Murder Mystery on the Murray: Jane Christie Mystery Book, #2

By Victoria Kosky

A murder buried for three decades. A daughter determined to unearth the truth. A cold case gone frigid.

 

Three decades on, Jane Christie is still haunted by her father's murder. Returning to her hometown, she's determined to get closure. But the clues are obscure: DNA on the killer's knife and a hidden diary. The diary exposes a shadowy commune of potential culprits. But when she tracks down a retired cop to dig up key details, she's shocked to find him strangled to death.

 

Working with her handsome private detective boyfriend, Jane's last hope lies in immersing herself in the New Age cult. She goes undercover as one of the burned-out executives enrolled for a rebooting seminar. Zora, her loyal factotum creates mayhem in the community kitchen.

 

Jane's investigation reveals a shocking truth that threatens the community's secretive existence. As the bodies mount up, Jane must expose an elusive predator before more innocents fall victim to his sinister lies. Will Jane find closure for her father's murder at last, at what cost?

 

If you like amateur sleuths, complex puzzles, and quirky humour, then you'll love this suspenseful page-turner. Buy Murder on the Murray to bring evil to light today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Kosky
• Release date: May 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201016807

Victoria Kosky

Victoria Kosky refuses to let age or approaching senility prevent her from accomplishing a lifelong dream. She writes satirical crime fiction and crafts gay, light-hearted stories of murder and mayhem. As Ray Bradbury said, ‘I don’t believe in being serious about anything. I think life is too serious to be taken seriously’.  With two degrees, she has enjoyed several diverse careers that no one is interested in. Motherhood was a highlight for her; she achieved two high distinctions in child-rearing. One of her son’s is six-foot-four-inches tall, and the other measures six-foot-five. ‘Retirement is the greatest adventure of my life,’ said Victoria. ‘Sure, the body isn’t what it used to be, but as long as I have my marbles, I’ll keep writing.’ Although her primary goal is to not die yet, she has even bigger goals: writing fifty novels before her mind goes. (I’m not kidding her father had brain atrophy in his seventies. You can see that bewildered look, and she’s only sixty-six.) Take pity on the old girl and read her books before her time runs out.

Book preview

Prologue

THIRTY-THREE-YEARS AGO.

Thunder rumbled overhead as rain lashed our shingled roof. A comforting sound when huddled before a crackling log fire. The grandfather clock in the hall tolled nine on the hour. All the lights were on, but I’d pulled back the lounge room drapes to catch the cracks of lightning that illuminated the night sky. I’d always loved storms. When I was small and frightened by the crashing thunder, Dad had explained it was God playing the drums; I imagined nothing terrible would happen during such boisterous celebrations in heaven.

Hand embroidering, Mum sat in her favourite wing-back before the open fire; the flames casting a warm orange glow. Dad reflected on a bible passage and scribbled something in the margin. I remember thinking he seemed very studious for a Monday evening. He spent Saturdays polishing his sermon for the next morning; the whole of Sunday he spent ministering in one form or another; so Monday was our family day and Dad’s day of rest.

I lounged on the couch, facing the window. Final exams were fast approaching, so I was trying to do some revision for English Literature. Soon I’d be heading off to university.

A clap of thunder boomed like an explosion, making me flinch. The lights went out.

‘Oh bother,’ said Mum. She pricked herself with the needle. In the firelight, she examined her embroidery for bloodstains.

‘It must be a fuse,’ said Dad, setting down his reading with a groan.

‘Jane, could you find the torch?’ asked Mum.

They needed to get an electrician to check the wiring. It had not been updated in the fifty years since they built the house.

‘I’ll find the candles,’ said Mum, groping her way towards the kitchen pantry.

‘It’s not a blackout. The lights across the street are still on,’ I said, peering through the curtains.

Dad headed down the hall, bumping the pedestal with the maidenhair fern and muttering. He tested the occasional light switch, finding them unresponsive. The fuse box was tucked away in the basement at the rear of the house.

‘Wait, Dad. I’ll get the torch,’ I called after him.

He’d opened the door of the basement and peered down the stairs into the gloom. ‘Don’t bother Jane, the street lamp is shining through the window,’ he said, starting down the stairs.

So, I forgot about the torch and followed him.

Dad had reached the bottom as I started down the staircase. I don’t really know why I was trailing him. It’s not as if I knew anything about fuses.

