Dead Wood: A D.I.Mahoney Mystery

By sj brown

Detective Inspector John Mahoney is faced with a mysterious case involving a macarbe scheme to purify the Tasmanian business sector.

Right from the off the brutal murder of a prominent business leader instigates the homicide investigation. The scale of public interest is high and the Serious Crimes Squad must make

• Language: English
• Publisher: sjbrown
• Release date: Jun 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9780645192513

sj brown

Stephen Brown writes his D.I.Mahoney series under the pen name of sj brown. He resides in Hobart (Tasmania) where his police procedural/murder mysteries are set. A former teacher of literature, he now devotes his time to writing his 'whydunnits', volunteer coaching at sports clubs, supporting his family and walking his border collie.

Book preview

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jbrown (Stephen John Brown) resides in the hills above Hobart. His passion for crime fiction determined his choice of the police procedural format as a means of exploring the

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About      the      Author

challenges of modern life. A former teacher and sports coach, he is embarked on the journey of delivering a crime fiction series that delves into the heart of Tasmania. Readers of his debut novel, HIGH BEAM, or this work are welcome to get in touch with the author: [e-mail]

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an Blessed was sitting very still at the kitchen table. Eyes fixed on the cutlery in the middle of the Formica top and arms resting on his thighs as he hunched over. His gaze was drawn

IPrologue

to the smidgeon of dried egg stuck to the serrated edge of the knife. He was yet to eat anything: that is how it had come out of the drawer.

It was pretty typical of the general state of the house. Guttering falling off the roof in places, backyard unkempt and the sliding door sticking in its groove. And that was the pointy end of the ice- berg. He should do something.

Well at least you could say something, anything. Ian sat there transfixed, hoping the noise would just go away. Fat chance. You’re not getting away with your catatonic act again. Stare at the carpet, stare out the window, same response every time. Not today. We are going to have this out. Now. Janine was doing her best not to lose her rag but keeping her voice below bellowing rage seemed barely possible.

Her husband shifted in his chair, took a crumpled envelope out of his back pocket and smacked it on the table.

What’s that? Another bill? Just how many people do we owe money to? It’s hard to believe we have that many services left. She

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6 Dead Wood

was right. Satellite TV, home phone line and internet connection were all gone. Final notices from the utility companies received months ago. Demands for interest repayments on credit cards reg- ularly slotted into the mailbox. A visit from the collection agency could only be just around the corner.

The bank’s foreclosing. We’re gone.

His wife turned away from him and leaned over the sink. There was silence for a short time before he heard snuffling. Her shoul- ders quivered as she broke into long anguished sobs. Even now he could not stand up. Janine had been careering along a spec- trum from stolid determination to belligerent fury and back again for about six months. This was the very first time she had broken down, at least in front of him.

* * *

To Ian Blessed’s way of thinking, it was a bitter irony for him to be at a fire sale. Not that the commercial auction at the Gowans Yard was labelled as such. But the sad truth was that everybody there knew exactly what was going on. Had gone down. Gone under. A handful of local businesses. Leases surrendered but rent still to pay. Balances on substantial loans from financial insti- tutions to be covered. Or at least an attempt made to meet the interest payments. And now whatever assets could be released were under the auctioneer’s hammer. All in attendance knew the deal: this was not a sellers’ market. Bargains were to be had. Knockdown prices.

Blessed felt a deep self-pitying shame to even be there. Eighteen months before, his timber contracting business had been tick- ing along nicely. Despite the initial impact of the GFC, he felt he was riding out the storm. Courtesy of a contract with Woodsdale Timber, his income stream was secure. Well as secure as one could expect in this topsy-turvy world. Although there was nothing in

S J Brown 7

black and white yet, the prevailing feeling was that the Forestry Peace Accord would proceed to the benefit of all. Some old-growth native forests would be locked away but that was fair enough. The environmental groups required some sort of carrot to keep them sweet with the deal.

Of more relevance to Ian was that the Pulp Mill planned by Woodsdale was still very much on the cards. When operating, the requirement for timber would be substantial. Timber that would come from forests on crown land and private farms. Plenty of land- holders were in league with the timber giant: leased their acreage to Woodsdale for plantations to be grown. Many were to mature soon so the amount of work for a contractor like Blessed could be set to expand exponentially.

