Coil of Danger: Book Three in the Lockie Trilogy.

By Desmond L. Kelly

Paperback 5 inches wide, 8 inches tall

 

Neil’s body is found on a sandbank. Murder or…?

 

Lockie, retired widower, works with Detective Inspector Georgia Lear again. 

 

Another murder… two more attempts … the handsome Mrs Stone is a suspect. Chloe, a London

• Language: English
• Publisher: Desmond L. Kelly
• Release date: Nov 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780648443315

Desmond L. Kelly

From the Author I live on a subtropical island in southern Moreton Bay about an hour’s journey from Brisbane, Australia. I was born in Australia, in Lithgow up in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney, but my mum whipped me off to New Zealand when I was four (because she couldn’t stand her mother-in-law) and Nelson became my home town. Still is. With my wife, I returned to Australia to live when I was seventy-seven. That makes me an Australian by geography and a New Zealander by culture, a fearsome state of confusion. I have been a geologist, a teacher, a professional actor and now I come back to the love that was always there, writing. That’s my daily pleasure and I hope you enjoy it too.  Desmond L. Kelly.

Book preview

Chapter 1

In the back of the old Holden, I sat up as I both felt and heard the grinding halt of the steel vehicle barge as it rode up on the concrete of the island's launch pad. The long flat drawbridge of a bow was already lowered and skimmed over the concrete of the landing ramp, as it had done a thousand times before just before impact and halt.

Can't wait to get home, said the long lean Scotty from behind the wheel. Tongue's hanging out for a cup of tea.

The three of us, Scotty, his wife Irma beside him, and me in the back seat watched Jazz the swarthy senior deckhand as he waited for the vessel to stop moving before he unhooked the rope barring the way off and waved the first vehicle down the steel bridge to the concrete ramp where, with a bump and a grind, it was off up the hill road which Macleay Islanders called Angina Hill.

How about you Lockie, said Scotty, Bet you're busting for a cup of tea.

I was watching Jazz waving vehicles off the steel deck in a steady stream. A horn tooted, then another. A third honked. By the time Jazz had turned around to the vehicles on the barge, a blaring of assorted horns, their pitches and tones producing anything but harmony in the twilight, was filling the air. He raised a large and powerful hand hand and the cacophony died down in the laughter of the drivers.

Come on, come on, muttered Scotty revving his engine. Move off. What's the hold-up?

I think it's that white ute up front, I said. We concentrated on the utility that looked gleamingly new. Jazz was striding towards it with smouldering eyes.

Wish he'd get a move on, said Scotty.

That's just it, I said. Has it got a driver?

What! Scotty sat upright trying to peer around the two cars in front for a better view. A very new looking white ute, its tyres still showroom-black, was blocking cars from driving off.

Paul, the young deckhand, was first to it.

Wake him up, shouted Jazz, not in the best of humours. Paul looked in the driver’s window and wrenched the door open.

Nobody here, he yelled back.

What? Bloody hell. Jazz strode up the steel deck, happy to give somebody a piece of his mind. Big, surly and battle scarred, nobody threw a glitch into Jazz’s unloading routine without paying a price. He strode up to the ute his face tight with a look that for Jazz might be grimace, but probably meant trouble, and peered into the new ute. Oh shit. Where is he?

Paul was already jogging down aft to the toilet to see if the driver was there but Jazz stepped back, looked up at the bridge high above and held up both palms, shrugging as he pointed to the vehicle.

Over the loudspeaker came Captain Maidly’s voice.

Would the owner of the white ute please drive the vehicle off. You’re holding us up, mate.

Paul jogged back shaking his head. No one there. Jazz signed the message to the bridge.

Keys in it? blared Captain Maidly. Jazz checked, nodded his head. O.K. Drive it ashore and tell me whose it is.

Jazz climbed aboard and looked down on the smaller cars around him, started the engine and drove over the link to dry land but instead of continuing up the hill he turned left onto the car park alongside the passenger ferry terminal, where white lines marked out the tarmac for commuter parking. He took a moment or two before he left the ute and walked back to the barge and as the vehicles started to roll again he looked at the passenger list on his clipboard and began to walk back up the deck towards the bridge.

Wonder what that's all about. Said Scotty as we drove up the hill in the failing light. I looked back down in the gloom on the flat below us where, in a white-lined rectangle of the almost empty Sunday car park, sat the ghostly white form of a new ute, quite alone in the silence as the dew of the mid-winter night settled.

Can't be sure, I said, "but I thought I saw that loud young man. The one we saw in the pub a few months ago, get out of that ute at some stage.

What's his name?

Who?

That young bloke. We were in there having a drink – about Labour Day – and he came in with all the subtlety of a travelling road show. Seemed great friends with that plump pub bookie.

Everyone's friends with Mac.

Had a thin worried looking woman on his arm. You were less than complimentary about her role in society.