He said something about locating extra fuse wire and that he had spares in his desk.

Light spilled through the double-hung window over the old washing machine, enough to make out vague outlines and slanting shadows in the cavernous space. With a start, I noticed the window gaped open, wind rustling the curtains. A flash of lightning lit the yard for a fraction of a second. I gasped, imagining someone outside, but it was only a swaying tree.

I took the steps gingerly, feeling my way because the stairs were rickety.

‘Found it,’ said Dad with satisfaction.

I reached the foot of the stairs.

Dad crossed to the electrical board on the far wall. A shape materialised from the darkness. Someone hunkered down, hiding. It was impossible to see, but my nose caught a whiff of something odd, something in the back of my memory. Dad jolted back in fright, then stilled. The figure of a man lunged for him, one arm extended.

There was a squelch and a pained grunt, and I watched Dad crumple to the floor.

My heart beat so hard it threatened to escape from my chest. Fear immobilised me and something warm trickled down my leg.

Breathing hard, the intruder faced me—a wild animal, timing the next pounce. I couldn’t make out anything but an inky silhouette. Covered in black, only eyes were visible. I’m about to die. My throat muscles clenched in panic as I began trembling all over. It felt like forever that we measured one another.

At last, he spun away, heaved himself onto the washing machine and hoisted himself through the window.

I dropped to my knees by my father’s side. For a few moments, I was aware of his rasping, laboured breath but could barely make out his face. ‘Please God, help us, please God, please God,’ I begged. I shook my father, but he made no response. I was kneeling in a pool of wet, soaking through my jeans. And then I screamed and screamed.

I remember little after that; Mum’s footsteps clattered down the stairs, torch in hand. The cone of light shone down on my father’s inanimate body, a knife protruding from his chest. The frozen tableau seared itself on my mind. And so much blood.

Shock must have blotted the rest out. Mum took me to emergency at the Swan Hill hospital—she told me later. But the first thing I remember was singing his favourite hymn at my father’s funeral. I emerged from a grey tunnel, clutching his Bible, standing beside my mother. Draped in a black veil, she accepted the soothing gestures from parishioners and replied to the condolences in whispers. Over and over, they repeated what a wonderful man my father had been.

And all I could think: if the killer had been a burglar, intent on robbery, why did he leave with nothing?

Chapter 1

THE PRESENT DAY

Jane Christie was a late bloomer in some areas. She had reached the height of her powers only one month ago. The magic bubbled in her nether regions. It sizzled beneath her skin and mushroomed into her brain, invigorating her entire body. Or did the magic start in her head, she wondered, as she dabbed Chanel No.5 onto several intimate areas.

The credit for her newfound confidence went to detective Dominic Petrucci. He had taken a bullet for her and helped set her on a new path. Their brief time apart while she’d attended the Agatha Christie (no relation) Conference in the United Kingdom hadn’t cooled their ardour. Even thinking about him brought a blush to her cheeks. Although they hadn’t formalised their relationship, they were both fully committed to each other, and to Christ. At their age there was no rush.

Jane had already closed the only case she’d taken since returning from England. Now, she was champing at the bit, raring to get started on her father’s cold case. Thirty-three years without answers was far too long.

Six weeks ago, as she’d left for overseas, Dominic had promised to arrange time off so they could return to Swan Hill for the investigation. But since returning from England she was sure he was putting her off, that other things took precedence. It’s not as if she expected to use his skills for free, after all; she intended to remunerate him.

As she stepped into the strips of black lace, she decided that after her efforts tonight he’d cease deliberating; he would be putty in her hands, ready to fall in with her plans.

‘Good Lord,’ she said aloud, catching sight of her rear end in the G-string. As she twisted in front of the full-length mirror, she gawked at the sight. The salesgirl had assured her it would work wonders, so she’d purchased it along with several additional sets of lingerie. She turned one way, then another, as she surveyed her bottom critically, gauging whether there was more downward droop than in previous years. How hygienic was this contraption, she wondered? She slithered into her new black lace sheath, slipped on her highest heels and tottered downstairs, flinching as a cool draught wafted up her frock.

Dominic had a late meeting with a new client, someone who couldn’t meet during business hours. She expected him home soon. It was after seven on a cold Thursday evening in Toorak, so she lit the gas log fire. The two lamps on the sideboard in the sitting area bathed the room in a golden glow. She tidied the forensic magazines splayed across the coffee table and stacked them to one side.

