Up In the Air: An Eamon Cowan Story

By Peter Sheldrake

In this third Eamon Cowan story, a number of very ill and elderly people are found dead at home. While their deaths were expected, in each house the investigators find a drawing, a picture like a memory palace, incorporating some objects from the dead person's house. While puzzling over this, Penny, Eamon's wife, is called to the UK to help in tracking down a murderer in her parents' home town. When she returns, more dead bodies appear, and it is clear a serial killer is at work. Despite a profusion of clues, the pursuit of the killer is going nowhere, until one spectacular and final death leads to the murderer being unmasked.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Travelling North
• Release date: Oct 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9780989346672

Book preview

Up In the Air: An Eamon Cowan Story

Up In the Air

An Eamon Cowan Story

Peter Sheldrake

Book 3 in the Eamon Cowan Series

Travelling North

Up in the Air, Copyright 2017 © Peter Sheldrake

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Travelling North

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Pfafftown, NC, 27040

Travellingnorth.com

ISBN Number: 978-0-9893466-7-2

Cover photograph by the author

Copyright 2017 © Peter Sheldrake

Portrait of the author by Linda Perri Kent

Copyright 2017 © Linda Kent

Novels by Peter Sheldrake

Upside Down

Just Looking

Up in the Air

Prologue

She’d died almost instantly. That was an unexpected bonus: this meant he had at least two hours, giving him more than enough time if he was careful.  He decided to start upstairs since he was already there, and after working his way through all the bedrooms he’d tackle downstairs.  About ten minutes for each room should be enough, fifteen minutes if one held a lot of possibilities, and he would still have ample time to review what he had seen.  Having some extra time mattered:  after all, she was possibly the most important of them all.

He’d learnt from the first time and now he knew exactly what to do as he worked his way through the rooms.  Just follow a simple rule – look carefully, and see what catches your attention.  The trick was not to try to find things which were hidden away so much as see what stood out as you looked around.  Value wasn’t critical, distinctiveness was.

It was like his grandfather’s bronze head of Lakshmi which he had brought back after his years working on the railroads in India: it was almost certainly a temple icon, and he had probably stolen it.  The head was both mysterious and fascinating, partly because its specific history and significance were now almost impossible to determine.  Despite its unknown provenance, he felt it was still worth examining, studying even, in attempting to decipher its age and origin.  Striking, unusual, Lakshmi was one of the few items his grandfather had kept from his earlier life.  How strange, then, to see many visitors didn’t even give it a second glance when they came to the house.

Remember the rule: look carefully.  You’ll know when you’ve seen something that deserves your attention.

Like the memento over there.  Yes, ideal:  it was made of stone, carved, curled up, black, like a sleeping snake.  It was exactly what he was seeking.  A good start, and there would be more.  He smiled.  This was going to be an extremely rewarding night.

It was more than an hour later when he suddenly stopped.  He wasn’t in a panic, but time had moved on.  He’d been in every room.  Now it was time to finish exploring and make his final choices.  It was a two-part process.  First, four items, all to be used.  No more, four was all he allowed himself.  Then, from those, just two items for the next stage. 

He quickly made up his mind about the four he wanted.  But which two out of the four?  The coronation mug was an obvious choice, but then he decided against it.  Jewellery?  That was always good:  yes.  As for the second, he would have to go and look carefully one more time.  The sleeping snake or the lady? It took another two minutes, and then he decided. Yes, he knew which one would be the best.

Making choices was over; now, it was time to get to work.

This whole exercise was proving to be enjoyable, far more so than he had expected.  On his list, he had already identified three more visits for the next few weeks, and there would be more.  Already there were three others he could think of, he just had to track them down.

Chapter 1:  Tuesday 2 February

Eamon couldn’t remember how many times he had done this over the past four weeks, but once again, indecisive, he returned to reviewing his choices:  was he about to make a good move or a foolish one?  Editor at a small publishing house, a press whose success to date had rested on a small and carefully managed range of non-fiction books, Eamon knew he was running out of time.  He couldn’t delay much longer and he had to make some decisions.

Condell Street Publishing had established a good name for itself as a niche publisher.  The press specialised in books on science, aimed at the general reader, explaining advances in contemporary developments to the broader public; and on Australian history, especially where the history was largely concentrated on the story of key Australian contributions to applied research and technology.  These two core categories were accompanied by some others:  puzzler books, a new area of publishing which was riding the wave of ageing baby boomers anxious to keep their brains alive and working; and the Press’s long term occasional series of biographies of leading Australian academics. 