Fortune favours the brave, he thought. So he’d taken the plunge and decided to expand his then modest operation. In order to fund the purchase of the requisite logging equipment, he’d needed to borrow heavily. He would have sold some of his shares but his portfolio wasn’t up to much at that point. Buying a welter of stocks in 2007 hadn’t been the greatest timing. His financial advisor had suggested he diversify his holdings. At the height of the market, he’d invested in different companies in the resources and retail sectors. The mining stocks had continued to perform reasonably well but some of the retail options were stinkers. One, a surf wear company, really was one for the toilet.

He may as well have put the money in the bank. When he revis- ited the same stockbroker, the advice had been to hold on and wait for the upswing. So when he needed the cash, he went to his busi- ness banker. And they went to lunch. Very nice lunch it was too. His bank picked up the tab and Ian came away with a large loan to get his trucks and chippers.

The following eighteen months gave him dreams of black cats. Then nightmares of cars and Chinamen. He couldn’t take a trick. The proposed pulp mill became bogged down in an administrative

8 Dead Wood

process that dragged on…and on. The current indications were it may not proceed at all.

On top of that, Woodsdale found itself buffeted by global eco- nomic conditions it was powerless to influence. An inflated value for the Australian dollar in currency markets cruelled the demand for exports. Demand for local timber dried up almost overnight. Legal contracts proved to be worth not a whole lot more than the paper they were printed on. The workload for Blessed’s com- pany evaporated. As the work eased to a trickle, he had to lay workers off. These guys weren’t happy and the grief he got didn’t help matters.

And the loan became a real issue. Without a substantial income, meeting the interest repayments became very onerous. Calls from the bank did not come in the form of invitations to lunch any more. And as a sole trader, Ian and his family were in the mire. He hadn’t changed his businesses to a limited liability company structure. He was in line to lose everything: business, equipment, house, car, the works.

So for a man whose livelihood revolved around wood, to be at a fire sale of his last assets was very bitter indeed. This was the final nail. His family were out of their home. He would be there for another few weeks to ensure it wasn’t vandalised prior to the mortgagee auction.

The posse of vultures had shuffled round the yard to where Ian’s machinery was featured. Now was the final chance to get some sort of return on the stuff. All other avenues had proven to be dead ends. Other contractors were in the same boat. As if they’d want more expensive gear. The chief auctioneer had vowed to do his best by Ian but he couldn’t promise anything. Knew the current climate as much as anyone.

Short of handing these assets back to the dealers, here was  the last roll of the dice. And it came up with a pair of ones. Bidding was brisk but it was at the very low end of the scale.

S J Brown 9

Everything was bid for and sold. But the lump sum from the sale was pitiful. Wouldn’t put much of a dent in the amount owing to his creditors.

Blessed stood at the back of the crowd and contemplated going down the street in Moonah to the tattoo parlour. Get BANKRUPT stamped across his forehead. Or an arrow on his back pointing to his arse with the words INSERT HERE stencilled in. He half- smiled ruefully at the thought.

A tall guy in a checked shirt and moleskins came towards him. One of the successful bidders. Hadn’t come to gloat as it turned out. A result for you, I guess. Not a great one but better than zilch.

Not by much but yeah, it’s something.

Alwaysbeatsnothing. Extendedhishand."Rory Fotheringham.

You’re Ian Blessed then."

Ian shook. Knew of this guy. Getting a chipper and truck would have been small change for him. Big League. Yes, I am. Unfortunately. Not very blessed at the moment.

Right enough. Not the best of times for you. He rubbed his jaw with the flat of his hand. I can’t do much for your debt but I can offer you some work, if you’re up for it. If it seems like what I’m about to suggest is salt in the wound, say so. But it’s something and I’m assuming you’ll keep thinking that beats nothing.

Ian did. As long as it doesn’t require me to spend money, I’m up for it. Seeing as I’m kissing goodbye to today’s proceeds immediately.

Fotheringham nodded. "I presume the bank’s foreclosed on you.

Any other assets?"

Nup. House gone. Investment portfolio sold off at a loss. Only asset is standing in front of you.

Well, that’s your best one. Easy for me to say but you don’t want to forget that. A half-turn back to the equipment. "I bought some of your stuff. No doubt you saw. I’ll pay you some decent

10 Dead Wood

wages to come and do some work using it on my property in the Midlands. I know there’s some pride at stake here but I’ll pay good cash."

Ian thought about the second tattoo. Decided to swallow his pride. Anything trumps nothing. I’ll do it. They shook again. Fotheringham gave him a start date and rough outline of  the work proposal. Ian gave a terse version of his business woes. The Woodsdale slide. Crap financial advisor. Bloody greenies.