For the umpteenth time, Jane checked the meal preparations and revised the notes she’d made after talking to Zora. She was the best cook Jane knew, and Zora’s son had married her daughter. On hearing that Jane planned to cook a meal, Zora had pleaded with her to reheat; she’d left some dishes in the freezer. Jane had laughed at her friend’s caution. ‘I’m sure I can handle a few mashed potatoes and a salad.’ She’d bought a prepared hunk of Beef Wellington at the gourmet section of David Jones—it should be a doddle to roast. Except that she’d forgotten to ask how long to cook it.

It had taken time to translate a Wellington into Zora’s native Croatian. Finally, her in-law agreed that even Jane should find it simple. ‘Brush top of pastry with egg so turns golden. Oven must start on high, so pastry will poof. Fry some garlics and rosemary in olive oil and mix with potatoes.’ After catching Jane up on their three-month-old grandson Bogdan’s mind-boggling progress—no question he was advanced—Zora had signed off with, ‘I go pray for you now.’ What poppycock! Just because she was a dynamo in the kitchen, she thought no one else capable of producing a simple meal.

The oven temperature was set at two hundred and fifty degrees. Jane flitted about setting the table with two crystal candlesticks, the Waterford wine glasses and her best napery. She lit the candles, inhaling the heady perfume of the two dozen red roses she’d bought to mark their two-month anniversary. Dominic was a down-to-earth man who didn’t care for airs and graces. But he did appreciate a decent drop of wine and a good nosh up.

The mobile rang as she added avocado to the salad. It was the builder at the Swan Hill property. It surprised her to see Colin’s name on her caller ID; she thought he’d finished the renovations. He must have picked up the hesitancy in her voice. ‘Nothing to worry about, Jane. I decided to re-nail some of the old floorboards, to stop the creaking in case it puts off prospective buyers. After sanding and polishing, they’ve come up a treat.’

Colin McGregor was certainly thorough. Perhaps he’d tried to reciprocate because Jane hadn’t charged his mother any rent in the last couple of years. After all, Mrs McGregor had been their housekeeper and her own Mum’s companion for so long; it wouldn’t have been right.

Jane said, ‘It is an eighty-year-old house, Colin. You expect them to creak.’

‘I’ve fixed the worst,’ he said. ‘Jane, I’ve found something. It’s a red metal toolbox with a padlock. Someone stashed it under the floorboards.’

‘It’s probably just what it looks like, a box of tools,’ said Jane. She doubted the tools had belonged to her father. Whenever they’d needed something practical done, the Reverend Turner had called on a handyman in the congregation. ‘Where did you find it?’

‘Downstairs in the basement.’

Jane’s heart kicked as if he had given her a sudden jolt of electricity.

The builder’s voice continued, but Jane barely registered. It was as if the sound passed through layers of cotton wool.

‘… a lot more usable space. It should impress anyone who wants a craft-room or a workshop,’ Colin said, sounding pleased.

Still focused on the red box he’d found, Jane asked, ‘I wonder how long it’s been there?’ Her parents weren’t the first owners of the house; it might have been stashed there eighty years ago, when the house was built.

‘Whatever it is,’ said Colin, ‘it’s belongs to you. It might be full of money,’ he chuckled.

Colin offered to send her some pictures of how the refurbished floors had turned out, but she assured him she’d be back in Swan Hill any day. She was keen to see how the old homestead had polished up.

‘I’ll leave the treasure chest for you to sort out. If they’re antique tools, let me have a look at them before you chuck them.’

‘Righto.’

Jane stood by the windows, looking out into the gloom as she ended the call. When muscular arms enfolded her from behind, she almost fell off her heels. She recognised Dominic’s mint and leather scent. His lips nibbled her ear and she melted. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’ She turned in his arms. A smile curved her lips as she soaked him in: the mussed hair, after-five shadow and signs of tiredness around his eyes.

‘You were all wrapped up in Colin. I hope he’s not your new squeeze,’ he said, half-joking.

‘What poppycock!’

He held her at arm’s length. ‘Wow! You look hot-to-trot. Are we going somewhere?’