Now two manuscripts, each from a very different area from those on Condell Street’s established list, were waiting for him to make up his mind. 

One he had encouraged.  It was a small book of quite stunning poems from a young woman he had met and talked to the previous year.  Certainly, she might be rather young to be published, but Celia O’Neill had a mature and distinctive voice.  The manuscript was exceptional, but he was aware poetry was only attractive to a small and discriminating market.  Did Condell Street have the resources to reach lovers of poetry?

The other had arrived, unsolicited, through the mail.  It was a short but cleverly constructed detective novel, its hero an older man who had retired from work and was looking for something to do.  After deciding to try starting a new career as a private investigator, he found himself being drawn into a major and very complex series of murders.  In the case of this book, Eamon was worried about his own objectivity.  He had been drawn into a couple of murder enquiries over the past year, and found both cases compelling.  He wasn’t as old as the book’s lead character, but he was aware his interest in the story might be for the wrong reasons!

Both books would test his skills as an editor, requiring judgements about quality in areas with which he was less familiar.

Standing back from his immediate concerns, one thing was clear.  He knew they were both good books.  Probably not award winners, but good, even very good.  Certainly, good enough to be published.  The challenges they presented were obvious: they represented two major steps outside the reading public the press knew and understood.  A totally new segment of readers in each case, and for that reason, risky to attempt.  On the other hand, if they succeeded they would be two significant steps forward for Condell Street. 

As usual, he had sent each of the two manuscripts on to his panel of readers.  The responses were enthusiastic.  The poetry book was described as sensitive, insightful, and yet full of light, and hopeful and touching.  The murder mystery was characterised as gripping, different, with lots of clever twists.  All the reports had recommended publication. 

Somewhat ruefully, Eamon knew it would have been much easier if the feedback hadn’t been quite so positive. In the next few days, he either had to commit to one or both, or pass them on to friends at other publishing houses, ones with an established reputation in either poetry or detective novels.  The timing was critical if they were to be ready for the next big buying season. 

For once in his life, Eamon found himself uncomfortably uncertain, not about the quality of the manuscripts but about his ability to find the right way to promote these books to the market and ensure adequate sales.

On the other hand, the general manager of Condell Street had been quite clear.

‘We need to grow, Eamon, it was part of the brief we gave you.  If they’re good, let’s test our ability to get into these new markets.  It’s time to take the risk.’

‘They are good, Ian, but I’d like to research the two areas a bit more.’

‘OK, but don’t prevaricate.’

Which was exactly what he was doing.

As Eamon walked back over to his cottage in Fitzroy, he decided to detour via the Marquis of Lorne.  It was one of his favourite pubs, with its art deco style bar and its casual rooftop terrace.  It was the ideal place to stop and enjoy a glass of wine before continuing on his walk home.

‘How ya going, mate’

‘Good.’

‘Still got your job?’

‘Yea, and loving it.’

‘No more tv roles?’

‘Gave it up.’

‘Should get a job in a bar, mate – job for life.’

It was only just over a year ago, Eamon had lived the life of a part-time actor, combined with working as a part-time advertising copywriter, occasional editor, dog walker, and anything else to bring in money.  He wasn’t too old to be on television, but one of his last roles, a couple of years ago, had been playing a bored husband who was aware he was getting older and started an (unsuccessful) affair with a girl from the country.  He was playing a rather awful person in a popular soap opera, and Eamon had come to accept it was a bad omen. 

While he was still slim, reasonably good looking and fit, his wish to be offered better roles was looking increasingly unlikely.  What was more, he needed some stability in his life.  His part time editing job was one he enjoyed, he was skilled at turning promising manuscripts into worthwhile publications, and, at the same time, he loved the world of books.  Instead of continuing to hope one day he would be a famous actor, he had accepted an offer to be the full-time editor at Condell Street.

It wasn’t just work that changed.  He had met a police officer from the UK, when she came to Australia to investigate the murder of her sister in Melbourne.  Initially a suspect, one thing had led to another, and now they were married, very happily married.  He had resigned himself to living in his wife’s hometown of Durham, in the north of England, but then she had been offered and accepted a transfer to Melbourne.  She had cleaned up his house, which he had to admit had become a bit grubby, and she had changed his life.

As he sat sipping his glass of cabernet sauvignon, he was still surprised how good his life had become.  It was almost entirely because of Penny.

