Tropic Of Death

By Robert Sims

In this strikingly written crime novel, Robert Sims takes us on a thrilling journey into the dark mind of yet another disturbing killer.

When a little girl finds a severed head buried in sand on a beach in Whitley, the locals are sent into a tailspin. Little do they know it's only the first of series of grisly murders that will sully their normally idyllic resort town.

After the body of local greens activist Rachel Macarthur is discovered minus her head and hands, the local police call on Melbourne profiler, Detective Rita Van Hassel, to help track down the killer.

What Rita finds on arriving in Whitley are not the tranquil tropical waters and magical hinterland rainforest of the tourist ads for northern Queensland, but a seething hotbed of intrigue and malignant passion, where nothing is as it seems and no one can be trusted.

As the murders continue, the pressure on Rita reaches boiling point, and she must muster all her profiling knowledge and ingenuity to help catch the killer before he strikes again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arena
• Release date: May 1, 2009
• ISBN: 9781741768688

Robert Sims

Robert Sims is the President of The Educational Publisher Inc., Biblio Publishing.

Book preview

Robert Sims grew up in Melbourne, going straight from high school to journalism and working in an array of newspaper and radio jobs. He took a career break from journalism to complete a degree in politics and philosophy, then spent more than twenty years in London working for Independent Radio News, ITN and the BBC. Robert and his wife and young sons now live in Melbourne.

Tropic of Death is Robert’s second novel; his first, The Shadow Maker, was published in 2007.

1

ROBERT SIMS

19781741768688txt_0005_001

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

First published in 2009

Copyright © Robert Sims 2009

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Arena Books, an imprint of

Allen & Unwin

83 Alexander Street

Crows Nest NSW 2065

Australia

Phone: [phone]

Fax: [phone]

Email: [e-mail]

Web: www.allenandunwin.com

Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available

from the National Library of Australia

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ISBN 978 1 74175 671 5

Set in 12/15 pt Adobe Garamond Pro by Bookhouse, Sydney

Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

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‘And this also . . . has been one of the dark places of the earth.’

Joseph Conrad

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

1

The little girl stood back and admired her sandcastle. It sat there, a shapeless blob, on the wide wet flank of the estuary. Seagulls were wheeling and cawing overhead. A breeze ruffled the waves in the distance. The sludge from drains traced the rim of a sandbank a few yards away from her. Over on the far shore, the concrete bulk of grain silos loomed against the sky and dirty-looking smoke drifted from factory chimneys.

The day had an unsettled mood, something shrill in the air and, among the parrots fighting over fast-food scraps, a hint of tainted innocence. But the child didn’t sense it, not even in the distant boom of artillery rumbling over the mudflats from the testing range beyond. She’d made her mark and her soul was content. She bent down and topped her castle with a flag made from a piece of tissue. It fluttered in defiance of the tide that would sweep her small work of art into oblivion.

Her mother sat on a promenade seat. She smoked and stared with empty eyes into the middle distance where a tourist launch headed out towards the Great Barrier Reef. Its wake rippled among the mangrove thickets of a nearby inlet. The girl waved but the mother didn’t notice, so she drifted off to look for shells. She passed a bait digger who stooped beside his pail, slopping mud with his spade. He watched her darkly. She said hello, but he just nodded in response. She wandered over to a clump of seaweed and squatted and tugged at a slimy strand. It dislodged something strange in the mud. She gazed in fascination. Then she went back to the bait digger. He paused and looked at her with irritation, and she smiled at him.

‘There’s a man in the mud,’ she said.

He didn’t say anything, just stared at her through cold eyes. ‘There is,’ she insisted. ‘A man in the mud. Come and see.’ He leant on his spade and watched her plod back to the seaweed and point at something.

‘Come and see.’

He sighed and jabbed in his spade so it stood upright, and then he squelched across to her. She was pointing triumphantly.

‘See! I told you!’

At first he just saw a muddy lump and a crab scuttling away. Then he saw the shape of the severed head. The skin was death-white. Parts of the face had been eaten away. The little girl was still pointing excitedly as the bait digger began to vomit. She looked at him with disappointment.

2

‘Still with us, Van Hassel?’

The greeting, from DSS Wayne Strickland, was meant to be ironic. It drew an indulgent smile from Detective Sergeant Marita Van Hassel as she brushed past him into the squad room.

