First Tuesday: Any Price a Winner...Even Murder!

By Richard Harrison

National Velvet Meets The Usual Suspects

The Melbourne Cup is the biggest horse race in Australia, and tensions are high as the event draws closer.

But when leading jockey Alan de Silva is killed in a late night hit and run, the atmosphere turns from excitement to fear.

As the investigation begins, suspicions fall on the powerful and ruthless casino boss, Albert Maressmo.

But why would Maressmo harm his own jockey on the eve of the race?

Former jockey turned policeman Frank Dennis is determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. As the crowds gather at Flemington to watch the event, Dennis must navigate the glamorous and cut-throat world of horse racing to uncover the truth.

But with time running out and the pressure mounting, can he solve the puzzle before the race is run?

In a thrilling climax, the cup becomes a battle of wills between two jockeys, and just as the finish line approaches, an unexpected twist reveals the killer.

Will justice be served, or will the culprit escape into the chaos of the event?

Fans of suspenseful murder mysteries with a backdrop of high-stakes horse racing will love this gripping story of betrayal, greed and redemption.

Don't wait to uncover the shocking truth.

Get your copy of First Tuesday now before the price changes!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Harrison
• Release date: Mar 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393207191

Richard Harrison

Richard Harrison is an Australian author and speaker. He resides on Victoria's Mornington Peninsula, having lived (for ten years) in England, where he launched and established the iconic Australian garden maintenance franchise - Jim's Mowing throughout the UK. His hilarious gardening misadventures became the subject of his first book -The Export Gardener, before he wrote the novel - First Tuesday, a murder mystery set against the backdrop of the Melbourne Cup. Richard’s latest book - Stumped: One Cricket Umpire, Two Countries, is a very funny and truly unique memoir of his fifteen year umpiring career, in both England and Australia. He is currently writing a book entitled Quando, Quondo, Quando: Learning Italian late in life. An entertaining speaker, Richard is available to attend corporate, social and fundraising events throughout Australia.

Book preview

Chapter 1

4.00am and Alan Da Silva skips off an escalator.

He winks at a giant Jack of Spades and glides into the Crown Casino car park, failing to notice the dark sedan creeping past the adjacent stairwell.

Brushing back his dyed blonde hair, he walks briskly towards his late model Mercedes convertible.

The dark sedan turns to follow him.

Da Silva stops, takes a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and wedges one between his lips. With a deft flick of his silver Zippo he lights up, rocking his head back, as he draws the smoke into his lungs.

He cannot hear the engine of the dark sedan, given the constant hum of the air conditioning system overhead. Nor does he sense how quickly the car has accelerated until it is upon him.

Da Silva turns sharply, blinded by a sudden flash of light. The car’s high beam neatly reflected in the thick gold bracelet that dangles from his wrist, as he tries to shield his eyes.

A mesh grill smashes his knees, as his head collides with the vehicle’s hood. The car hurls his slender frame high into the air, his shoulder bouncing off its windscreen before his limp, lifeless body careers into the concrete floor.

Tyres screech and echo, as the dark sedan turns and races up the exit ramp, leaving the car park otherwise deserted.

The only movement is a constant stream feeding the crimson halo that surrounds the jockey’s battered skull.

Chapter 2

Jack Morgan’s day begins with a sequence of high pitched beeps from his bedside clock radio. A typical start, for a man forty years a racehorse trainer.

He throws a sheet and two blankets across a sagging mattress and sits up, looking at a photo of his late wife that he keeps in a silver frame on a bedside table.

With a thick mop of greying hair draped over sleep ridden eyes, he stretches his arms above his head, his pyjama jacket riding up to expose a modest torso, yet one quite respectable for a man of sixty three.

He shuffles towards an old wicker chair, buried as it is beneath a pair of crudely patched denim jeans, a faded green polo shirt and navy blue woollen jumper with holes worn in both elbows. He dresses himself, pulling on the second of two leather boots, as a kettle whistles on the stove in the kitchen.

Sally Morgan, twenty-six years Jack’s tom boy daughter, lifts the kettle from the stove and pours its contents into three separate cups. She places one on a table in front of a bowl of cereal, rapidly being devoured by seventeen year old stable apprentice Jerry Chapman.

‘Morning Dad’ Sally says.

‘Morning Mr. Morgan’ Jerry adds.

‘Morning lad’ Jack replies and ‘Thanks darl’ as Sally hands him a cup of black coffee.

He walks over to the window, peels back a curtain and peers outside into a still, dark October morning.

‘Rained a bit last night Mr. Morgan’ Jerry chirps. ‘Reckon the track might cut up a bit.’

‘Could do’ Jack mutters, sipping from his cup.

The front door of their modest weatherboard swings open and Jack shuffles outside. Sally follows then Jerry, catching the rebounding fly wire on his foot, as he closes the door behind him.

The first ritual of the morning is to load three horses onto their truck, for the five minute commute to the training tracks at Mornington racecourse.