‘I am cooking you a superb dinner.’ As Jane slipped away, heading for the kitchen, she caught his alarmed expression.

‘You don’t need to go to all that trouble,’ he called after her in a higher-than-normal pitch. ‘Give me a few minutes to change and we can go to Milanos.’ He watched a little anxiously from the other side of the breakfast bar that bordered the kitchen as she picked up the Wellington and slid it into the oven.

‘You deserve a good home-cooked meal.’ Jane also had plans for later.

He left the kitchen to remove his jacket and noticed the tower of magazines piled up on the coffee table. ‘Are these for your course?’ Dominic asked. Jane had applied for a criminology course.

She set the potatoes on to heat. ‘Just some light reading. I don’t even know if they’ll accept me. They notify successful applicants in September.’

‘Well, Ken’s recommendation should make an impression.’ Detective Senior Sergeant Ken Arrowsmith, Dominic’s former partner in the Victoria Police Homicide Department, had written a glowing reference she’d included with her application.

While Dominic washed up before dinner, Jane wondered about the toolbox. How long had it been there, tucked away, forgotten? And why the lock? Did it have anything to do with her father? That seemed most unlikely since Jane’s Mum had disposed of her husband’s possessions over two decades ago.

When he returned, Dominic announced that he wasn’t all that hungry, but insisted on fixing them both a pre-dinner drink. He selected a beer and seeing they had at least twenty minutes to wait for the roast, she asked for a gin and tonic.

‘You’re so English, Jane.’

‘It must be genetic,’ she replied. ‘My Mum used to have the occasional tipple. I suppose it was quite shocking for an Anglican minister’s wife.’

Side by side, they settled in front of the fire and sipped their drinks. She wanted to ask him how the meeting with the new client had gone, but part of her was afraid to learn that he’d taken on another case when he already seemed busy enough.

‘How are you going to get through all those?’ Dominic asked, gesturing to the magazines. ‘Isn’t it heavy scientific stuff?’

‘I’ve finished most of them,’ she said as he gaped at her. ‘It’s extraordinary, really. I think I’ve developed an eidetic memory.’

Dominic knew all about her brain injury after she fell on her head. He looked puzzled. ‘A photographic memory—how is that even possible?’

She shrugged. ‘Dr Klein wants to do more tests on my impaired brain, but I really don’t want the bother.’ Klein was her neurologist; he hoped to gain glory for himself by writing her up for some medical journal. ‘The only other case he’s seen that’s something like mine is a chap who hit his head after diving into the shallow end of a swimming pool. Although he’d never played the piano in his life, he developed the ability to play original compositions.’

‘Well I’ll be stuffed!’ Dominic shook his head. He plucked up a magazine and flipped the pages. ‘Lots of articles on DNA,’ he said. ‘I’ve never understood too much about it. We’d investigate and get the evidence; the crime scene techs would do the tests and interpret the findings. I don’t think you have to be a forensics expert to be a good investigator.’

‘I agree with you, Dominic. But I’m amazed that anyone thought to refrigerate samples from unsolved crimes twenty years ago—before the technology to test for DNA had been invented.’

He put down his beer and read some headings aloud. ‘DNA leads to cold case conviction after three decades. New bloodstain reopens cold case. Scientists match DNA profiles to more than eighty rapists.’ He eyed her thoughtfully. ‘You know Jane, not every cold case gets solved. Evidence can deteriorate with the passing of time.’

‘I appreciate that.’

‘Most resolved cases relate to sex crimes. They haven’t solved that many homicides. Each year the cold case crew targets around 25 to 30 stalled homicides that have been identified as priority cases. It’s an enormous amount of work for investigators, sometimes for no result.’

She shot to her feet. ‘I’d better get on with our meal.’ This was not going the way she’d envisaged; he was becoming pessimistic and cautionary. He should be squeezing her bottom, eager to go along with her plans. A more direct approach would be the way to go. After mellowing his mood with a sumptuous dinner and a few glasses of wine, she’d just spit it out. ‘When do we begin our investigation?’ She practised the sentence in her head while she mashed the potatoes to a pulp and wondered why she felt uneasy.

When Jane removed the Beef Wellington from the oven, the pastry was cooked to perfection, and it smelled delicious.

‘That looks great!’ he announced, gob smacked.

