Overdue Item

By Peter Menadue

Julia Schmidt reckons the suburban library where she works is the most boring place on earth. When a hobo dies in an armchair, everyone thinks he died of natural causes. They are wrong and Julia is soon playing cat-and-mouse with a killer while trying to recover a priceless library book. An Australian comic crime novel with an endearing amateur sleuth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Menadue
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311544254

Peter Menadue

Peter Menadue grew up in Canberra, Australia. After a foray into journalism, during which he shared an elevator with Rupert Murdoch, he studied law at Sydney University and Oxford University. For the last 22 years, he has worked as a barrister at the Sydney Bar. He also writes courtroom novels under the pen name "Mark Dryden".

Book preview

234

OVERDUE ITEM

by

PETER MENADUE

Published by Peter Menadue at Smashwords

Copyright 2018 Peter Menadue

Peter Menadue is a former journalist who is now a barrister in Sydney, Australia. He also writes courtroom novels under the pen name Mark Dryden.

OTHER NOVELS BY PETER MENADUE

The Bush Capital series

Crooked House

Paper Man

Spiked

Big Dirt

Bad State

The Gary Maddox series

Not Dead Yet

Hard Landing

The Webster City series

Webster City

Freedom City

Miscellaneous novels

Overdue Item

Inside Out

Courtroom novels writing as Mark Dryden

Torn Silk

Murder Brief

False Witness

Cut-throat Defence

CHAPTER ONE

After the police and ambulance officers had removed the body of the vagrant from the library, Julia felt guilty it took her so long to discover he was dead.

The deceased was one of the hobos who regularly wandered into the Bradfield Public Library looking for somewhere warm to doze, particularly when it was raining. Buried in his fire-hazard beard were mad eyes, a pock-marked nose, sneering lips and mottled teeth. His body odour tickled the nostrils of anyone who came within six metres and buckled the knees of anyone who made it to three. It was like a force field. His age was somewhere between 40 and 80.

He usually sat in an armchair near the Children's Section. After glancing through a newspaper, he dozed off and snored lyrically for about an hour. Then he stared around peevishly, head nodding and eyes twitching, while muttering to himself. Anyone who slipped past his bodyguard of smells received a volley of incoherent insults. After one such incident, Julia switched to shallow breathing and approached him. She told him to desist. His head rolled and eyes boiled as he told her to ferk urff, which she did, rapidly.

She learned of his death while standing behind the borrowing counter, checking in some returned books.

A piping voice said: Excuse me, Miss.

She looked down at an Asian boy, about eight. His mother often dumped him in the library while she went shopping. Julia had told her, several times, that the library was not a child-care facility, only to be informed by the mother, each time, that she'd only popped out to put some money in a parking meter. The mother did not explain why she was carrying two heavy shopping bags.

Julia also suspected the little boy stole books, because she often saw him quietly reading a book which, after he left, had disappeared. She'd tried to catch him, but he was much too cunning.

The boy now stared up at her with a grave expression. Maybe he needed to go to the toilet. She leaned forward. Yes, what's the problem?

The boy pointed towards the Children's Section. The man in the chair ...

Which man?

The smelly man.

There were several outstanding candidates. What about him?

He's dead, the child said blandly.

The kid was obviously confused. No, he's not, he's probably asleep.

The boy shook his head. He's dead - I saw it.

Julia sighed. She'd better reassured the boy that the smelly gent was, in fact, having a snooze. Then, when his mother returned, she'd bollock her for letting her son wander around claiming people were dead. OK, where is he?

The child led her past the magazine racks until they almost reached the Children's Section and pointed at a vagrant, slumped in an armchair, spookily still.

Her heart raged. She stepped close, oblivious to the smell. Excuse me sir, are you alright?

Not a twitch.

Louder. Are you alright?

Please wake and snarl at me. No such luck. Hell. What now? She didn't want to touch him, but had no choice. She jabbed him hard on the shoulder and prepared for him to sit up and bitch.

Instead, he toppled over and his head slammed into the arm-rest. She screamed and jumped back.

I told you so, the boy said flatly.

Though the library was fairly empty, several patrons quickly gathered behind her. Mr Cheshire scurried out of the workroom, his gleaming bald head and deep-set eyes providing little comfort. What's wrong? he said in his cockney accent.

She retreated several steps and pointed at the body. That - he's dead.

You sure?

Yes. But you check.

OK.

As he edged towards the body, Julia remembered the boy. She put a hand over his eyes and tried to turn him around.

He pushed her hand away. Hey, I want to watch.

You shouldn't look.

I found him. This is cool. Where do smelly guys come from?

Nowhere in particular.

Mr Cheshire picked up the vagrant's wrist and felt around for a pulse. He soon dropped it and crossed himself several times. Dead. Call an ambulance. You listening? Call an ambulance.

She desperately pulled herself together. OK, OK.

CHAPTER TWO

Back at the borrowing counter, Julia dialled Triple 0 and, trying not to sound too hysterical, told the female operator that she had found a dead body in the Bradfield Public Library.