‘Till I get my ticket of leave,’ she replied.

‘Ticket to ride is more like it,’ said Strickland. ‘And an easy ride at that.’

‘Does that mean you want to keep me in the squad?’

‘Huh.’ Strickland smoothed back his thinning hair. ‘Do I look like I’m in your fan club?’

The banter contained the usual mock hostility but Rita knew it reflected something deeper. It wasn’t so much dislike as a clash of styles. While Strickland was her immediate boss, he was also her opposite in a number of ways. Like many of her male colleagues he was old school – uncompromising, pragmatic and committed to traditional methods of policing. An astute detective, he was also hard-faced and middle-aged, a man suspicious of innovations such as behavioural analysis and psychological profiles. Rita specialised in these areas after doing the necessary fieldwork and academic study. In Strickland’s eyes that made her an intellectual, as well as a perfect example of the feminising trend within the Victoria Police. When she’d been selected to become a profiler he’d called her overindulged and over-promoted – a fair-haired favourite of reformers who were bent on re-marketing the force.

The barb had been prompted by her photo in Police Life magazine. Rita liked the shot. It captured something of how she saw herself – a woman with an independent mind, a trim figure and the ability to succeed. There she stood between the pillars of Melbourne’s police headquarters, arms folded, head turned sideways to the camera, staring directly into the lens. The pose, in a white linen blazer and trousers, was almost symbolic. With her gaze of concentration and short blonde hair blown back, it showed off her best features – the blue of her eyes, the curve of her cheekbones, the serious expression of her mouth. Her friends told her it was the portrait of an alpha female, but Strickland dismissed it as image manipulation. He said it made her look like a warrior in a pantsuit – part detective, part Visigothic princess. The comment had made her laugh. There was an element of truth in it, not least because of her northern European ancestry.

That had been the low point in their working relationship. Since then he’d mellowed. He also conceded she got results. That’s because she was diligent and assertive, much like Strickland himself. But unlike him, her ambitions were far from realised. At thirty years old, she was convinced her finest achievements lay ahead of her.

‘One thing I’ll admit,’ said Strickland. ‘Things won’t be the same without you.’ He laid on a gritty smile. ‘I’ve actually got used to you being a pain in the arse.’

Despite her breezy manner, Rita was losing patience with the delay over her future role. In the past month she’d officially completed her profiling course, processed a backlog of case files and generally cleared the decks ahead of her next appointment. But the senior commanders at police headquarters were yet to decide where to assign her. They were having trouble finding an appropriate slot for a fully qualified criminal profiler, something of a rare and exotic breed among rank and file officers. Until they made up their minds she remained in limbo, a semi-detached member of the Sexual Crimes Squad, feeling professionally unsatisfied and at a loose end.

With a sigh of frustration she sat down at her desk, dumped her bag next to the keyboard and logged on. The inbox had collected a dozen new emails, mostly routine messages and junk mail, but one item stood out. Titled Man in the Mud, it had two attachments.

Rita clicked on the email and read the covering note: Please look at the attachments then phone me.

It had been sent by an officer she didn’t know, a DS Steve Jarrett based at Whitley police station in Queensland. Already intrigued, Rita opened the first attachment. It contained a copy of a clipping from the local newspaper, the Whitley Times:

WHO IS THE MURDERED ‘man in the mud’?

By Nikki Dwyer

A week after the discovery of a severed head on the northern end of Whitley Beach, police admit they are no nearer to identifying the victim.

A DNA check and searches of dental records have failed to produce any results.

Officers have also been circulating a computerised image, reconstructing the decomposed face, but so far no one has come forward to put a name to it. The victim is described as a male Caucasian in his 20s or 30s, with shoulder-length black hair.

The investigation was launched after the gruesome find by four-year-old Jennifer Griffiths, who dislodged the head while playing on the mudflats of the estuary. She impressed local police and journalists with her composure, describing the grisly object as simply ‘the man in the mud’.

A post-mortem examination showed the unknown homicide victim had been shot through the top of the skull.

Since the initial discovery, more pieces of the dismembered body have floated ashore. Last Friday a handless forearm washed up south of the town and two days ago another macabre find was made by a man walking his pet labrador near the dunes.

To the owner’s horror, the dog retrieved a boot containing a foot.

