Spring Fever

By Roger Stanley

Vicki Walker, ambitious and just as fastidious in her work presentation as she is in her appearance, is the youngest Detective Chief Inspector in the State.

She considers her recent transfer to the fast growing Melbourne suburb of Bayport, as a stepping-stone to the top. At this newly built police complex she is partnered with TOM BARTON. He is street-wise, ready to retire and probably the oldest Detective Chief Inspector in Australia.

Their initial differences and abilities are soon put to the test with the discovery of a murder victim only minutes from the Bayport Police Complex.

As they continue their search for the vicious killer, Tom discovers that his son may be involved with ex-criminals and has also arranged a large loan with a financier who has died in bizarre circumstances. Vickis methodical approach and persistence suggests that this death is not an accident as it at first appears to be.

When a third body is found, the whole team has to consider the possibility that a serial killer may be terrorising Bayport.

Using forensic evidence, departmental procedures, intuition and the instinct for survival, Vicki Walker and Tom Barton search for clues and connections, and as they gather evidence and relentlessly pursue the killer or killers, they gain respect for each other.

Presented in short chapters, each with a hook to the next, this novel is fast-paced, keeping the pages turning. It uses detailed Police Methodology yet retains insight into the personal lives of the protagonists. There is horror and there is tender romance; this is an exciting story for all Crime Fiction devotees.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jan 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493128242

Roger Stanley

Author: Roger Stanley. Graduate Diploma of Arts (professional writing and editing) Chisholm 2004, has received several awards for short story fiction since then. Travelling Salesman - Eastern Victoria. Started own Hire Car Business 2002. This novel will easily fit into the large group of Crime Fiction readers who appreciate a progressive plot, interesting characters and police procedures. Roger Stanley PO Box 203 Crib Point. 3919 Ph: [phone] Email: [e-mail]

Book preview

PART ONE

1

Tom Barton had seen the car knock the girl down as it accelerated out of the sales yard. He watched in amazement as it swerved into the traffic. After being side-swiped by a truck, the luxury car flipped over, trapping the driver. Detective Chief Inspector Barton knew what to do. He immediately ascertained that the driver of the car was not seriously injured, that an ambulance and the police had been called, and as several would-be traffic cops enthusiastically directed the rush hour vehicles, he moved quickly across to the girl.

Just one other person had gone to help her.

Burning rubber, spinning wheels, broken glass, and the screeching metal of a large, expensive car, were a much bigger attraction for everybody else.

The man holding the crying girl was big, really big; disproportionately so and as he crouched on the kerb, the girl looked like a floppy rag doll in his large hands and all encompassing arms.

As he got closer, Tom heard the muffled sobs of the girl. He noticed the damaged bike in the gutter, its front wheel still slowly turning, glinting in the morning sunlight and metronomically clicking. The comforting voice of the big man was soft and gentle. Tom squatted down to look at the girl, assessing, checking, diagnosing. She appeared to be in shock, but without any serious physical damage.

Tom turned, looked up and saw swollen tears meander down the unshaven face of the big man. The sun played another game, the tears appeared as bulbous rainbows in a field of corn stubble.

It’s alright, it’s alright. The soft assurance of the voice, the tender caressing of the big hands surprised Tom and he felt like an intruder at a family reunion.

I’m a police officer. Authoritative, ready to assume responsibility.

The large head turned quickly and it was as though the tears now flashed bolts of lightning, the eyes looked through Tom. The voice no longer gentle, snapped.

You get that mongrel. You get him. I’ll get him! I’ll get him!

Tom was seldom affected by threats or demands, but he turned his face away from this man, aware that his coccyx tingled. His heart thumped. His throat had tightened. He stood up defensively establishing the well-practiced dominant position; prepared and yet more apprehensive than usual.

Do you know this young girl, sir? He wanted to gain control but his voice cracked as the face of the man, contorted with anger, turned to glare up at him.

He didn’t care. He could’ve killed her. Just like… The man turned his face back to the girl in his arms. It’s alright. It’s alright.

Tom hesitated, his brain was receiving be careful signals. The yelps of a siren relieved the tension between them, as an ambulance weaved through the traffic chaos.

With a speed and lightness of movement incongruous to his bulk, the big man stood, and carrying the girl in his arms, ran to the front of the ambulance, which was forced to brake.

Tom breathed in deeply, watching the man.