Is the body still there?

Did the stupid woman think it went for a stroll? Of course.

OK, I've got the address. Police and ambulance will be there in about five minutes.

She put down the phone just as the Head Librarian, Bronwyn Baker, steamed out of her office near the front entrance. What's going on?

There's a dead body, over near the Children's Section.

My God. Who?

A vagrant.

Bronwyn didn't like books or the annoying people who borrowed them, and truly despised smelly vagrants who wandered in for a kip. Indeed, she recently tried to get the municipal council to ban them, only to be told that was against the law. She told Julia: They said it's a human rights issue or something like that. Rubbish, it's a public health issue.

Now, she half-smiled. Dead? Good, let's hope this starts a trend. You've called whoever we're supposed to call?

Yes. The police and an ambulance should be here in a few minutes.

Hmm. Maybe now the Council will let us keep these people out of here.

With Julia trailing behind, Bronwyn strode past the magazine racks towards the Children's Section, slid past a few gawkers and studied the body. She glanced at Mr Cheshire, whose post-mortem pallor hinted he was an authority on death. You're sure he's dead?

Yes.

Alright then, we'd better get everyone out of the library before the cops and ambos arrive.

The three librarians spend the next few minutes chivvying the dozen-or-so patrons outside. Several were very unhappy - even when told about the dead body - to be forced off the internet or unable to borrow books. Out of the corner of her eye, Julia saw the little Asian boy grab a satchel and shoot out the door.

The librarians followed the last patron outside and stood in the alcove to avoid the steady rain. The patrons all dispersed.

Bronwyn was still annoyed. God, these hobos piss me off. The other day, I caught one of them looking at porn on a computer and wanking away.

Julia said: My God, did anyone else see him?

Yeah, I think so, but they just kept looking at their screens. Didn't want to waste their access time, I guess. Disgusting. Libraries used to lend books to decent people; now we're a social sewer.

Mr Cheshire interjected. You're right. Hobos and perverts shouldn't be allowed into our library.

Bronwyn looked around. Out of curiosity, where's Gary?

Gary Clarke was the Librarian's Aide, which meant he did the same menial jobs as everyone else for even less money.

Julia and Mr Cheshire both shrugged.

Bronwyn said: Typical. Never around when he's needed.

They lapsed into silence and stared out into the drizzle. A minute later, a police patrol car pulled up to the curb and two uniformed officers - a fat male and thin female - got out. Bronwyn introduced herself as the Head Librarian and led them back inside to see the body. Julia trailed behind them, unnoticed.

The homeless guy now looked rather peaceful and seemed less smelly, though that obviously wouldn't last. The female officer moved up close and shone a torch directly into his eyes. Not a flicker. She retreated several steps and took a few deep breaths. He's gone.

The dead man's left sleeve had ridden up to expose a tattoo on his forearm - an inscription of some sort. Hard to tell if it was runic, hieroglyphic, gothic or something else.

Julia said: What's that?

The female officer glanced at her. What?

The tattoo on his arm.

The officer studied it and shrugged. Don't know, and don't need to know. I'd better call the detectives.

Bronwyn frowned. Detectives?

Whenever there's an unexplained death, we have to create a crime scene and call the detectives.

Homicide detectives?

No, just the locals.

Surely, he died of natural causes.

I'm sure he did. Looks like the poor bugger had a tough life. Heart probably called it a day. I'm just following standard procedure. Now, you both have to leave the library. It's now a crime scene.

Julia strode from the library, with Bronwyn close behind, and re-joined Mr Cheshire. An ambulance, siren blaring, screeched to a halt against the curb. Two male ambos jumped out. One opened the back doors and grabbed a bulky rucksack.

The female police officer emerged and told them the subject was dead. They slowed their tempo and sauntered after her into the library.

A minute later, a large white Holden Commodore parked against the curb. Two men in shiny suits - one fresh-faced and slim, the other much older and fatter - climbed out. Bronwyn headed towards them, but they strode past her into the library, leaving her with a frown.

A few minutes later, the young one reappeared and approached the three librarians. He had large ears and a narrow face. Hi, I'm Detective Dryden from Bradfield Police Station. Who's in charge?

Bronwyn stepped forward. Bronwyn Baker, I'm the Head Librarian.

Hello. I'm afraid the library will have to close for several hours while we collect evidence and remove the body.

Collect evidence - why?

We have to treat every unexplained death as suspicious, even if it's not. Rules are rules, I'm afraid. We've got to cordon off the area around the body, collect evidence and remove the body for autopsy. Of course, the pathologist will say he died of natural causes. But that's the procedure.

Can we go back inside?

Not until we've finished. And I'm afraid that you, at least, will have to wait around in case we need you. Now, can anyone identify the dead guy?

Bronwyn glanced at the other two librarians, who shook their heads.

Surely, he had a borrower's card or something like that?

Bronwyn frowned. He wasn't a borrower. He was a smelly guy who came into the library when it was too wet to beg or there were no clouds to talk to.

Anybody ever chat with him?