Jack Morgan’s three tonne Bedford may be fifteen years old but reliable enough.

Sally walks towards a small stable block, opens each door and warmly greets its tenant. The last horse to be loaded and the first to step off will be the stable’s leading light - Star Chaser, a chestnut mare with a white blaze and a gentle temperament. Star Chaser is leased from her breeder, raced in partnership and the best chance Jack will ever have of winning the biggest race on the Australian racing calendar.

Far and above the best horse Jack Morgan has ever trained, Star Chaser followed her victory in the Turnbull Stakes, with a fast finishing fourth in the Caulfield Cup.

She is currently quoted at odds of twelve to one to win the Melbourne Cup in five days’ time.

Sally steps inside the mare’s stable.

‘Hello Rosie’ she whispers, ‘leaving for the office again.’

She kneels down and bandages the mare’s legs, as Rosie gently nibbles at her pony tail.

Star Chaser is led onto the truck, before Jack swings a rail into position and fastens a bracket.

‘Right darl?’ he calls to Sally.

‘Yep’ she replies.

A tug on the rail assures him it is safely fixed in place. He steps off the tailgate and raises it shut.

Sally and Jerry are already sitting in the cabin, as Jack opens the door and lifts himself into the driver’s seat.

Chapter 3

It is 5.00am when Inspector Frank Dennis arrives in the Crown Casino car park.

Holding a striped, polyester tie to his chest, he ducks under a yellow tape the uniforms have stretched between each of six concrete pillars. The tape defines the area as a CRIME SCENE with the accompanying instruction - DO NOT CROSS.

Crown Casino Public Relations Manager, Tiffany Kirk-Jones has charged herself with the responsibility of convincing the attending media, that what has transpired ‘was clearly a dreadful accident.’

The press, completely disinterested in her version of events, are even proving immune to the flirting skills she has spent years honing in the company of the nation’s elite sportsmen.

Dennis lifts the corner of a grey blanket, satisfies himself with a glance at the corpse and ushers the ambulance crew away - a white chalk outline defining the spot where the body of superstar jockey and millionaire, Alan Da Silva was found.

The ambulance drives away slowly. There is no need for sirens or haste.

Dennis speaks to the uniformed officers who were first on the scene. There are no witnesses. At least not in the car park. A number of patrons had seen Da Silva leave the casino but none could be sure of the time. The croupier working the $100 minimum Blackjack table figured the time to be around four, as she had begun her shift shortly after three. She reported that Da Silva was alone at the table the whole time she was there, had not spoken to anyone other than a drinks waiter, lost ‘a bit’ and did not appear to be drunk or upset.

‘What do you call a bit?’ To lose I mean’ Dennis asks.

She thinks for a moment, nervously biting her lip.

‘Probably a thousand, fifteen hundred maybe’ she says. ‘He would win some hands and lose others but overall he would have lost. At least while I was there anyway.’

‘Did he say anything before he left?’

She shakes her head.

‘Did anyone else leave at the same time or did you see anyone follow him?’ Dennis asks.

Nervously she replies ‘No’ feeling the Inspector is becoming frustrated with her modest input.

‘Did you happen to notice if he walked to the escalator straight away? Did he go to the bar, the toilet, did he talk to anyone?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so’ she replies.

‘You don’t think so?’ he says.

Shrugging her shoulders, she protests ‘I didn’t take any notice. I didn’t even know who he was until someone else told me!’

The Inspector thanks her for her time, walks over to Constable Mike Ryan and asks if the statements he and the others had collected can shed any light.

‘Not much sir I’m afraid, a couple of car park attendants heard a car racing off, but apparently people speed out of here all the time. They didn’t see anything either. People pay to park when they come in and the exit ramp is 100 metres away.’

‘Inspector!’

Dennis ignores Tiffany Kirk-Jones as she approaches.

‘Inspector!’

‘Yes madam’ he replies, his eyes roaming the circumference of her bright red and elaborately permed hair.

She extends her hand towards him, several silver bracelets contoured on her wrist.

‘Tiffany Kirk-Jones Inspector. I am the Media Director for the casino.’

Dennis shakes her hand, noting her shocking pink nail polish and striking olive complexion.

He greets her, reluctantly.

‘How do you do’ he says.

Kirk-Jones holds her hands together. She touches both index fingers to her chin, as if in deep thought and gestures to the policeman.

‘Inspector, may I ask, before you might make any statement to the press, just what you have concluded thus far.’

Dennis stands with his hands buried in his pockets.

‘Not a great deal at this stage madam. The body was discovered shortly after four o’clock. The injuries the victim suffered are entirely consistent with him being struck by a motor vehicle at some speed. A car was heard driving off at the time the incident occurred, but at this stage we do not have any witnesses.’

‘And are you treating it as an accident. I mean clearly…’

‘Madam’ he interrupts. ‘I am not treating it as anything at this stage. Tell me, we believe the deceased is in fact the famous jockey Alan Da Silva, Who I am told is a friend and associate