As they were about to part, the tall man said, You’re right. You’ve been done over. Someone needs to do something about this state. Bloody soon.

a.m. It was not the ideal time to be awake in the normal course of events. Probably fine if you were gyrating at some club fuelled by all

3C:1h4apter      1

manner of recreational drugs. Possibly not a problem if you were working night shift at some processing factory or other to pay the bills. But certainly a bit of a bugger if you were a police inspector staring at the ceiling in your partner’s bedroom.

John Mahoney was fully alert as his consciousness started churning. He really shouldn’t be awake at this hour. Although he had become resigned to waking in the early hours to visit the toi- let, he usually was able to drift back to sleep relatively quickly. But tonight, slumber was proving quite elusive. He had tried breath- ing slowly and deeply in unison with the recumbent figure beside him. No result. This generated some worry that his body had pro- grammed itself to sleeping solo. For such a long time he had been spending nights by himself in his own bed. This adjustment to sharing on some weeknights, and most weekends now, had been relatively smooth. But sometimes Elysian proved to be a destina- tion too far. Mahoney decided not to fret: no use thinking him- self into anxiety. An odd bout of insomnia was a tiny price to pay for the innumerable benefits that being in this new relationship with Susan Hart offered. Buoyant company, a revamped social

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12 Dead Wood

life, shared experiences, and, most crucially, an increasing desire to relish the present. His emotional past was receding from view and these days he rarely glanced backwards. For that he truly was grateful. He felt as if released from shackles.

He eased himself off the mattress and quietly padded down the hallway to the kitchen. While a small pot of tea was brewing, he went into Susan’s lounge room to take in the view through the floor to ceiling windows: an aspect to entrance even an insomniac. The house on Tolman’s Hill was oriented north: an arrangement that maximised the solar efficiency of the building but also afforded a glorious view of Greater Hobart and the Derwent River that ran under the illuminated Tasman Bridge. Tonight was a full moon and not just any full moon but a king full moon. Almost as rare as a blue moon, these lunar occurrences meant Earth’s waxy satellite loomed particularly large in the night sky.

Susan usually referred to this dwelling as her 3P house: ‘perched precariously on a precipice’. From about a thousand feet above sea level, the outlook was staggering. Unretarded by urban light pollution, the moonshine tonight was particularly strong. The trees on the far side of the valley threw distinct shad- ows. No wonder the white colonial settlers had scheduled social functions on nights such as this: the light projected by the moon would have made many a nocturnal journey through the bush that much easier.

With a mug of Tetley’s tea in his hands, he sank into a plush armchair and switched on the radio for company. He tuned it to the overnight transmission of the BBC World Service. The cur- rent item in News Hour was about some superannuated rock star who was patting himself on the back for the great work his char- ity was doing raising money for AIDS sufferers. Having blithely admitted he had ignored the earlier manifestations due to a ‘self- induced drug haze’, he now seemed to feel people deserved to be told of his heroic deeds. Good cause, pity about the protagonist,

S J Brown 13

thought Mahoney. What made him smile was the man’s admis- sion that his success across five decades was partly due to a back catalogue of fondly remembered hits. About right as the police- man couldn’t recall a decent song being released by this guy since the mid-1970s.

Mahoney settled his rump further into the plush chair. He gazed into the night sky. So bright was the lunar night that it overshad- owed the pinpricks of light from the myriad stars in the black vel- vet backdrop. Just possibly a clear day on the horizon. You really never knew in Hobart what weather would blow in but today looked promising. And not just in the weather stakes.

The climate at Police Headquarters had been unusually benign. For his team at least. The latest round of budget cuts had not impinged upon the operation of the Serious Crimes Squad. Uniformed officers had been thinned a touch but, in the main, the recent austerity measures forced upon a range of gov- ernment health services had passed by the constabulary. So his team was reasonably well resourced: Detective Constable Kate Kendall had been formally transferred to his division and the secondment of DC David Gibson to him had recently been approved. The former, if her performance in their previous mur- der enquiry was anything to go by, should prove to be an excel- lent detective. She was intelligent and precise in the heat of the investigation. Perhaps more crucially, she seemed to possess the uncanny ability to maintain a professional calm while pur- suing any prey with a passion for justice. The latter, an enthu- siastic young officer, belied the stereotype of his appearance. Genetically endowed with fiery red hair, he conveyed an air of cheery humour as if a funny yarn was never too far from his lips. But he was as keen to succeed as the strongest mustard: hot English not Dijon.

