipating it. Colonel, I’ll be undercover and anyone obviously army will blow that cover.

The Colonel was persistent. I insist. Let me think about it. We do have some unconventional people at our disposal here. My person could even be a help to you. You will need some assistance if things get tough.

Colonel, I give in, against my better judgement. I generally work alone, but this situation isn’t something I normally have to deal with. I don’t think I’ll learn much today so we’ll do this tomorrow evening. In the meantime if I could have the use of a secure land line I’ll do a little searching.



Torrens rang a Brisbane number and was greeted by a male voice which, in spite of being very convincing, Mike knew was a computer simulation. In perfectly modulated tones it said, Hello Enoggera Army Barracks main office, how may I help you?

Torrens said, Mike here, Ossie. Pick it up.

There was a second’s silence then a quiet male voice came on the line.

Hey, fella, what’s up? Haven’t heard your voice for a while.

I’ve got a job for you, if you’re interested.

Always interested for the right cash, bro.

You tell me what it’s worth and I’ll fix it up.

Ossie said, I knew you’d say that. If nothing else you’re predictable.

I hope not. Torrens was deadly serious although he had said it with a chuckle in his voice. His operational value depended on him being one step ahead of the game. If he ever became readable he would give up the job. In Torrens’ mind Ossie was outside his normal field of operations and therefore not of concern. But there was something about this particular job that worried him. He was tempted to let the police sort it out, but he’d only just arrived in Brisbane that morning and didn’t want to go back empty handed so soon.

What do you want, Mike?

The drug overdoses. I want the police and hospital reports for the last week. Anything that mentions high grade or heroin overdose. Think you can do that?

No problemo. Won’t cost you much, say $1500.

Send it to Sergeant Tim Robinson? Torrens gave him the fax number for the office.

Oh, yeah. Great name. Did you think it up yourself? Ossie said sarcastically.

Thanks, Ossie. I work with idiots.

Ossie was neurotic but he was one of the best hackers in the game. He avoided emails like the plague as he knew how easily computer security could be circumvented, especially away from his secure multiple firewalls.

Torrens was hungry, with lunch overdue. He told Ossie he’d be in contact and would see the money was transferred into his account as soon as possible. He decided he would stay on the base that night but would move into a hotel in the city the next night. He’d be closer to any action that way.

He went out past reception and asked Kelly where he could get a good sandwich.

There’s a great little shop over the road. They do terrific meat pies.

By the time Torrens returned from his lunch there were already a number of reports for him to look at. He’d enjoyed a delicious meal of tempura battered whiting and salad and one of the best cappuccinos he could remember. A short stroll through the small park at the back of the cafe had helped his meal to settle.

The first report he read was a police statement from one of the survivors of nearly a week ago. It was scant on detail but indicated the drugs had been purchased on the street from somewhere in the Brunswick Street Mall. The second report was of the same addict and was a detailed hospital report that told of life support before the patient was stabilised and eventually released only yesterday. There was a name and address, which Torrens thought might be worth following up if the other reports proved fruitless.

The next three police interviews of surviving overdose patients had little in common. The first was from a female prostitute working the Spring Hill area. She’d been using drugs purchased from a friend months earlier and was unlikely to be part of the missing haul. The second was of a male TAFE college student who would not reveal the source of his supply. It was the opinion of the interviewing officer that the student was suffering from extreme depression resulting from a love affair gone wrong. The overdose appeared to be deliberate and was also unlikely to be of use in the investigation.

The third was more promising and dated from three days earlier. The victim in question had died but had been semi-conscious in the emergency response unit and shouted loudly about someone called Blackie and someone called Sally Sal.

Torrens read the reports in the reception office. They were coming through the fax machine at easy reading pace which indicated that Ossie was probably also reading them before he sent them through. Torrens sensed he was being watched and he looked up. Kelly gave him a smile and looked back at the paperwork she was pretending to do on the desk. She’d been keeping a good eye on him since he had come into her office with the fax machine.