What did I say?

Something to the effect that she'd had more use than the twenty year old school bus.

Disgusting, said Irma.

Oh, you mean Neil Durry? Yeah, Candy makes a living but she'll never charge Neil. She's nuts on him. Pathetic.

I think I saw him get out of that ute.

You couldn't have Lockie, he hasn't been around for five or six weeks and they aren’t his wheels. I guess we'll hear what happened tomorrow.

Chapter 2

Iwas washing my breakfast dishes the next morning when Scotty came in. He gets to the point, does Scotty. Heard the news?

About the China Sea?

No. If you'd listen to the local radio stations you'd learn more than that National Radio rubbish.

Enlighten me.

You were right. It was Neil Durry's ute. And he was missing because he threw himself off our barge and drowned, right while we were there.

I put the last plate away and came around from the kitchen area to sit down in the sitting room opposite Scotty. You seem to know a lot.

On Bay Radio this morning.

About his throwing himself in the Bay? And naming him?

"They didn't actually name him, but Laurie – you know Laurie, lent me his boat that night you and Lorna had your set-to with The Red Admiral mob?"

I think it might be stretching the point just a little to say he actually 'lent' it to you.

Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You want to hear this story?

Go ahead.

Well, Laurie found Neil's body this morning on a mudbank. Wondered what it was in the half-light, went over to have a look and bingo, it's a dead Neil Durry. He hauls him aboard, rings the police and brings him in.

So how do you know he threw himself overboard?

Use your noggin. How else would he get there? No, he probably got a skinful of alcohol and decides it's all too much and on the moment, splash, he's in. Might have changed his mind when the water hit him but it's a bit late then isn't it?

Did he leave a note?

How the hell would I know? He topped himself. Youngsters do it all the time nowadays. Do you want a registered letter from him?

Young, fancy free, just got a brand new ute, so presumably he's in the money – and life's too much for him? Really?

Come on, Lockie. The only other thing's murder or accident and it's not likely to be one of those, is it?

How would I know? But I'll tell you this, the cops’ll be questioning everybody on that boat and soon, so if I were you I'd keep my own story of what you saw and what you didn't see, neat and tidy and don't go sharing it with anyone else until after the police have got your statement.

Aw, that's just lovely. I come over here to give you the news and you tell me the police think I'm a suspect.

That's my point, Scotty. It’ll be best for you and for Irma, and me, if we recall our stories simply and accurately without the addition of what the police might or might not think, or in the after knowledge of what anyone like Laurie might have told us. The people on that boat are the eyes of the police. If we're to find out what did happen to Neil Durry we'll all have to be honest won't we? Go home and make notes now, before your mind starts telling you stories. Irma too.

Bloody hell. What a joy germ. Simple as that is it? Everyone tells their story and the cops know what happened?

Possibly. Maybe not.

Why can't things be straightforward with you?

Because if someone did kill him. That someone won't tell the truth.

It was a Monday morning and after Scotty left I put away the hard stores I'd bought yesterday in our once a month mainland trip in the Devlins' big Holden station wagon. It was about twelve years old that car and the orange paint was showing a few patches where the climate was getting at it, plus it had dimples from a hail storm before my time on the island, but Scotty maintained it well and it was ideal for buying trips to the mainland. The big boot area took our golf clubs and trundlers but it was my small red Honda Jazz which we’d take to bowls in the afternoon.

Midwinter can be a very pleasant time of year on Macleay Island and there are fewer places around the world more beautiful and relaxing to play bowls than on the rinks of the island. I don't know what it is but although I like sport in general and played my fair share in younger days with moderate success, the game of bowls I find hard to pin down to controllable and repeatable actions. I try hard. I do. It's my nature. I don't think Scotty tries hard. He steps up and gives the bowl a heave down the other end. He doesn't spend too much time considering the this and the that of tactics – that's his nature – and yet against all reason, he expects a good result. The annoying part, the extremely annoying part, is that his results are as good as mine. No, I suppose I have to admit that his results tend to be better than mine. It's mystifying to me, though to hear him talk, it's a quite straight forward matter of talent.

I prefer the golf which we also play twice a week on our wonderful little nine hole course and which to be fair, he did teach me. There is no doubt about the balance of skill there and he can be annoying in his persistent attribution of my skill to luck and his teaching! It's no wonder I'm better at golf than he is. It requires patience.

Chapter 3

Iwas not surprised that before I got my groceries stacked away, Georgia Lear had rung. That is to say I was not surprised to hear from the police. Logic said they would contact all the passengers on last evening's fateful barge, but of all the detectives who could be put in charge, it pleased me immensely that my old friend Chief Detective Inspector Georgia Lear was responsible for this case and I looked forward to seeing her.