The officer in charge of the investigation, Detective Sergeant Steve Jarrett, said yesterday it seemed obvious that the body was dumped at sea by someone who failed to take account of local currents.

‘It’s a case of waiting to see what else the tide brings in,’ he said.

When she’d finished reading the article Rita opened the second attachment, a computer-generated image of the victim. The face meant nothing to her. While the crime presented an interesting challenge, she couldn’t see what it had to do with her. Nevertheless, she phoned the number provided and asked for DS Jarrett.

‘Is that Van Hassel?’ drawled a male voice.

‘It is,’ she answered. ‘Are you Jarrett?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘G’day.’

‘G’day to you too, Jarrett. You get this morning’s prize for the most ghoulish email. Any more body parts float your way?’

‘No more human joints of meat,’ he said. ‘Though I did get a false alarm about a torso under the pier. It turned out to be a side of pork wearing a Kakadu T-shirt.’

Rita laughed. ‘Sounds like the deep north has its own brand of humour. Okay, so I’ve caught up with the local news about your corpseless head, but what’s it got to do with me?’

‘That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I was wondering what connections you have up here.’

‘Around Whitley?’ asked Rita, puzzled. ‘None that I know of.

What makes you think I have?’

‘A boot containing your name and a size-eight foot lopped off at the ankle.’

‘I hope this isn’t a piss-take.’

‘I know it sounds weird,’ admitted Jarrett with a dry chuckle, ‘but I’m just trying to make sense of it. That’s why I sent the newspaper article with the background before I spoke to you.’

‘If you’re talking about the boot in the report, how could my name possibly be inside it?’

‘When the crime lab boys in Brisbane extracted the foot they found a soggy beer coaster with four words written on it: Van Hassel Sex Crimes.’

‘You’re sure about this?’ said Rita. ‘It’s not some sort of mix-up?’

‘I’ve got the lab’s digital photos on the screen in front of me,’ answered Jarrett. ‘I’ve done a database check – I even Googled the words – and you’re the only one it can refer to.’

‘I believe you,’ she said. ‘Though I’m less than thrilled that my name was under a severed foot.’

‘Yeah, it’s all a bit gross. Welcome to my horror show.’

‘Describe the beer coaster to me,’ she said.

‘A square cardboard mat with the Four X label on it. Could’ve come from any of the dozens of bars we’ve got around here. This is backpacker central. The words were written on the back with a ballpoint pen, so they survived a soaking.’

‘And what about the foot?’

‘Chopped off post-mortem with something like a heavy meat cleaver, and still wearing a white Nike sock. The DNA matches the other body parts, so it’s the same victim.’

‘Well, no pun intended, but I’m stumped,’ she told him. ‘Got any theories?’

‘I toyed with the idea that a psycho might’ve deliberately planted evidence but I’ve ruled that out. The body parts weren’t meant to be found. Whoever dumped them miscalculated, and the tide did the rest. So that leaves me with one working theory, for what it’s worth.’

‘Let’s hear it.’

‘I think our victim might have heard, or overheard, something about you while he was in a bar up here. So as not to forget, he picked up the nearest thing to hand – a beer coaster – wrote down your name and squad, and concealed the information in his boot because he was worried it might be discovered on him.

Before he could contact you, he was murdered, dismembered and dumped at sea. What do you reckon?’

‘Could be.’

‘Of course, that leaves me with the burning question: what’s your connection up here?’

‘I can’t think of any,’ she sighed. ‘But I’ll check back through the files.’

‘Thanks. At the moment this case is going nowhere. The man in the mud is starting to haunt me.’

‘Anything else I can do?’

‘Just one thing. You can say hello to a colleague of yours, Detective Sergeant Erin Webster.’

‘You know Erin?’

‘Yeah, she’s uh . . .’ He paused. ‘She’s a friend of mine.’

‘Mine too.’ His hesitation made Rita curious. ‘How do you know her?’

‘We worked a case together a few years back when I was still stationed in Sydney. A Victorian rapist was on the loose. Erin was sent up as liaison.’

‘I see.’ Rita thought she caught a hint of irony, but she just said, ‘I’ll pass on your greetings.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’

As she hung up Rita was intrigued, not so much by the decapitated head but by Jarrett’s association with Erin. This was her closest friend inside the force, someone to confide in, a woman to share secrets with. But there’d never been any mention of Jarrett. Why? She got up and crossed the squad room to where Erin was working at her desk.