Jane grabbed a long skewer from the drawer and jabbed the meat. ‘Oh bollocks!’ she said, seeing blood oozing out of it. ‘Zora said to test it. If there was too much blood, it needs more time in the oven.’

‘No worries.’ He picked it up for her, using the mitts, and she opened the oven door. ‘We can wait,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you about something.’ He took her out of the kitchen and led her to the dining table.

‘Now he’s going to tell me that he’s arranged time off so that we can go to Swan Hill’, she thought.

‘This looks nice,’ he said, commenting on the table setting. ‘Are we celebrating something?’

She smiled back at him and shook her head, fluttering her lashes. She hoped her eyes looked alluring with the lashings of mascara she’d applied. It seemed unlikely that he’d concern himself with marking anniversaries by the month, so she didn’t go into detail.

‘I met a woman tonight,’ explained Dominic. ‘She asked me to find her missing ex. He was a friend back in the days of the police academy; we trained together.’ He rubbed his hands together as if warming them. ‘They have an eight-year-old daughter, Jenny, and he rings every Wednesday and Sunday, without fail, to talk to the kid. He hasn’t made contact for a couple of weeks and they’re worried.’

Jane listened silently as a hard lump of disappointment settled in her stomach. There was still a chance that he’d decided against taking the case, so she said nothing.

‘His name is Frank Zanussi. Two years ago, he quit the force. Kate reckons Frank’s been undercover since then, but no one’s admitting anything.’

‘If Frank is undercover, any disclosure they make would put him at risk,’ said Jane.

He nodded, his brow creased with concern. ‘You know yourself, how important it is to move swiftly on missing person cases—before the trail goes cold.’ He leaned closer. ‘Kate needs my help.’

‘Is there any way you could hand it over to another detective?’ There were others at the firm where Dominic worked who could have taken the case.

‘She asked for me because of my past connection to Frank.’

Jane nodded, her hands clasped in her lap. ‘I see.’

‘The kid, Jenny, is a mess. She imagines something has happened to her dad and she’s having nightmares.’

Jane wondered if there was any point mentioning that she’d been having recurring dreams for thirty years, ever since she’d witnessed her father’s brutal murder. But Jenny was still a child… she didn’t need that kind of torment. ‘I hope that you can help them.’

His face broke into a broad grin. ‘Struth! It’s just that I know you’ve been counting on going back home…’

As she waved him off, Jane said, ‘Don’t give it another thought. It’s waited thirty-three years, I’m sure it can wait a little longer.’ In a few days it would be the first of August, the anniversary of her father’s death. For some reason she couldn’t understand, a sense of urgency churned inside her chest like a living organism.

Dominic leaned back in his chair, looking relieved. He rumpled his hair and tipped back the rest of his beer.

‘I’ll make some preliminary enquiries myself,’ said Jane. ‘There’s no reason I can’t make an appointment with Victoria Police to discuss the status of my father’s case.’

‘Er… well that’s the thing,’ said Dominic. ‘That’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.’ He was rubbing his forehead, stammering and scratching his ear.

He sounded decidedly fishy. ‘Go ahead, spit it out.’

‘It’s funny the way it happened,’ he said in a light-hearted tone. ‘While you were in the UK I happened to be at the cold case unit in MacLeod, talking to an investigator about another case of mine. I brought up your dad’s homicide…’ his voice trailed off and he stared into his empty beer glass with a puzzled frown.

At least twenty seconds of silence passed. Jane didn’t realise that her fingers were vigorously strumming the mahogany table. ‘And, you didn’t think to mention this funny happenstance in the four weeks since I’ve been back?’

‘Look Jane, I’ve been flat out.’ He took a deep gulp of air before expelling a torrent of words. ‘I know you were hoping for an investigative review, but it’s not going to happen. They said it wasn’t a cold case—it’s frigid! Frozen as Kosciuszko in June.’ Brown eyes filling with concern, he added, ‘I didn’t want you to get your hopes up just to be disappointed.’

‘Why should I be disappointed?’ Her calm disintegrated and she lurched to her feet. ‘My father’s corpse lies mouldering in his grave, forgotten; without the slightest effort made to bring his killer to justice. If he’d been an influential man, no exertion would have been spared. Perhaps by now I’d have achieved some measure of peace. But he was a small-town minister; only important to my Mum and the people he served. And he was important to me.’ Jane thumped her heart, where the burn of grief still flickered, surprised by the quaver of her voice. She spun away. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’ She fled from the room as fast as her tottering heels allowed.