The next string of faxes was from the hospital ER and critical care wards. They didn’t add much. What they did do however was bring home to him the scale of the problem. An early analysis of the opiate indicated an incredibly refined product. There was no doubt in Torrens’s mind that it was the drug which had come from Holsworthy.

A block of police reports filled him in on the deaths. Most had occurred in Fortitude Valley and a handful in the City. It was looking like the Valley was the place to go if he could only get a lead on where to start. The next report was from a male addict who spoke of his friend, Happy Popanov, who had been with him when he had made the score somewhere in the Valley. He also spoke of somebody called Sal Doberman who had told him where to find the dealer. Torrens wondered if Sal Doberman and Sally Sal were related.

He looked over at Kelly and asked, Kelly, have you ever heard of someone called Sally Sal.

She laughed. No. That’s not a person, Sergeant. Sally Sal’s or Salacious Sal’s. It’s a nightclub in the Valley. It’s supposed to be very dirty.

He looked at her inquiringly. She elaborated, You know table dancing, sex shows. Not very classy. Some of the guys from base used to go there but because of the fights it’s now off limits. It makes the papers every month. The police have threatened to shut it down plenty of times. The rumour is there’s someone in the courts who’s blocking any applications and the doors stay open.

Thanks, Kelly, Torrens said thoughtfully turning back to the fax machine. He knew if he started his investigation tonight he could get the jump on the Colonel who thought he’d be starting the next day. It might get him in hot water but with a bit of luck he’d have his man before the Colonel got wind of it.

The faxes had stopped. It was getting late. Kelly was closing up so he said goodbye to her and was heading for the front door when she asked, What are you doing tonight?

She’d caught him off guard. He’d been thinking of how he was going to get to the Valley later. He said, I think I’ll just have an early dinner and hit the sack. It’s been a big day.

She asked, Would you like to know a good restaurant?

Not really thanks, Kelly. I’ll just get a feed at the canteen. I imagine it’ll be open.

What if I take you out to dinner? she said slowly.

Torrens drank in that smile again with interest. She was coming on to him, which was a different kettle of fish entirely. He didn’t want complications but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings either, so he reluctantly agreed. Then immediately regretted the impulsive decision.

I’ve got to be back in bed nice and early, he said quickly.

I think we can manage that, she said. Torrens was suddenly worried at hidden implications. While he wasn’t against some bedroom fun, sex with Colonel Mitchell’s daughter had definite dangers. It would also stuff up his plans for the visit to Salacious Sal’s.

What time will I pick you up? Kelly asked.

6:30 suits me, how about you?

Fine by me, see you then. She closed and locked the door behind him and he watched her walking back through the building. Torrens went across to the quarters deep in thought. He hadn’t expected female complications when he’d agreed to come to Brisbane. But, hell, it mightn’t be bad either. He hadn’t been laid for so long he reckoned his sperm could have grown legs by now. It might be just the diversion he needed.

Chapter 4

KELLY TURNED UP IN a new convertible MG with the roof down. She wore a slinky black dress without a bra. She was sexy and she knew it. Torrens had dressed in the only set of civilian clothes he had bought with him, dark coloured trousers, pale yellow business shirt and a lightweight navy sports coat.

The car was a manual shift in British Racing Green and she knew how to drive it. As soon as his bum hit the seat she dropped the clutch and they shot off with a squeak of rubber. She didn’t go through the boom gates but instead took a sharp left and roared through the base, down a street that took them to an unmanned gate she had an electronic remote control for.

Without waiting for a break in traffic, Kelly shot them across Samford Road into a minuscule gap between a truck and a Mazda station wagon. Torrens registered the startled look on the face of the elderly man in the Mazda as they squeezed past him.

Christ, Kelly, you don’t muck about.

Oh, I thought you wanted to get back early for your beauty sleep, she said innocently. I’m just saving us time.

Time is not important if you’re dead.