The joker in his pack was Detective Sergeant Tim Munro. He was sometimes too individualistic and belligerent but his maverick

14 Dead Wood

tendencies could be harnessed for the greater good. Mahoney had learned that if he suppressed the differing traits of his detectives then he would create a bland committee and no one wanted that. Munro could increasingly be given enough leash to snap at the enemy without choking on the lead.

It was the start of November. All Saints Day. Or was it All Souls. Mahoney struggled to remember the list of Feast Days of  the Catholic Church. The faith he thought he so resolutely pos- sessed when young had ebbed. Replaced by a  rag bag  philoso- phy drawing from secular humanism, professional ethics and observations of what life did to many of  the  less  fortunate in  this world. In the run-up to this Christmas, the  ramifications of the Global Financial Crisis were really hitting home on the local front. It was an economic manifestation of the Chaos theory. Instead of the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings in the Amazon rainforest causing monsoonal deluges in the Indian  sub-conti- nent, it was more closely felt. A bunch of greedy realtors in the United States construct dodgy loan deals and a raft of manufac- turing jobs are lost in Tasmania. Practically the whole financial services industry in  the  United  Kingdom  blithely  ignores  risk in the quest for gargantuan bonus payments and the local con- struction industry grinds to a halt. And who suffers? Certainly not the bankers who still claimed their obscene rewards: flying in the face of a simple logic that a ‘bonus’ is paid to those who perform well rather than totally ignore any fiduciary duty to the wider community.

The effects were being felt most harshly by those in the state who were least immune to financial upheaval. Every charity was reporting a greater demand on their services by those people who had no buffer against the government belt-tightening that had come in recent months. For way too many people, Christmas would bring a lot less joy than hoped.

For Mahoney, this Yuletide seemed to promise more than pre- vious years. Susan’s extended family was a pretty tight-knit clan

S J Brown 15

that, by her accounts, made a big effort to celebrate the festive season. As an established item, they would be included in all gath- erings. This suited him: it beat volunteering for the holiday roster to avoid feeling lonely on the major feast days.

Yes, he was looking forward to this time of year much more than any time since his childhood. And as the crimson fingers of dawn reached over the Eastern hills, he was even looking forward to going to work.

ob Spencer was nervous. Far more nervous than he should have been in this present company. On a bright clear November morning at 8 a.m., he was with three other forty- something males chatting amiably about the forthcoming agenda of the day. All were from the local Tasmanian business circles: successful men who had weathered the buffeting of the Global Financial Storm. That they had achieved this more by virtue of the government supplied resilience of the Australian economy through the last few years than their own fiscal prudence was a fact they secretly acknowledged but never voiced in public. As in much of life, those who are doing well attribute prosperity to per- sonal diligence and ability: only on the way down is luck consid-

RChapter      2

ered to be a factor.

Among this particular quartet, Rob Spencer could legiti- mately claim to be something of a star performer. Having cannily advised his clients to realise profits from their retail sharehold- ings in the latter half of 2007, he had found his client list expand- ing throughout the following four years as the aforementioned beneficiaries of the boom sang his praises to other potential investors while diving back into the stock market themselves. As a result, his own reputation was even higher than it had been prior to the GFC.

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S J Brown 17

The immediate problem for Spencer was that he was not about to deliver a strategy briefing to his peers: he was embarking on a round of golf with them. And in this particular activity, he was far from proficient. To be sure, the Royal and Ancient game interested him, especially the possibilities for networking among potential inves- tors it afforded. It was just that after a series of individual lessons at the Tasmania Golf Club, he had not really improved much beyond the status of weekend-hacker. Hence the prospect of a charity golf day at the famed Barnbougle Links Golf Course had filled him with dread for much of the preceding week. To make matters worse, he had been grouped with three of the most influential businessmen in the state: one a property developer, another a managing partner in an accounting firm, and the other one the developer of a franchise chain of pizza restaurants. None were clients, as yet, and he would dearly love their business. A good showing on the course would help bring them into his office where he could spellbind them with talk of stocks, margins and dividend yields. But to compound his nervous- ness, they were playing on the toughest course in the state. Carved out of some lush farm land on a beach near Bridport on Tasmania’s north-east coast, Barnbougle had rapidly developed a reputation as an exacting test of one’s skill with the clubs.