He works for me. He’s quite safe, just a bit, you know, overpowering, not too bright. The voice from behind was quiet. Tom turned quickly, his frown asked the questions.

Does the detailing for me. Prestige cars. Top of the range. He’s slow but meticulous. Problems as a child or something. Heart of gold. Wouldn’t want to cross him though. The man’s face was expressionless. The premises behind him were all glass and stainless steel, clinical and cold. Tom catalogued all of this in one glance, before turning back to the scene in the road. The two ambulance officers were looking over the girl who was now standing. The trio was dwarfed by the big man.

Those around the upturned car were calling for help, but the man’s dominating presence commanded attention to the girl.

As he lay in his bed the next morning with three days of his leave left, Tom recalled every detail of the incident. It came to him as clearly as if he was playing back a video he had watched many times. The thought of the big man started his heart to thump heavily in his tightened chest. He let out a resigned sigh; always the cop, never off duty.

With less than five years to retirement, Tom Barton had begun to relax before taking up his position at the new Bayport police complex, unaware that he would soon be called upon to investigate a series of mysterious deaths.

All his accumulated knowledge and policing skills would be needed, to determine whether a person had died accidentally, was the result of suicide, or had met their death at the hands of a brutal but clever killer.

2

When Tom Barton had been advised that the position was to be shared, he at first felt slighted, as though his own promotion was of less importance than he had believed. The fact that his co-worker was to be the newly promoted, Detective Chief Inspector Vicki Walker, was of more significance to him. He knew of her of course. She was highly efficient, worked by the book and was also the youngest Chief Inspector in the State.

Tom was concerned that he would now have to prove his abilities, not only to satisfy the required key performance indicators, but also to convince the ambitious Vicki Walker that he was not just another has-been, hiding in a corner until pension day.

For the last few mornings, Tom Barton had been woken up by the low-pitched warbling of magpies, familiar as a boiling jug. Then the gradual crescendo of the higher registered mating songs of the silver thrushes and blackbirds forced their shrilling into his brain, preventing any further sleep.

His wife had turned her back to him. Her fingers took a firm grip on the edge of the doona and lifted it up and away from his head. He tried to curl up and bury himself back into the comfort and security of the sleep he’d been forced to leave.

The birds’ song, to welcome sunrise and the birth of spring disturbed Tom. It came from his left as he rolled onto his back, got louder and closer over his head. Then the trilling gradually moved over to his right and beyond the window until the cacophony died altogether.

His enquiring mind—the need to classify and catalogue everything for future use—had often puzzled about this early morning alarm. Did the same birds move across the house, or were there lines of them waiting to be woken up as the world rotated to the east and the sun stabbed its brightness westwards? He promised himself to listen again tomorrow.

He decided that the shower was the best place for him to freshen up. Then, even though he was still on leave, he would go for a visit to the new police station. He pushed the bed-clothes away. Jane stretched out an arm and pulled the covers over her shoulder and under her chin. She gave a sigh of resignation.

Tom always took his showers hot, and gradually followed his testing hand into the column of stinging water. He moved his body around until the stream of heat was directed onto the back of his neck and shoulders.

He alternately blamed the pillow, a draught or a disturbed night for the stiffness and tension he felt every morning. Perhaps he’d damaged a vertebra during a footy tackle years ago, or maybe bones had been jarred more recently, in an equally violent clash with a suspect who had tried to avoid capture.

Jane had given up telling Tom what she thought about the waste of hot water, the excessive steam ruining the walls and her irritation about the two wet towels he always left; one on the floor of the bathroom and the other thrown onto the carpet in the bedroom. This was part of his life that was routine to him and he never even knew he was doing it.

He was always first out of bed now, had been since the children left and Jane was quite content to lie there.

Tom sometimes noticed that his wife was watching him through half-opened eyes to follow his movements. Each time he came from the shower and back into their bedroom, he always stood next to the bed and close to her to dry himself, while he looked at his body in the full-length mirror. He grunted as he struggled to bend his back against the bulge of his stomach, while he dried his feet.

Staring into the mirror, he breathed in, stuck out his chest, tucked his buttocks under and struggled to pull his stomach into some semblance of the lithe shape he had once been.

He remembered how they first experimented with sex and how, for many years after getting married, they had called his penis the Master of Ceremonies. Always standing up out front and organising the entertainment for the evening, or afternoon, or morning, or at any free moment they could get together.