Penny was currently working on a series of robberies, and had invited her boss, Superintendent Dan Wakeland, around for dinner.  He’d got to know Eamon when Penny was first visiting Melbourne, and then he had asked him to help in a case at a girls’ school several months ago.  They had become friends, a friendship which meant Dan could occasionally manage to combine a briefing session with Penny while enjoying Eamon’s cooking.  Eamon saw it as a reasonable trade-off:  he got to hear the cases Dan and Penny were pursuing, and offer his ideas in exchange for meals for Dan. 

Working together last year, an observer would have thought them an improbably trio:  Eamon was tall, fair haired, always dressed in jeans and a button-down collar shirt; Penny was shorter, slim, with dark brown hair, and, in Eamon’s quite unbiased opinion, quite lovely, almost always wearing her working clothes, a white blouse, dark skirt, and jacket; and Dan was the shortest of the three, overweight, thinning hair, usually wearing an outrageous check shirt, either red or blue in colour, and a pair of well-worn jeans.

He didn’t want to admit it, but Eamon missed being on a case.  Feeling a little embarrassed at the thought, he knew what he would really like was to be involved in a good murder.  He didn’t want people to be killed, but he did enjoy helping look for clues, solving puzzles.  He loved his job at Condell Street, and was excited about the new developments he was being asked to introduce.  But out of the office, just occasionally, he hoped there might be another case where he could play a role. 

He guessed Penny missed investigating a murder, too.  She was busy, yet he sensed she found trying to solve the robberies a rather mechanical task, and she, too, wanted something more:  a strange death, confusing clues …

Jolted out of his reflections, Eamon realised it was time to get over to his home and prepare the dinner. 

Penny and Eamon lived in an Edwardian worker’s cottage in Fitzroy, single fronted, with two rooms and a bathroom of a hall running on one side from the front door, and opening out into a kitchen area and lounge/dining room.  It was ideal for two, but somehow when Dan came to visit, the whole cottage seemed to shrink, and felt more like a Hobbit’s burrow at Bag End.  Even when he sat down to eat Dan filled the room!

Dan was finishing his second glass of wine.

‘Kids.  Gotta be kids, kids after some easily nicked goods to sell, getting cash to pay for drugs.’

‘Seems to be the case, Dan.’

‘Gotta be.  They never take much, just the usual: electronics, phones, laptops, anything easily sold.  Don’t even go for jewellery.  It’s gunna be hard to catch them.’

‘No fingerprints?’

‘You know what, Eamon, even kids know to wear gloves nowadays.  Nothing.  Just break a window in a back door, go in, grab, and go.’

‘You’ve got people watching the area?’

This time it was Penny who responded.

‘Eamon, there isn’t an area.  Break-ins seem to take place all over the metro area.  So, while it’s probably kids, they must have a car.’

The conversation wandered on, and then the evening was over. 

As he was cleaning up, Eamon thought about the robberies Penny and Dan discussed over dinner.  It wasn’t an exciting issue, but he did like getting drawn into an investigation, the thrill of playing detective.  Another foray into the world of crime would give him that small but exciting sideline to his daytime work he’d been seeking.  It wasn’t a murder, but it would be fun if he could help with this case.  He’d talk to Penny about it in the morning.

Chapter 2:  Wednesday 3 February

‘The thing is, Eamon, these robberies are going to be very hard to stop.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s just kids.  They drive somewhere, anywhere, spend some time carefully watching a street, and then pick a house to break into while everyone is at work or away.  They could strike anywhere.’

‘No pattern?’

‘None we can see.’

‘Why not put pins on a map?  I might see a pattern you lot have missed, one which isn’t obvious, if you just tell me the addresses.’

‘Yea, I could draw up a list.  We’ve got one set up at work, but if you can find a map of Melbourne, we could put it up on our noticeboard too.’

‘Will do.’

As they set up the board and Penny pinned the places where she could remember recent robberies had occurred, it was her turn to ask a question.  ‘And how are you going on your future publishing plans at Condell Street?’

‘Made one decision, and one to go.’

‘And?’

‘I’m going to publish Celia O’Neill’s poetry book.  It’s very good, and while I know we have little chance of even breaking even, they are great poems.  As I told Ian weeks ago, sometimes we should publish something because it needs to be published, not just because it is going to make us a profit.’

‘Will he agree?’

Eamon smiled. 

‘You know Ian.  He complained, said we weren’t in the business of losing money, it wasn’t our job to contribute to the future of literature, poetry is a specialist market, etc., etc.  Then after he’s finished carrying on, he just said ‘yes’!   He wants us to branch out more, and I think he would love Condell Street to become known as a literary publisher.’