As Rita approached she observed her friend more closely than usual. She was poring over a document, highlighter in hand, a frown of concentration on her freckled face. Typically, there was a restless energy about her as she shifted in her chair; the sign of someone who’d rather be out in the field than pushing paperwork. It was in her background. With her soft hazel eyes, shapely figure and copper-coloured hair pulled back loosely, she had the looks of a country girl from the Wimmera. That was her appeal, along with her provocative smile and a crude sense of humour that had men chasing her even though she was married with a three-year-old son.

But while the marriage was rocky, the only suggestions of infidelity surrounded the husband, a uniformed inspector who insisted on remaining one of the boys. Erin’s days of playing around were supposed to have ended with her wedding vows, or so she’d said, but Rita had her doubts. There was a perennial friskiness about her friend that needed to be satisfied. The more Rita thought about it, the more convinced she was that Erin was not only capable of jumping into bed outside a marital relationship that was part workplace, part battlefield, she was also slick enough to conceal it from her husband, her colleagues and her friends.

Rita stopped in front of her desk, hands on hips. ‘So what have you been getting up to?’

Erin looked up. ‘Well, right now I’m going through the transcript of a public masturbator’s trial from 1978. The old scuzzbag’s reoffended.’ She threw down the highlighter. ‘What about you? Got the nod yet?’

‘No.’ Rita pulled up a chair and sat. ‘Any day now, or so I’m told. But they’d better pull their fingers out or I might choose another career.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve been offered the chance to do a PhD. The workload’s horrendous but it’s tempting. I’m doing little more than twiddling my thumbs at the moment.’

‘You wouldn’t chuck in your career here?’

‘Maybe. An academic post’s an option.’

‘But you’d be wasted among a bunch of eggheads.’

‘They might appreciate me more.’

‘Well I appreciate you. And I need you here.’ Erin sighed.

‘You’re the only one I can really talk to.’

‘Well, while we’re on the subject of talking,’ said Rita, ‘what’s this about a liaison with Steve Jarrett?’

‘Shit.’ Erin glanced around nervously. ‘What’ve you heard?’

‘So it’s true, you tart. And you’ve never breathed a word of it.

Is it still going on?’

‘Not here!’ insisted Erin in a harsh whisper.

She got up and led Rita to the tiled interior of the women’s toilets, checking the cubicles to make sure they were alone before turning abruptly.

‘What’s been said?’ she asked.

‘Nothing I know of,’ Rita answered. ‘It’s just informed guesswork on my part.’

‘Based on what?’

‘Your track record, for a start. Your prenuptial conquests.’ Rita was still amused. ‘Plus, I’ve just got off the phone with Jarrett. He asked me to say hello.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! Men never know when to keep their mouths shut.’ Erin shook her head. ‘Why the call?’

‘A case he’s got in Queensland. My name’s come up.’

‘And he decided to drop mine in passing, silly bugger.’ She relaxed a little. ‘Thank God it was you on the line.’

‘So, what’s the story with you two?’

‘Good beer and good timing.’

‘Come on. Spit it out.’

Erin laughed. ‘You don’t realise how fitting that is.’

‘Knowing you, I’ve got a rough idea.’

‘That’s how it started. On attachment in the Sydney suburbs. Going off-duty with women from the station. Getting pissed at Marrickville RSL. And the question comes up in conversation: spit or swallow?’

‘As it does.’

‘By the time Jarrett joined us I was legless. He helped me out of the club. I thanked him with a blowjob in the car park.’

‘And this was after you got married?’

‘Yeah, but in the middle of a bust-up and before Tristan was born.’

‘What about since?’

‘There’ve been a few opportunities. And I haven’t wasted them.’ Erin leant against the row of basins, her back to the washroom mirror. ‘But, fingers crossed, you’re the only one who’s found out.’

‘And it’ll stay that way.’

Erin jumped forward and gave Rita a hug. ‘That’s why you can’t quit. There’s no one else around here I could trust with that.’

‘What about Jarrett? You trust him?’

‘I need to remind him what discretion means. But, yeah, he’s okay.’

‘So, what’s he like?’

‘A bit of a charmer but, underneath, a decent bloke. Good detective too. The laidback type. Thorough without being macho.’ Erin pushed aside an auburn curl that had come adrift. ‘Not a bad fuck either.’