It was formed in the model of the traditional British links courses: perched by the seaside and carved out of tussocked dunes. The fairways were lush but tightly constructed. Any ball that fared off the straight and narrow would be confined to the seemingly impenetrable rough to keep company with the apocry- phal legion of snakes or would land in the sand traps. And these were not your run of the mill bunkers; it would be possible to park a Hummer in some of them that could not be seen below the lip of the trap. Little wonder that soon after the course’s creation in 2006 it had vaulted into the Golf Digest list of the most exacting fifty courses in the world.

It was well out of Rob’s league. The final cause for concern was that he had been given the honour of teeing off first: a happenstance

18 Dead Wood

that always involves some jocularity and delivery of wry remarks from those in the party who don’t have to be the first to address that fiendishly small ball. So there was some consolation that the fiercesome wind that often blew across Bass Strait, rendering the course more difficult by a power of ten, was dormant. Thank God for small mercies.

They stood on the 5th tee waiting for the 8 a.m. shotgun start. Initially, the dispersal of all seventy-two players to the eighteen tees had been a bit confusing to Rob, but, once explained, it made perfect sense. If everyone started simultaneously on the different tees, then each group would complete their rounds, more or less, at the same time. Then it would be back to the new clubhouse for the lunch that many looked forward to most of all.

It almost went without saying that the nineteenth hole today would be a boozy affair that would loosen people’s wallets to chip in for the designated charity and would become a damned good session on the fizz. Anecdotes could be related, hard luck stories of the excursions into the rough shared and plenty of politi- cally incorrect jokes told. For some of the men, this was what life should really be about and Rob didn’t doubt there would be a few who could ‘drink with both hands’. As everybody was either stay- ing at the boutique accommodation on site or had maxi-taxied in from the various hotels five kilometres along the road in Bridport, no harm would occur on the roads: just some damage to the odd liver and a few sore heads to look forward to the next day. The beauty of the fifth tee was that it was perched high on a sand dune so it gave a majestic view back over pretty much the whole course and to one’s left the panoramic vista over the waters of Bass Strait. The sun lay a band of white gold over the bay as a mild breeze blew over their shoulders from the nor’-west.

As he walked forward to place his tee in the turf, Rob silently prayed to God, Allah, Yahweh, Krishna and Odin for a decent con- tact off his Callaway Big Bertha driver. The round could be as frus- trating as all get-out (he was canny enough to know they would all

S J Brown 19

struggle with the incredibly thick rough that bordered the emer- ald fairways) but please, could he just get a decent drive away. Keeping his head down, he rotated his torso and swung through. He was gratified to hear a resounding thwack and to then see his ball sailing away into the distance. Just as one of his partners was starting to say ‘well away’ the arc of the ball began a pronounced slice and it veered away to the right over a sandy hummock. Hey ho thought Spencer. May as well have a cursory look for it. Might find it or another ball. Who knew what was there.

he call to Mahoney’s office came in at 11.20 a.m. DI Mahoney speaking.

TChapter      3

John, it’s Nigel Briggs. How are you? A colleague from the north of the state: equivalent rank to Mahoney based in Launceston CIB. They had trained together and sporadi- cally kept in touch over the years. Although only two hundred kilometres apart, neither had been recently able to keep the promised declaration to make the trip either way to catch up. Pressure of their work and, for Briggs, family commitments stymied that.

Briggsy, good to hear from you. I’m fine. Going pretty well. How are Jo and the cubs? Briggs’ wife and two sons were indoctri- nated into passionately supporting the Richmond Tigers football club. The short straw. No success since 1980  and  precious  few trips to the finals series since. Perennial hopefuls but financial mismanagement and short-sighted recruiting had cruelled many campaigns. Still, it gave the family a shared interest.

Hopeful as ever, John. Jo’s really well and the boys just keep getting bigger. As in taller not rounder, thankfully. There was a slight pause as the caller changed register. Unfortunately, I’m not calling just to swap news. It’s business. Of the worst kind.

Understood. What can I do?

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S J Brown 21

Well, it may be what we can do for each other. We’ve got a body at our end but it’s fairly safe to say it’s somebody who should be standing up down your way.

Mahoney half smiled. So a dreaded Southerner has been found dead in your territory. Any idea where the death occurred? What’s his identity?

Briggs did not bristle at the slight dig. Although the island was viewed by outsiders as a coherent mass of artistic creativ- ity or inbred conservatism depending on their bias, the truth was not that simple. It rarely was. An invisible line that