‘I’m really pleased:  Celia is a lovely young woman.’

‘Yes, she is, and it will be a great fillip to her as she starts university.’

‘And the detective novel?  I thought it was good, and I didn’t work out who’d done it.  The ending was a real surprise.’

‘Ian’s keen, but I still can’t decide Penny. I am going to try to get some information from Brian, over at Penguin Books.  In one way he’s a rival, but at the same time he’s a friend, and he might be able to tell me a bit about the market.’

‘Eamon.’

‘Yea.’

‘I’d love a good murder!’

It seemed he was right.  She was feeling the same way he did about the lack of exciting cases. 

Eamon laughed. 

‘So would I.  One where we could work together some of the time.’

Penny laughed too.

‘It’s not good to want someone to be murdered, but kids stealing stuff is, I hate to say it, is a bit boring.’

‘They really are all over the place.’

‘I know.  I can’t see a pattern, although they are avoiding the southeast.  These kinds may have realised they might stand out in the quiet leafy suburbs.’

Walking over to Condell Street, Eamon decided to try the coffee at Breakfast Thieves.  It was early, and Ian had told him the Haymaker Blend was really tasty.  He could give it a try, enjoy the quiet at the beginning of the day, and still be in the office at a reasonably early hour.

He snagged a high stool at the window table, and sipped on his coffee as he looked outside.  Coming here was turning out to be a big mistake.  It wasn’t the coffee, that was great; it was the smell of the breakfasts being cooked and eaten around him which was tempting.  He had planned to use this stop on the way in to work to think about publishing issues, but the idea drifted away in the aroma of toast, bacon, eggs and coffee.  He’d have to come over with Penny one morning. 

By the time he arrived at the office, he was hungry.  Could he get Jenny to get him a muffin?  He could, but he decided to be strong.  It wasn’t just being virtuous.  Penny had poked him in the stomach the other day, and accused him of getting flabby!

He’d prevaricated enough.  It was time to call Brian.

‘Brian, how are you?’

‘Good.  You?’

‘Great.’

‘I guess this isn’t a social call, it’s too early in the day for that.  What are you after?’

‘I wanted to pick your brains.’

‘Sounds disgusting.  When?’

‘When are you free?’

‘As it happens, Eamon, I’m coming in to the city this afternoon.  Coffee at the RACV Club?’

‘Great.  When?’

‘I could be there around 3 pm.’

The RACV Club was Eamon’s one indulgence.  Before he had taken on the job at Condell Street, a life spent hopping between various poorly paid part-time jobs meant he had little money for anything other than clothes, food and drink.  Now he could afford to do a bit more, he decided the Royal Automobile Club of Victoria’s membership club would be an ideal place to entertain authors. 

The club has very little to do with the roadside service activities of the RACV, even though it is one of the divisions of the motoring organisation.  Housed in relatively new premises on Bourke Street, it has a nice bistro on the ground floor, with a small coffee lounge to one side.  There is an extensive gym and fitness area with a swimming pool, which Eamon was always planning to use, as well as several other food outlets.  However, it was the Bistro he headed for in the afternoon, knowing Brian would be going there, as this was his favourite meeting place, too.

Brian looked tired when he sat down.

‘You OK?"

‘Yea, mate.  Just a few bits of family business keeping me busy in the evenings.  Angela’s mother died a couple of weeks ago, and I was appointed executor of her estate.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that:  your mother-in-law dying, I mean.’

‘Thanks.  She’d been ill for a while, in fact ever since her husband died two years ago, and we were prepared.  However, when it happened, it was still a bit of a shock:  I guess the good news was she passed away in her sleep.’

‘I think it’s the way I’d like to go, too.’

‘I agree.  Anyway, I had no idea I was going to be her executor, and right now I’m right in the middle of filing for probate, and tons of other paperwork.’

‘Not fun?’

‘I have an author who’s a legal bloke, and he’s been advising me.  It’s not too bad.  Just a complicated process, with lots of documents to be lodged here and there, and various things to check.  However, the paperwork’s not where the trouble is.’

‘Trouble?’

‘Yes, trouble.  Angela is one of three children, and they are already squabbling about who is going to get what.’

‘Problems over the will?’

Brian shook his head.

‘No, the will and the overall estate, that’s all fine.  No, the trouble is over the family heirlooms and what each person wants as something to remember their mother by:  boy, they’re already going at each other, and I’m getting some of the blame.’

‘Why you?’