You kidding? He smelt horrible and yelled at everyone.

You didn't approve of him?

This is a library, not a homeless shelter. I'm sorry if that sounds harsh, but it's the truth.

Who discovered the body?

Julia spoke up. The little boy.

The detective turned to her. Which little boy?

An Asian boy, about eight or so. He came up to the borrowing counter and told me a man was dead.

OK. Where's this boy?

Julia shrugged. I don't know. I saw him leave the library. He seems to have disappeared.

The detective looked annoyed. Do you know his name?

No.

A frown. Really? Does he borrow books?

No. His mother just leaves him in the library sometimes while she goes shopping.

Is that allowed?

No, but she does it anyway. Lots of parents do. They think we run a child-minding centre.

OK. If you see him again, let me know.

I will.

The detective glanced at Bronwyn. You'll wait around?

Yes.

Good. I'd better go back inside.

He disappeared; Bronwyn looked at her watch and sighed. Though good at palming off responsibilities, she couldn't shirk this one. It's now three and it looks like they'll be here for the rest of the afternoon. You two may as well go home. I'll wait around and close up. See you tomorrow morning.

Just then, Gary Clarke came around the corner and loped towards the library. He was in his early twenties, tall and skinny, with a mop of straw-coloured hair, a freckled face and the slightly drowsy look of a stoner.

Bronwyn scowled. Where the hell have you been?

Getting a cup of coffee.

I didn't see you leave.

I shot out the side door. Why're you out here? Fire alarm?

She frowned. No, a dead body.

You're kidding?

Nope. One of our regular vagrants checked out in an armchair.

How'd he die?

Not sure. Probably a heart attack or stroke.

Which vagrant?

A smirk. The smelly one with a big beard.

Hah, I get your point. He rolled his eyes. God, the one day I pop out, something exciting happens.

Having a homeless guy drop dead is not exciting. It's sad and bloody annoying.

He shrugged. I guess so.

Anyway, next time you pop out for coffee, let someone know, OK? Bronwyn often moaned about Gary's insubordination and laziness, despite spending endless hours in her office surfing the internet or girl-pal gossiping on the phone.

Gary's mock-Nazi salute dared Bronwyn to sack him. Will do.

Bronwyn looked ready to explode. OK, that's enough. You three should all go home, OK? I'll see you tomorrow.

All three headed off in different directions. As Julia left, she noticed a large white van with Forensic Squad stenciled on the side drive up and park against the curb. Two men in white overalls got out.

After she'd walked about a hundred metres, Julia remembered something the little boy said: "No, he's dead - I saw it."

Saw what? How the guy died? Surely, if he died of natural causes, there was nothing to see - unless, of course, the old guy had a heart attack, grabbed his chest and said ferk one last time. Yes, the boy must have seen that.

However, the next time she saw the kid, she'd ask what he meant, just to be sure.

CHAPTER THREE

Bradfield was an inner-city suburb that poked into Sydney Harbour like a gnarled finger. It boomed during the 19th century when tall ships from England birthed at its wharves or dry-docked for repairs. Rich merchants and ship captains built large mansions on the brow of its thin ridge.

However, in the early 20th century, railway lines snaked out across the Sydney plain and new suburbs sprouted on either side. Bradfield's affluent residents decamped for those suburbs and it became a working-class enclave dotted with ship repairers and light industry.

After the Second World War, down-at-heel bohemians infiltrated the suburb and gave its poverty a romantic tinge. Then, in the 1970s, yuppies discovered it was a real estate gold mine and launched a campaign of socio-economic cleansing. They bought dilapidated terraces and cured rising damp, knocked out walls, ripped up rotting carpets, put down timber floors, added rooms, tossed on extra storeys, enlarged attics, installed internal toilets, and painted, rewired, polished and sanded. Their renovations were often cheap and nasty - quaint terraces became obese and deformed - but the value of their properties rose relentlessly.

The next wave of buyers included bankers, fund managers and lawyers - and their highly-strung wives and pointless children - who turned the suburb into one of the most expensive places on the planet.

The narrow main street that ran along the top of the ridge was once lined with shabby grocery shops, dingy milk-bars, poorly stocked delicatessens and second-hand shops. Now there were fashion boutiques, more fashion boutiques, boulangeries, cafes, restaurants and more fashion boutiques. It was impossible to buy basic foods or cheap clothes. Prestige cars jostled for scarce parking spots while yummie mummies pushed marque prams along the pavement.

The suburb's grimy pubs - where punch-ups over nothing were once the main form of entertainment - were now gleaming gastropubs that offered jazz bands and folk singing.

In other words, within a few decades, Bradfield went from having a grubby working-class character to having no character at all.

It usually took Julia about twenty minutes to walk from the library to the small terrace where she lived with her father. She belonged to one of the few working-class families left in Bradfield. Both her parents were born in the suburb and spent their married lives in the small terrace, until her mother died from breast cancer five years ago.

Her parents never expected or wanted much from life. Her father joined the timetables office of the State Rail Authority as a young man and was still there; her mother worked as