Of late, Tom had tried to explain to Jane that his job was to blame. Homicide and the investigation divisions where he worked had to be fully appraised of every detail of rape victims, child abuse and family violence. Most murdered women had also been sexually violated.

The preliminary investigations and examinations were horrific. Tom had to lose himself in his professionalism as a detective in order to stop feeling, to stop being angry, but always questioning how anybody could do such terrible things. He contained the horror he felt, yet maintained his anger and swore revenge against the perpetrators of all such violence.

Gradually the horror of these realities invaded his psyche and he was unable to clear his mind of them even when he was at home. He could no longer bring into their love-making the emotion and excitement and tenderness which they had known. His practiced and thoughtful movements and her response with gentle groans of passion had, in his mind’s eye, now become the thrust and tearing of unwilling flesh and stifled screams of pain.

He would close his eyes but his inner vision was still flooded with red. This in turn became part of the ghastly, but necessary, array of photos taken of victims.

When Jane had been tidying up his office area—a desk and phone in a corner of the family room—during the long trial of an accused murderer and rapist, she had found photos. When he had come home exhausted that night, she had wanted to comfort him, show empathy, to be tender towards him. As usual, Tom told of the chaotic traffic, of the drunk who had fallen into the station demanding a room for the night and of the never-ending paperwork. Talking was minimal and trivial. Then he settled himself in front of the TV. By the time he got to bed, Jane was asleep.

During the last few weeks, Tom had become more positive about his future. The pleasures of retirement didn’t seem so far away after all. Along with many others who lived anywhere near Melbourne, spring gave him an added opportunity to shed his winter cocoon of darkness and despondency, lighten his footsteps and experience some of his earlier excitement. When people asked him how he was, he reverted to the old cliché, I wouldn’t be dead for quids.

Now that the nearby mountains had regained their colours and warmth after the winter snow, he welcomed the breezes that gently sought out the quiet alleyways and busy freeways: they brought with them the perfumes of peppermint gums and myriad flowers.

When the government stated that more funds would be made available to the police force, the news was accepted with—‘About bloody time.’ The ambitious five-year plan started with the building of new premises within the city and inner suburbs.

As a Chief Inspector, Tom was consulted along with others about the design of the new stations. Their contributions were mostly ignored, as expected, but Tom overtly set his sights on getting posted to the new one proposed for Bayport which was where he’d grown up. He still lived there.

Development had changed the nature of this once quiet seaside holiday destination, into a thriving business community. He knew every road and alleyway; every pub and club; each car-park and shopping centre. All were stored in his memory bank, just in case.

When he was at last advised that he would be transferred to the Bayport complex, he shared his enthusiasm with Jane and they would walk down to the construction site at weekends and watch the progress.

Why is it so deep? she wanted to know as they stared down into the hole where front-end loaders looked like Tonka toys.

Probably for nuclear-safe shelters. He paused then snapped out with barely suppressed anger. Maybe cells for some of the mongrels who don’t deserve to see the light of day.

As the building grew, so did his excitement. In trying to pass some of this onto his wife, he only succeeded in widening the gap between them. She felt as though he was getting more and more attached to the police force and further away from her.

Jane had tried several times to tempt him into taking some long-service leave by placing brochures around the house. Exotic holidays in Fiji; lazy days in Hawaii; exciting trips to San Francisco and—closer to home—seven-day specials to New Zealand.

When we’ve seen a bit of Australia we can go and see these foreign places, was his response. We live in a big country.

The few holidays they had taken away from the house had included two weeks in the Barossa and, several years later, driving from Dandenong to Lakes Entrance as fast as they could along the Princes Highway. After three nights staying in the most expensive motel, a four-hour boat trip and a quick visit to the Buchan caves, he’d said they should get back.

Each night they were away, he insisted on watching the TV news. The Melbourne newspapers were delivered with their breakfast and when he got into the car, he listened to the news on the radio. Jane watched his expressions as soon as the word police was mentioned. Tom would frown, put his head to one side, like a bird listening for worms and offered a Sshh. But Jane never gave up hope of having a long holiday away from police work.

Tom Barton strode up the steps and into the chaos of what would be the new operations room. Electricians were still busy here, providing the connections and using kilometres of wire, in preparation for the computer experts who were to follow.

Most of the furniture had been moved into the complex and in whichever direction he walked, his face showed approval.

Carefully stepping over snakes of cables, he moved across the room and stood by a window and looked across the bay towards Melbourne.