Sergeant, I promise not to kill you tonight, she purred with a look of pure intent.

The name’s Tim.

OK, Tim. I’m just taking the piss. Well here we are.

They had turned in at a little BYO restaurant only a few blocks from the base.

We could have walked, Torrens said.

You’ll need your energy for later, Kelly smiled suggestively at him causing his heart to falter.

While Torrens considered himself a fair hand with the ladies, Kelly’s approach was worrying. In the last few years since his divorce he hadn’t been interested in deep and serious affairs of the heart. His job didn’t allow long relationships to develop and he’d found it necessary to reject the advances of a few women simply because the risk to his cover was too great.

After putting the top up on the car Kelly led him over to a little bottle shop next to the restaurant.

What sort of wine do you like? You do drink? she asked.

Yeah, red or white, makes no difference to me. What are we having it with?

Point taken. Why don’t we order and then we can get a wine to suit? Maybe some beer first?

They bought a six pack of Castlemaine Sovereign and went into the restaurant. It was still early and they were the only patrons. Torrens gave the beer to the waiter who handed them a menu and seated them at a table looking out the back of the restaurant.

An entire wall had been removed and they were sitting on a landing built over a small gully at the back of the building. The place was decorated in an outback theme, with the tables and chairs made of rustic timber and the walls hung with what at first appeared to be the gleanings of a rubbish tip. Realisation dawned and Torrens recognised the rusting handpieces and bits of gear that had come from old shearing sheds.

Torrens was especially interested in a pack of old bale stencils hanging near their table that looked vaguely familiar. On closer scrutiny he realised they belonged to a property which was close to his home property at Orange. His parents, long dead now, were a part of a life he rarely thought of these days.

Penny for your thoughts, Kelly asked, blue eyes wide and questioning.

These stencils. Stockton wasn’t far from where I grew up in New South Wales. We had a merino stud in those days. Very successful too but I suppose everyone was doing well out of sheep in the fifties. You know the old pound for a pound days

No, I don’t, Kelly said mystified. You’re not that old are you?

No, I was born in the late fifties. I suppose mum and dad had pretty much made their fortunes from wool by then. It was all downhill after that.

What was the pound for a pound?

That was the price wool was making in its heyday. There were farmers around us who bought Rolls Royces with their 1956 wool cheques. I suppose some of them are still out there, rotting in sheds.

Let’s look at the menu, I’m starving, Kelly said, apparently not interested in the history lesson.

The menu featured some very imaginative dishes that owed nothing to Australian shearing shed cuisine. They both decided to try the Algerian roasted goat, a dish that promised succulent medallions of young Nubian basted in a gravy made from basil, tomato, red wine and cream, all served with a side plate of roasted and boiled vegetables. Mike went next door and bought back a bottle of Henske’s Cabenet Shiraz ‘98.

Later, they were each enjoying a bottle of the Sovereign beer when Mike asked, So you’ve followed your Dad around all your life. What about your mum, is she here too?

Mum died a few years back, she replied quietly. When we were stationed on Bougainville she caught malaria, and died. I don’t know why she got it; she was taking the tablets. I guess she was just unlucky. Dad took it really hard. I suppose that’s one of the reasons he’s back here in Brisbane. They didn’t give him another overseas posting after that.

I’m sorry. Mike didn’t know what else to say.

Don’t be, you didn’t know her. What about you, how long have you been with the spooks. Obviously her father had filled her in.

Long enough I suppose. Ten years. Mike didn’t elaborate hoping Kelly would drop it. 

So who do you actually work for?

I doubt if it would mean much if I told you, Kelly.

In other words you’re not going to tell me?

I work for a department called ASIS.

Never heard of it, she said. What’s ASIS?

ASIS stands for Australian Secret Intelligence Service and we do similar things to ASIO but our brief is to gather intelligence in foreign countries that might be of significance to Australia’s security.

Sounds like it could be dangerous.