Behind the locked door of the powder room, Jane took a moment to compose herself. Why had she thrown a wobbly? Who was she blaming and why? She blew her nose and repaired the smeared mascara—in future she’d buy waterproof. Her impassioned speech had made her aware she had been clinging to hope; hope that there would be some fresh development; hope that something would change, so not one more year passed without answers.

Maybe she was mad at Dominic. Didn’t he realise how much her father’s case meant to her? He had been the one to first identify her need for closure, and she’d marvelled at his insight. She’d thought he understood. But Kate’s missing ex-husband took higher priority than a thirty-three-year-old case with no clues.

So much for getting Dominic to conform to her plans. The evening had gone all to pot.

To top it all off, she heard the smoke alarm screaming and felt like wailing hers

Chapter 2

Once Dominic had binned the still smouldering meat, they opened windows and the large French doors that overlooked a dark patio. A gust of late July wind rushed through, dispersing the last of the smoke, chilling the area they’d been sitting in despite the fire.

From the kitchen, pots banged, and plates clattered as Jane flung the mashed potatoes on two plates with a vengeance. He almost felt sorry for them. He wondered how he could explain that working her father’s case was an impossible task without making her even stroppier.

The unpleasant smell of charred meat lingered throughout the dining area. ‘Bring the wine,’ instructed Jane, leading the way to her favourite room, the library. She set the tray down on the coffee table and lit the gas fire. ‘We’ll have to sit in armchairs.’

‘This is much cosier,’ he said. As Jane served salad from the bowl, he poured the wine.

Dominic figured that she needed bolstering before he could bring up the touchy topic again. ‘The salad looks like a work of art,’ he said, admiring the mix of red and greens. ‘I love your salads.’ He passed her wine across and they sat angled towards the flames with the meal between them. He picked up his plate and fork and shovelled in a mouthful of potatoes. ‘Mmm… these are awesome!’

Jane burst out laughing. ‘Put a sock in it! You can stop trying so hard.’

He smiled back at her, relieved she had laughed. They ate in companionable silence, listening to the rain that had started. Books covered the walls to the full extent of the fifteen foot ceilings—this room was fantastic and he understood why she felt happy in here, surrounded by a wealth of knowledge that covered everything from geography texts to her beloved crime novels.

‘I need to explain how they assess whether a case deserves further scrutiny,’ said Dominic, putting down his plate.

Jane nodded, giving him her full attention as she sipped the last of her Pinot Noir.

He counted the points off on his fingertips. ‘Is there any DNA, or can they get it? Do all the exhibits still exist? Any witnesses who could be re-interviewed? Any alibis that might have been retracted? And has any fresh evidence come to light?’ He rubbed the right side of his jaw as if soothing a blooming toothache. ‘The more of these they can tick off, the higher priority the case becomes.’

‘You’re saying that my father’s case is not a top priority.’

He eyeballed her, nodding. How could he put it gently? ‘They covered the crucial aspects of the case with me.’ He started counting on his fingers. ‘No fingerprints, no witnesses, no persons of interest, no ballistics, no footprints, missing exhibits, little forensic evidence and no additional information to get the investigation off the ground.’ He scratched his head as if lice had taken up residence. ‘We don’t have a starting point!’

‘Tell me about the forensic evidence.’

He sighed loudly, to show how pointless it all was, and rose to his feet. ‘The knife. That’s it. They’ve had it in the freezer all these years. When they tested the knife for DNA, they found two individual profiles, apart from your father’s.’

‘That’s marvellous! It’s not as hopeless as you make out.’ She perked up, looking up at him bright-eyed and expectant.

He flapped his hands in that Italian way as if he were directing traffic to back up. ‘Don’t jump the gun—there’s more,’ he said, pacing in front of the fire. ‘In 2011 police scientists extracted DNA from all those samples that had been sitting in the freezer for decades, including this knife. Then they matched them against the National DNA Database.’ He read the excitement in her face. ‘Unfortunately, while they made several amazing matches on other samples, there was no match to either set of DNA on the knife that stabbed your dad.’

‘That’s because the database in 2011 was quite limited. I read that in 2014 Victoria introduced new legislation to broaden police powers in DNA collection, allowing