3

Rachel Macarthur believed that a woman’s ultimate act of nurture was to protect the planet. It was a sacred duty handed down from the time of earth-mother worship at the dawn of humanity, and just as imperative today in the battle to save the environment. With that thought in mind she prepared to declare war on the military establishment of the western world.

Rachel faxed off the last of the press releases, swallowed what was left in her coffee mug and listened to the wet static of the rain spitting against the window. She was waiting for midnight. Around her, the walls of her campaign office were hung with images of ecological disasters. There were posters and leaflets from past protests, and photos of eco-warriors being manhandled by police. Some victories. Some lost causes. There was also a noticeboard devoted to announcements from the Anti-War Coalition, for which Rachel was the local organiser.

Her mind was on the conflict to come as she gazed through the window over the southern outskirts of the town. Beyond the rooftops were the chimneys of the old sugar mill and the line of the docks. Beyond them, somewhere in the darkness on the far side of the estuary, lay the Whitley Sands military research base. She had evidence that the base was polluting the environment with radiation, and tomorrow’s mass protest would bring it to the public’s attention. It was her personal crusade, and she’d gathered enough material to call for an official inquiry. Once that started, there would be a growing clamour to shut the place down. It would be a sweet victory to see Whitley Sands returned to nature.

She looked at her watch and punched a number into her phone but got the ‘unavailable’ message. Freddy had his mobile switched off. She wanted to know why he was ignoring her again. As a computer hacker he couldn’t be bettered, but as a lover he was unreliable. The two hours she’d spent in the pub were a waste of time. He hadn’t shown up. She sighed, tapped her fingers on the desk and went on waiting for midnight.

Dead on twelve the office phone rang. She picked it up. The caller gave no name but she recognised the voice from before.

He’d promised photocopies of classified documents.

‘You’ve got them?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘When can I have them?’

‘Ten minutes, if you can get down to the docks.’

‘I’ll be there. Where do we meet?’

‘The Diamond. You know it?’

‘Of course I do. How will I recognise you?’

‘Don’t worry about that. Just come alone.’

He hung up.

She took a deep breath and phoned for a taxi.

The beam of the taxi’s headlights swept into the narrow lane that led down to the docks. A dark figure was caught momentarily in the glare. It flitted into the shadows of a doorway. The cab driver yanked on his handbrake and peered uneasily down the curve of the black cobblestones to the flickering neon at the bottom of the slope – The Rough Diamond Club.

‘This is as far as I go,’ he said warily. ‘It’s a dead end down there and I’ve been caught before at this time of night. Cost me all my takings and a night in casualty.’

Rachel was also gazing down the alleyway.

‘You were mugged?’

‘Yeah, down by the club. And I’m not the only cabbie. We call it Apache Canyon,’ he said humourlessly. ‘Sure you want to go down there?’

‘I’ve arranged to meet someone.’

As she got out, the driver gave her a dubious look. When she’d paid the fare, the taxi reversed quickly back around the corner, plunging the lane into semi-darkness.

It didn’t bother Rachel. She was about to get hold of hard evidence on excessive radiation levels around the base. She felt excited. The night was shifting around her and the wind was gusting. It had blown away the earlier drizzle, but rolls of thunder were approaching. Lightning flickered at the edges of storm clouds sliding over the town from the Coral Sea. Waves were crashing against the rocks at the harbour entrance.

Rachel shoved her hands into her coat pockets and began walking down the alley towards the neon sign. Her footsteps on the cobbles echoed from the brick walls of boarded-up chandlers’ shops. She was more than halfway down the alley when someone stepped out from a darkened doorway behind her, clasped a hand firmly over her mouth and fired a nail gun at the base of her skull. It was so quick, and Rachel so unprepared, that she didn’t realise immediately what had happened. The thick metal nail ripped down through her body, severing her windpipe and jugular vein before lodging in her ribcage. Her legs crumpled under her as she fell face first into the gutter. Her fingers were sticky with hot blood as she grabbed at her throat and gasped silently for help. The scrape of shoes against the cobbles was in her ears as someone turned behind her, but she was already losing consciousness. It left her just a moment to fix her eyes on the grubby setting of her death. Just time enough to watch the dark stream of her blood flowing down the gutter towards the fading neon sign.