Not really, provided you don’t do the wrong thing. We do everything very softly softly, keep our heads down at all times and keep our ears and eyes open. If we’re compromised we’re pulled out. Most of our operatives are nationals or expats of whatever country we operate in. I’m probably the odd man out and get sent in because I speak the languages well.

Oh, you speak other languages. What are they? Kelly asked curiously.

I’m fluent in Indonesian, Vietnamese, Cantonese, Mandarin and Japanese, and I can hold my own in a number of regional dialects in Indonesia and Japan. I have a working knowledge of a few other languages such as Korean, Pakistani and Indian, but couldn’t pass as a native there.

Kelly was impressed. I’ve always wanted to speak another language. I tried a couple of different ones at school but never seemed to get past the basic hellos and good mornings. How did you learn?

"Well, as a kid I grew up with a Japanese Australian friend. His father spent a lot of time and effort teaching him the language of his homeland. I just happened to visit regularly and sat in on his lessons. He taught me a lot of other things about life as well. I suppose it’s ironic that I speak Japanese better than Mori. I picked up Mandarin about the same time. Learnt the basics from an old bloke dad hired to cook and do odd jobs around the sheds.

"When I went to University I studied humanities. But by far the best teacher of language is in getting thrown into culture. There are so many gaps that universities can never teach. You know, things like how to swear fluently, local lingo, the little things that set foreigners apart from the locals. Whenever I visit another country my job is to integrate. My biggest problem has been my western appearance, but there are plenty of westerners around Asia now. At times being Caucasian can be an advantage because many Asian’s underestimate us.

What about you? What sort of things do you do when you’re not working for Colonel Mitchell?

You do know he’s my dad, don’t you?

I was told. I was also told you had a boyfriend.

He saw the irritation momentarily cross her face. Yes, I go out with one of the guys on the base. He thinks it’s serious but I have other thoughts.

The waiter arriving with their meal interrupted them until the wine was opened and they started to eat.

Hey, this is great, Torrens said after a few mouthfuls.

Yeah, not bad for goat, Kelly said around a mouthful of food. The wine’s good too.

You know goat is the most eaten meat in the world, Torrens said.

A quite useless bit of information, I’m sure, she replied.

They ate in silence for a while, occasionally exchanging small talk. They had both nearly finished when Kelly asked, You married, Tim?

Torrens didn’t answer for a while then said, I was, but we got divorced.

I’m sorry. Any kids?

Yeah, a boy and a girl. Hard on them but we still see each other.

Why did you split up? The job? Kelly probed.

Yes, I suppose so. Monica stuck it out for a couple of years but I was spending a lot of time overseas and we just sort of drifted. She started seeing a friend that I served in the Army with and things fell apart from there.

Did that upset you?

At the time, but it was less a drama for me and Monica than it was for the kids. Rob was fourteen and Sarah was twelve when we parted company. They took it badly. You know, kids expect parents to stay together forever. These days though I think the traditional family is a thing of the past. What about you, Kelly? Have you ever thought of having a family?

One day. But I’m having too much fun to do it yet.

Don’t leave it too late. It’s best to have kids young.

I’ll think about it, Dad. Kelly said in irritation.

I’m not much older than you.

Well you sound like you are, Kelly answered. You should be up on a soapbox.

Torrens laughed. Do you want any dessert?

No, we better get you back to base for your beauty sleep.

I guess so. Torrens was happy to go even though it was only 8:30. He wanted to rest before he went nightclubbing.

Mike let Kelly pay for the meal and waited at the car for her. The weather had closed in again and was starting to drizzle. Kelly left the top up and windscreen wipers on as she wheeled the little car into the evening traffic. She hardly paused when they got to the base, roaring through the opening security gate, though Torrens did notice she kept a close watch on the rear-vision mirror to check that the gate closed without admitting any other visitors.

She pulled up in front of the quarters and let the motor die.

You gonna invite a girl in for coffee? she asked.

I don’t know if I’ve got any coffee to offer you.

