Evil in the City

By Reece Pocock

Reece Pocock has great insight into human affairs and a powerful imagination, and in this engaging set of short stories he turns his observant eye on many facets of human behaviour, said Boris of Adelaide.

A man attempts to escape from his paedophile father in the only way he knows how; the victim of a frame-up wreaks an Old Testament revenge; two cops make the mistake of their lives; a killer's manic behaviour has consequences for an innocent youth; a woman is unexpectedly saved from sudden death; a young man finds a way back to his father after a period of alienation; a wronged man discovers that revenge has its own consequences; a private eye in the Sam Spade mode unsuccessfully tries to outsmart a wily client; a man loses self-control; true love succeeds in conquering all; a married couple finally share a guilty secret long unrevealed between them; children learn not to judge a book by its cover; one young man's misinterpretation of a scenario has terrible consequences for another; a man finds himself outplayed by a woman with dreams of a happy marriage; two farmers drolly discover the unremitting cycle of country life.

Pocock writes with wit and compassion and his stories flow effortlessly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Dec 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386740759

Reece Pocock

#Reece Pocock is a prize-winning author who writes predominantly novels, as well as short stories, screenplays, stage-plays and articles. After studying, he was awarded an Advanced Diploma of Arts (professional writing) in 2004.His fiction includes Murder on Display, The Politics of Murder, (both novels were longlisted in the Ned Kelly Award) as well as The Hooded Assassin, Evil in the City, Love and War, Refugee.Children's stories, Melissa Lane Girl Detective, and Sarah loves Ice Cream.Non-fiction — How to Achieve High Self-esteem.Reece won the City of Burnside crime short story contest, with The Girl in the Red Beret. His screenplay, The Soldiers, was highly commended in the Di Cranston award. His Play, ‘Awake to Murder’ won first prize and was read by Wildscreen in the USA.Reece is primarily a crime writer (although he has written other genres) and concentrates on the exploits of Detective Sergeant Dan Brennan and his partner Mac McLean, ex-SAS soldiers who joined the Police Force.After Army service, Reece enjoyed a business career in sales and management.He works as a finance broker and lives at Hope Valley South Australia with his wife, Marilyn.

Book preview

Evil in the City

Author Reece Pocock

Text Copyright © 2016 Reece Pocock

All Rights Reserved

The Girl in the Red Beret

Winner of the Burnside Library short story contest.

My office in the Deputy Public Prosecutor’s Department has a large window through which I like to stare. I imagine it’s my flat window where the girl in the red beret walks past every morning. But, today was different; I had a premonition of danger.

My secretary entered. ‘Mister Whybrow, your father’s on line two. Detective Sergeant Raven is waiting to see you.’

The last person I wanted to talk to was Quinten Whybrow QC. I'd avoided him ever since he’d refused to employ me at Whybrow, Hart, and Hunt. My father told me, nine years ago that I didn’t cut the mustard, I was too timid and I wasn’t forceful enough.

‘Put my father through and send Raven in after the call,’ I said, ‘Father!’

‘James, your mother wants you to come to dinner Saturday night; we've invited a few colleagues and their ladies.’

His defence lawyer cronies would make it a dreary evening for the only prosecutor in the room, me! Furthermore, he did say my mother wanted me to come, it followed my father didn’t.

‘No thanks, Father, things to do.’

‘Like what, sitting in your bloody flat daydreaming.’

‘I’m busy, Father, work related.’

‘On another matter, my partners suggested it might be time for you to join the family firm.’

I never wanted to work for Quinten Whybrow. He made it clear his partners, and not he wanted me.

‘Heard you’ve been aggressive in court. Are your troubles back?’ he continued. My troubles, I felt like yelling, I wouldn’t have had any troubles if you hadn’t ridiculed my achievements.

Bitter experience told me not to put myself through an argument with Quinten Whybrow QC. ‘No, Father, I’m happy here, I’ll talk to you later. Someone’s here to see me,’ I said to escape.

The door opened and Detective Sergeant Harry Raven entered. The murder of four attractive women would be what he wanted to discuss with me. He'd arrested a man but the charges wouldn’t stick.

‘Let him go, Harry,’ I said. ‘His alibi stands up.’

‘Yeah,’ said Harry, ‘Pity. The superintendent's involved and wants to know when we’ll arrest the killer.’

‘Where to, now?’ I inquired.

‘The murderer takes souvenirs from all the girls,’ said Raven as he carefully arranged his bottom into my guest chair.