The choppiness of the water, brilliant in the early morning, created facets for the sun to reflect back towards him like a million jewels; a mixture of emeralds, sapphires and of course diamonds.

It was clear enough to see the tall buildings of the city as well as the arch of the Westgate Bridge. The sun flashed orange reflections from windows in the office towers, their shadows created patterns of light and dark across each other. It was as though the buildings, as well as the occupants, were competing against each other for attention. To the left and further away, were the much more relaxed blue peaks of the Yu Yangs.

Out on the bay, a ship with its cargo of containers looked so top heavy that it held his attention long enough for him to question aloud, How the hell does that survive in Bass Strait, let alone through a tropical storm in the Pacific Ocean?

Turning his back to the window, he counted the twenty computer monitors and mumbled to nobody in particular. Bloody evil eyes watching us.

Several uniformed officers with sleeves rolled up, were carrying heavy cartons into the office. Trolley loads of anonymous boxes were carefully unloaded then quickly moved into cupboards. Various pieces of furniture were manoeuvred up steps, through doors and placed into no particular position.

Tom walked across to the other side of the ops room. The view from here was over the roofs of the shops and the business centre, past the railway station and to the distant Dandenong Ranges.

Quite a hive of activity isn’t it, Tom? The voice was friendly and familiar. Tom turned. An outstretched hand encouraged him to reciprocate.

Certainly is, Sir. The very slight hesitation on the ‘Sir’ would be noted by Chief Superintendent James.

Couldn’t keep away from the place I see. Be a couple of days before your office is ready, Tom.

Yes, Sir. He didn’t know how to keep the conversation going without calling him, Sir. Before the promotion, he had simply been called, ‘J.J’. He was two ranks above Tom now, and even after sharing many years of experiences together, it was insisted that Sir, was to be used on all occasions.

‘Best for everyone to know where we stand, Tom. Be different outside, socially of course.’

They both knew that any socialising, in future, would only be at official functions, maybe at Christmas. Certainly not at their respective houses like they used to be, with the drinking sessions and the barbecues.

Tom’s own promotion to Chief Inspector had not compelled him to cut off his contacts at work. He knew that in a crisis, he could rely on any of the staff to work as a team and to support him and each other.

This transfer was to be his greatest achievement, career wise; his ‘grand finale’. He hoped that this would be his last posting; close to home and in a territory where he knew, not only all the streets and buildings, but also the local criminals.

During the last few years, street crimes such as car thefts, breaking and entering and assaults, had certainly increased in the area, mainly at weekends after the pubs closed. But there had never been anything that could be classified in the manual as violent or very serious crime.

Bayport statistically, was average.

This was about to change.

Even in the first week of his new position, Tom Barton would be confronted with a violent and bloody murder committed only minutes from his office.

3

The police identification logo of blue and white squares, fixed high above the street, advised the public that this magnificent building was a police station. It was not a multi-million dollar art gallery or a Taj Mahal as many of the locals had been calling it.

Even during the first few hours of being open the place was active, with the police and public in a cross-fire of talk and movement. There was the occasional outburst from someone angry enough to request, I want the officer in charge!

Those who were used to police stations entered and stopped. They looked around, up and down, then shaking their heads, mumbled expletives and chided the duty officer with, Reckon you blokes must’ve made a packet out of them speed cameras. Could fit my place inside here ten times over.

First-time visitors on the other hand, were hesitant and hushed as they walked up to the reception desk with quiet trepidation.

A man was reporting a tool box stolen from the back of his ute which had been parked next to a police car in the delivery area.

How the hell can I fix yer cistern if some mongrel’s nicked me tools? He turned to a waiting group. Bit much when yer tools get nicked at the cop shop, innit?

A young police Constable came up the steps and strode through the space created by the automatically opened doors. Although she was in uniform she showed an identity tag to the duty officer. He surreptitiously pressed a switch under the desk which opened the door to the now completed operations room where a group of people was talking loudly.

I reckon the boss’ll give ’em both a lesson on equal opportunities and tell ’em to get on with the job.

Tom certainly wasn’t a happy man when she was introduced.

I knew her before she got promoted. This was from a uniformed Sergeant.

The others turned to her as she continued. She always worked by the book. Said she knew she’d get to the top. Broke her marriage up too.

Well, the governor’s never gone by the book, but he always gets results. He got to be Chief Inspector without any…

Yeah, but he’s also a…

Suddenly all conversation stopped as the double doors from the