Kelly wasn’t put off. I’ll find you some. Come on.

She opened the door and turned on the light. Torrens followed her in. She caught him by surprise when she turned and grabbed him before he’d even closed the door. She gave him a long hot kiss that lasted just the right amount of time to get him very interested.

She broke away and said. Doesn’t look like you have any coffee after all.

She was definitely in the mood as she started undoing his shirt buttons. This was not the sort of rest he had in mind but he wasn’t about to stop her. Better not hurt her feelings, he thought stupidly.

He started to undo the buttons down the back of her dress but she pushed him away and peeled it off over her head. She was superbly fit but at the same time she exuded a soft sex appeal with full, tight nippled breasts that bounced invitingly. Mike slipped out of his shirt and hugged her to him as they kissed again.

It had been quite a while and he was excited. Kelly undid his belt buckle and pulled his pants down. She gazed into his eyes with a coy smile on her lips and said, Boy you’re raring to go, aren’t you.

Torrens kicked off his boots and the pants which threatened to trip him on the way to the bed. Kelly peeled off her undies as she followed him. He groaned as he saw a shaved pussy with just a narrow patch of pubic hair above the glistening vulva. The whole situation was quite surreal and things were happening too fast, not something Torrens was completely happy with. Kelly had been in control from the start.

She lay down and dragged him over her. She was hot and wet and he slid into her in a single movement. After a short while it was obvious he wasn’t giving her what she needed so she rolled him over and straddled him. She started grinding her pelvis into his groin, legs so wide he thought she’d end up dislocating a hip. Her breasts hung down over his face so he started sucking on one nipple and kneaded the other. That really got her going.

As she bucked up and down he could feel himself coming closer to an orgasm. He tried to hold back but she was becoming more and more frenzied sounding like a steam train huffing as she writhed and ground him into the bed. Kelly moaned out loud as he shot into her and she shuddered and matched his orgasm.

She lay on top of him for a while, breathing heavily. Torrens could feel her heart pounding hard against his chest. Finally she rolled off and started pushing down the bedclothes with her feet. She said, You didn’t do too bad for an old fellow, let’s see how you go in the morning, before crawling under the sheets and settling down.

Torrens was astounded. It had happened so quickly and while he wasn’t really concerned he was a little put out that Kelly could just use him and then crash in his bed. His plans would have to change. He slid in beside her and putting his arm across her, cuddled up behind her cupping one of her breasts in his hand. She felt great.

She mumbled, Go to sleep.

She sure goes off fast, Torrens thought.

It was only ten minutes later that Torrens was sure she was asleep. She was snoring softly. He eased out of the bed and collecting his clothes got dressed again. The light was still on at the side of the room and he was just about to turn it off and go out the door when Kelly opened her eyes.

Where are you off to, Timmy? she said sternly.

Oh, shit, he muttered under his breath as he turned back to her.

Chapter 5

DAD SAID YOU MIGHT try something like this, she said with a gleam in her eye. If you’re going anywhere I’m going with you.

No way, Kelly. This could be dangerous.

Do you remember agreeing with my dad that someone would accompany you on this investigation?

You? he accused, disbelief evident in his voice.

Yeah me, what’s wrong with that? she challenged.

Kelly slid out of the bed and gathered her stuff together. When she went into the bathroom Torrens almost considered walking out but he’d be on foot and she’d catch him in the MG. She was back remarkably quickly and fully dressed in the black outfit.

Come on, let’s go, she said. She grabbed his hand and led him out the door. When they left in the MG it was only 9:30 and Torrens thought it was probably as good a time as any to be starting on the seamier side of Brisbane.

As they headed out the gate and turned toward the city, Torrens asked her, What was that all about? Did you hop into bed with me just to keep an eye on me?

No, Tim. I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. I didn’t fancy sitting outside all night in the car in case you decided to go out, and I really did need a root.

You put it so nicely, Kelly.

Oh, didn’t you enjoy it? You should have said something, sweetie. She smiled