4

Six men sat around a conference table on level six of the Whitley Sands research base, unaware of the deteriorating weather outside. They were in a windowless room more than fifty metres underground. The carpeting, leather chairs and landscapes hanging on the concrete walls did little to dispel the atmosphere of a bunker. The room was sealed and shielded from electronic surveillance so the men could talk freely. No one could eavesdrop, no minutes would be taken and no record of the meeting would ever exist, yet its tentacles stretched beyond national boundaries as far as Washington and London. Officially these men comprised the International Risk Assessment Committee that convened on an irregular basis, but their true role was far more clandestine, with responsibilities in the field of security and intelligence. They formed a covert decision-making cell in the global network conducting the war on terror.

At the head of the table sat the director-general of the base, Lieutenant Colonel Willis Baxter.

‘I wouldn’t have called you here if it wasn’t urgent,’ he said.

‘But we face an immediate threat.’

The man to his right leant forward and asked, ‘From inside or outside?’ His name was Rex Horsley, his accent English home counties.

‘Both,’ was the reply. ‘We’ve intercepted part of a technical report sent to the anti-war movement in the town. It contains classified figures on radiation emissions. We’ve traced the source to level four.’

‘Have you identified the leak?’

‘Not yet, but we’re narrowing the list of suspects.’

‘Surely timing is critical,’ said the Englishman. ‘You’re only hours away from a mass protest at your gates. This whole issue could blow up in your face.’

‘I’m well aware of that,’ said the director-general, ‘which is why I’ve called you here in the middle of the night. That’s what this meeting is about. I want agreement on our immediate strategy.’

An American, Rhett Molloy, spoke next. ‘I hope I don’t have to stress that any breach of security is unacceptable. There’s too much at stake here.’

‘Thanks for stating the obvious,’ said the man sitting opposite.

He was Roy Maddox, the base security director.

‘Let me make myself clear,’ said Molloy, an edge to his voice beneath the smooth West Coast intonation. ‘When I say unacceptable, I mean there can be no risk of secrecy being compromised. None whatsoever. There are no excuses. Failure won’t be tolerated.’

‘Don’t doubt for a moment we’re prepared to do what’s necessary to defend the project,’ said Baxter.

‘Defence is not enough. You have to be proactive in eliminating any threats. Even after the event, they must be traced and silenced.

If there’s any hesitation over this, let me assure you, by one agency or another, absolute secrecy will be enforced.’

‘We’ve already taken steps to limit the damage,’ said the security director. ‘And we’re in the process of putting spoilers in place.’

‘Fine, but half-measures won’t be enough. Let’s not forget why we’re here. This is no ordinary piece of military real estate. This research establishment will produce a crucial weapon for the global coalition against terrorism.’ Molloy spoke with such conviction it sent a chill through the room. ‘We are representatives of an alliance at war. Extreme measures are justified.’

5

The club bouncer came outside to give his eardrums a rest and found himself confronted by a wall of rain and a skyful of pyrotechnics. The storm was at its height, but the noise of the thunder was a relief after the teeth-jarring feedback from the amplifiers. He stood in the doorway of the club and watched a cascade of water churn past the bottom step.

When he’d finished his cigarette he flicked it into the puddle spreading under the entrance canopy. The butt bobbed and drifted with the slow eddy of the current. As he watched it he noticed a trickle of red swirling through the water. It aroused his curiosity. The longer he gazed at the red stain in the puddle, the thicker it got. Looks like blood, he thought.

He peered up the slope through the rain. At first he couldn’t see anything. Then a lightning flash revealed a dark hump in the gutter. Might not be anything. Just a rubbish bag kicked down the alley by larrikins. They were doing it all the time. But the stain kept coming and he got a bad feeling about it.

He went back inside the club, then emerged again and, hoisting a striped umbrella over his head, stepped out into the pouring rain. Nearly halfway up the alley he stopped beside the crumpled shape in the gutter. The darkness and the splash of water all around made it difficult to be sure of what he’d found. But when he prodded it with his shoe he caught his breath. He was bending over for a closer look when another flash came – and left him standing bolt upright. The twisted shape of the dead body seemed to leap out at him from the gutter.