‘Both Angela’s brother and her sister say things are missing, and they are pointing the finger at us.  I was accused of smuggling heirlooms out of the house, and hiding them away for Angela.  I hadn’t, of course, but I agree there are a couple of things which seem to have disappeared.  She had a collection of porcelain in one of those glass-fronted corner cabinets, and in pride of place was a Staffordshire milkmaid.  When I went to look for it over the weekend, I found out at least one of their complaints was true: it wasn’t there.’

‘I guess someone took it.’

‘Yes, and now I have to work out who it was.  I told them it wasn’t Angela. As a result, her brother and sister have decided it must have been me.  I have to tell you, Eamon, families can get pretty snippy!’

They stopped talking while a waitress took their coffee orders.

‘Two flat whites, please.’

Brian returned to his family worries.

‘That’s not all.  She had a brooch, a cameo, you know the sort of thing - a woman’s head carved in white, standing out in relief from a brown background.  I don’t think it’s very valuable, but Angela’s sister has her heart set on it, and no one can find the brooch either.  For my sins, I’ve decided I must take some more time tonight to go and search the house again.  Right now, Eamon, families: I’ve had them up to here.’

The coffees arrived, and Brian looked over at Eamon.

‘So, Eamon, what’s up?’

‘I’m thinking about publishing a murder mystery.’

‘Mate, are you trying to add to my woes.  We might be bigger than you, but we still don’t like competition!’

Eamon smiled. 

‘I don’t think you would even look at this one.  However, it might be a promising small development for us, and I wanted to learn a bit more about the area.’

‘You’re paying for coffee?’

‘Yea.’

‘And a cake if I order one?’

‘Yea.’

‘OK.  Male or female author?’

‘Male.’

‘Eamon, that’s not a good start!  Male murder writers tend to like the gruesome stuff, blood, nasty things done to the body, graphic, y’know what I mean.  Their detectives are usually damaged people, alcoholics, druggies, up to no good themselves.  There is often a thriller element, too, with police, FBI, spies etc. Is it more like a thriller?’

‘No, not really.  More about following clues and sorting out complications.’

‘Hmm, more of a puzzle then, the body found in a locked room, that sort of thing?’

‘Yes, I’d describe it as a murder puzzle style of a book.’

‘I know my first piece of advice is obvious.  In fact, it is quite simple: if you do want to get into this area, decide where you want to specialise.  I’ve already told you the typical male writer’s style.  Women authors are more into ambiguity, clever complications, clues and puzzles inside puzzles.  They appeal to a very different type of reader.  Overall, I think Condell Street is known for more cerebral material, and I’d be cautious about something which is all chases, blood and guts.  Of course, murder mysteries tend to appeal to a smaller market.  Successful thrillers often sell in bigger numbers.’

‘It really is a true detective story, although there’s a thriller element alongside the mystery.’

‘If it is a mystery, then your readers are going to expect challenges, but ones that are fair.  The clues, or at least most of them, need to be in the story, even if they take a bit of work to be found.  Your marketing is going to have to focus on the challenge of solving puzzles rather than over the top drama and horror.’

‘OK.’

‘The ones which turn out to be the more successful books seem to need a credible investigator, a detective who sounds realistic.  I think the last bit is key.  Someone with minor flaws is acceptable, but someone you’d like to meet.  I’d avoid one of these characters who spends his time leaping out from behind a bush brandishing a Glock and is capable of every known form of one-man unarmed combat.  My view is it’s better to have a detective who’s sort of normal, well normally odd, if you know what I mean.  Bit of UST goes down well, too.’

‘UST?’

‘Unresolved sexual tension, Eamon.’

‘Oh, yea.  Got it.  UST.  Sure.’

The more they talked, the more Eamon’s spirits rose.  The manuscript might not lead to a best seller, but in the same way he had for many of the non-fiction Condell Street publications in the past, he was feeling increasingly confident he might have a successful author. 

As Eamon saw it, Derek Shield had written a story with a private investigator who could attract a viable and loyal readership, a readership which might be willing to buy further stories based on the same character. 

No unresolved sexual tension, though:  he might have to talk to Derek about what sounded like a significant omission! 

Brian was good, and all for the price of a cup of coffee, since the cake got forgotten in the conversation.

‘Do you want a reader to look at what you’ve got?’

‘I think it would be taking friendship too far!  No, I’ve had a couple of people look at the manuscript and give it the thumbs up, and I just have to decide if it’s an area we want to enter.’

The conversation drifted on to competitors and recent books.  Brian had an extensive knowledge of the publishing scene in Australia, and knew quite a lot about publishing in the UK,