‘What things?’

‘Oh, brooches, rings, clothing. Anything that takes his fancy.’

‘He’s a collector—that's all you have?’

This was a new development and I wondered if it could be a breakthrough.

‘'Afraid so. We need a break before he kills again.’

Harry left. The premonition of murder close to me would not go away. I shuddered.

Some innate compulsion forced me to stand at my flat window every morning to watch as a girl walked down the street. Nothing made me miss the moment, not even the phone going crazy. I was often late for work. I couldn’t have cared less. I had to watch as she walked down a decline to disappear around the corner.

A few times, I watched at the end of her day's work. She trudged uphill, whereas in the morning, she floated down the footpath to meet the day. It’s a sight I thought about at work as well as alone in my flat.

I didn’t even know the girl's name or where she worked. She answered all those age-old questions of what makes a woman beautiful. Ah! Now she's a woman. You see, I’m in a quandary of whether she’s a girl or a woman; maybe on the cusp is more accurate. It’s an indefinable point when girls become women. Not biologically or any mundane definition. This girl had zest and attitude as she confronted life head on.

For women to be gorgeous, they have to radiate inner confidence. Cosmetics or hairdos don’t define it. It’s the whole package. Skinny super models with flawless skin and made up eyes were not necessarily attractive. They don’t radiate inner beauty. My girl had those qualities. Referring to her as the girl on the street has unfortunate connotations. She has to have a name.

Last week, a perky red beret clung to the side of her head in a French style. Consequently, I named her Giselle. However, I later found out it’s a German name meaning pledge or hostage. Too late—my girl would always be Giselle to me.

I watched the street through binoculars. Her beauty could stand close scrutiny: long dark hair but not charcoal, but lighter with touches of brown; the only makeup red lipstick and light mascara.

She looked towards me; I put the binoculars away ashamed of myself.

I’d think about Giselle at inappropriate times. In court—I’d question a witness and completely forget what to ask. My mind watched my girl walk down the street. I'd think about how to approach and ask her to go out with me.

A few days ago, I positioned myself on the footpath. When Giselle approached she ignored my smile. I kept walking. What I thought about saying sounded ridiculous? Back to watching her; how pathetic, like a lovesick boy without the courage to talk to a girl. Every fibre in my body wanted to be with Giselle. At the same time, afraid I would disappoint her. Still, I always had my window, my dreams, and above all, my imagination.

I’m not some sick pervert with inappropriate thoughts. I want to make love to Giselle but only with her enthusiastic agreement. The relationship still had a long way to go. Okay, there hasn’t been a courtship because I didn't have enough courage to ask her out. Nevertheless, in my imagination, we’re a couple.

I imagined we went on a date. In my BMW I drove up to her front door on a sunny day. Giselle, wearing her red beret, almost skipped out carrying a picnic basket. She pecked my cheek and placed the basket in the back seat. We waved to her Mother and Father, who stood near their front door. Giselle kissed me on the cheek again.

‘Where are we going?’ she whispered in my ear.

‘Botanical Gardens.’

‘Didn’t know you were interested in plants.’

‘It’s a nice park.’

The garden’s huge trees laid a welcome shadow across green clipped green grass. They kept the sun off Giselle’s picnic lunch, spread out on a striped blanket. She offered me a plate of selected cold meats, salad, coleslaw, and dressing. It looked delicious. She poured me a glass of wine.

‘This is amazing.’ I said. ‘You’re a clever girl.’

Giselle beamed at me, I wanted to kiss her. She held the plate in front of her, my kiss landed on her cheek. My hand caressed the bare leg above her knee. I felt a shiver of desire and I thought about forcing her to have sex with me. Then I felt ashamed.

Giselle pushed my hand away, ‘Now, now, James, don’t be naughty,’ she said.

My fantasy always ended there, bringing me back to reality. Even in my thoughts, I am pathetic.

Giselle had vitality and ran through life while I spent my days in dingy offices and courtrooms mixing with criminals, dull lawyers, and judges with little of interest to say. It’s not surprising I watched her in the mornings and thought about her during the day.

I cursed myself, so shy and inadequate for not rushing onto the street to meet the girl of my dreams. But, I didn’t know what to talk about. I even looked up pick-up lines on the Internet. Is that the sun coming up—or is it you lighting up my life? Another one: my love for you is like the Universe—never ending. Ugh! They’re false and would never work. Maybe they did, but I could never use them. Instead, I stared at Giselle, dreamt about her, and cursed myself at