The bouncer hurried back to the club. Just one minute later he was back out again, this time with the manager. The two men stood under the umbrella with the rain soaking their shoes and trousers, while the manager shone a torch on the slumped figure and swore under his breath. Parts of the body were missing. There was no head. Where the neck should be there was a raw gaping wound still leaking blood. Part of the spine was protruding. The hands had also been cut off.

When Detective Sergeant Steve Jarrett arrived police had already taped off the alley and a photographer was taking close-ups of the body in the glare of arc lights. A uniformed constable was helping to keep the rain off by holding one of the supports of the overhead plastic sheeting. The duty doctor sat in a police incident van nearby. He was writing in his notebook that he’d pronounced life extinct in the homicide victim. Scene-of-crime officers were examining the narrow surroundings.

Jarrett got out of his car, turned up the collar of his jacket and walked around the parked patrol vehicles. Then he stepped over the tape and jogged down the alley. The downpour had eased to a steady shower. The lightning and thunder had receded down the coast. A faint glimmer of first light appeared beneath the rim of the clouds in the east.

Inside the club officers were questioning the customers. The music and drinking had stopped, all the lights were on, no one was allowed to leave and the mood was getting ugly. Jarrett was greeted with catcalls, jeers and feral eyes. A detective constable came over to him.

‘E-freaks,’ he said. ‘They want to go on raving till dawn.’

Jarrett shook his head sombrely. ‘I called the pathologist before I left. He should be here in about ten minutes.’ He looked around. ‘What have we got so far?’

‘A headless woman,’ said the constable. ‘No purse, no ID on her. No weapon at the scene. No hands either.’

Jarrett gave him a heavy look. ‘Just what we need – another anonymous victim with missing body parts.’

6

The turnout for the protest was better than expected despite the fierce midday sun and tropical humidity. More than a thousand demonstrators were marching along the road bordering defence department land towards the gates of the Whitley Sands research base. Rachel Macarthur had organised it well. There was a good media contingent – radio journalists, local newspaper reporters, photographers, a TV crew – and a low-profile police presence. But where was Rachel herself? Her fellow organisers had decided not to wait for her. They started the march on schedule and hoped she’d arrive in time for the sit-down demo and rallying speeches in front of the gates.

The chanting and placard-waving intensified as the marchers converged on

Reviews for Tropic Of Death

[cookiemo_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I won this book so felt I must read it. It is a 'who dunnit' but seems slightly different to the normal one. It is told from the point of view of a profiler. The setting is different too as it involves a government 'spy' base which is not what it seems.

[austcrimefiction · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

TROPIC OF DEATH is the second book by Australian journalist, author Robert Sims, featuring Detective Rita Van Hassel, Criminal Profiler.Criminal Profiling isn't overly common in Australian Police Forces, and Rita is one of the first in Melbourne in TROPIC OF DEATH. Begrudgingly, finally allowed to set up her own speciality support "department", she is called to Whitley in Queensland to assist when the grisly body count starts rising. Whitley is one of those sleepy Queensland idyllic towns from the tourist brochures - beach and rainforest. What Rita finds is all the brochures offer, as well as a US defence base, green activists and - as the book blurb puts it - a hotbed of malignant passion.TROPIC OF DEATH is an interesting combination of a police procedural and a great big conspiracy thriller. Rita is a very good, interesting, police character and she and the local police form a classic police investigation team trying to solve a series of particularly gruesome killings - albeit that criminal profiling is a new activity for Australian crime fiction as well. Behind the killings there is a conspiracy thriller. Big government, anonymous men in darkened cars going thump in the night, magicked away problems, computer hackers, sinister computer systems and so on. There are touches of Rita's personal life as well, and some of those relationships intertwine within the main storyline of the book, giving context for some introductions and connections which help make sense of how a girl from Melbourne can get inside a Queensland story with some ease. The police investigation component of this book - and Rita and her offsider Steve Jarratt work really well together. For this reader, the big conspiracy, government's doing shady doings, hackers in virtual reality helmets, big brother computer systems didn't. Whilst those sorts of thriller plots do sometimes work, this one didn't - possibly because it was all just a bit too much over the top for me - disappointing, as I particularly liked other aspects of the book. I found the use of the Australian context for a criminal profiler interesting and I'm looking forward to see where Rita goes in future books. Personal quibbles aside, if you're a fan of the big conspiracy, and you'd like to see it done with a great female central character, then you really should read TROPIC OF DEATH.