Sergeant Roselli, our local station commander was on the telephone asking me to make myself available for interview. He gave me a time and I suggested interviewing me at Scotty's place where the three of us could be questioned at the same time. After all, we were in the same car yesterday.

Scotty and Irma Devlin have what is known as a high-set house, usually called a Queenslander, because it's built one floor up in the air to catch the cooling breezes. At the same time it keeps out undesirables such as ground snakes. When they first bought the house it had a resident boa in the roof cavity cleaning up any vermin that may have established themselves up there. With Irma directing and Scotty's meticulous woodwork skills they had long since restored the old place to its original glory and had a boa-free home of great appeal above the neat cabinetmaker's workshop and garage Scotty had set up under the house at ground level.

There was an element of tree top living to the Devlin house which I liked though I wasn't so keen on the twenty steps of the stairs leading up to the verandah.

I went over there just before 9.30 am, the time, the sergeant said, Georgia would call.

Irma of course had morning tea set out on a fresh table cloth squared with ironing creases and laden with fresh hot scones. I could never understand why Scotty wasn't an overweight elder citizen with a heart problem but although he did justice to Irma's talented cooking he was a sinewy and physically tough man with a heart that was not only in good health but was richly humane and warm. If it were like mine, it was just a little excited now.

I'd hardly finished salivating at the smell of the scones when Georgia and the sergeant arrived in the local squad car.

It's always so nice to see Georgia. I suppose the incident in the Stud Nightclub three years ago and the wild night of rescue on Moreton Bay just over a year ago make her special to me. It's not often a woman saves your life twice, but it wasn't only gratitude that made me like Georgia. She was a woman of deep human insight and she was very astute to the themes of human behaviour, even those on the dark side. Yes, I trusted Georgia and with more than my physical life. It pleased me too to see the genuine pleasure Irma and Scotty showed in greeting her again. She'd been in this very house that epic night of the Bay rescue when Scotty covered himself in glory and they were genuinely pleased to have the detective at their dining table again. For a few minutes we loaded up with hot scones thick with butter and mango jam as we sat around with our tea or coffee and talked of times past.

One of the best things about being interviewed by Georgia is that she trusts us and I fancy we get a little more out of her than most interviewees get.

Suicide or murder? was my first question to her. She laughed.

Not wasting time, I see. Well, nothing much has changed around here has it?

So did he jump or was he pushed?

What do you think?

Scotty barged in. I reckon that young bugger was full of booze and jumped overboard. He liked his grog; the hard stuff. Crowed like a rooster in the pub about being able to drink anyone under the table. I reckon he did himself in.

And you, Lockie?

I considered. I'd been thinking about it all morning since Scotty had come over earlier. Don't think so. I've only seen him once or twice and he's been away from the island for a couple of months … I really don't mix in his circles, but… well… Don't think he topped himself. Not intentionally. Not with a new ute. Was there a farewell letter? She shook her head. Anyway, if he meant to do that, why come back to the island? On the other hand, I can't see any reason for anyone killing him. He was a very strong boy. If he was drunk of course an accident is possible, I suppose. There's only that one rope stretched across the stern. You could fall over or under that, easily enough. Was he drunk?

Won't know until I get the pathology report, probably this afternoon, but I'd say he was. In his ute this morning the smell of whisky was stronger than the smell of brand new leather upholstery, and he had another couple of boxes of bottles under the hardtop over the tray.

Yeah. He was a serious drinker, said Scotty.

Where did he get his money? Georgia was asking Scotty directly.

Damned if I know. Scotty sat up as if he'd just connected Neil Durry and money for the first time. Always seemed to have plenty. No, that's not quite right. Come to think of it he had bouts of being in the money and other times when he was a bit low.

Free spender?

No way. Not him. You'd be lucky if you ever got a drink out of Neil. No, despite all his big noting and loud talk he was as mean as Geenwich time. In fact I've seen him rely on Candy a few times to buy the drinks and she's got bugger all money.

'But she buys for him?"

She does everything for him. She besotted with him and he's a miserable bastard. Or was. There was a silence then Scotty said more kindly, I suppose some mother'll miss him, somewhere, but he didn't appeal to me a lot. I'd be hard put to name any real friends he had apart from Candy Laurenson and he used her.

Did he carry any injuries? I said.

"No. Had a quick look at the body down by the boat ramp but there wasn't a bruise on him that I could see. I've got Eve and Peter, my forensic pair, going over the ute at the moment down there. A police doctor'll arrive soon and take the body in to pathology. I'll know more then.

Look, she said as she opened her satchel and took out pages. I've got plans of the deck here and the layout of cars and vehicles as the deckhands recall them. Can you tell me which car was yours and can you identify any other vehicle and tell me who was in them?

She put a photocopied plan on the table, three files of little oblongs drawn on it. The tea things were cleared away, we leaned over the table and began naming vehicles and passengers. Irma and Scotty were very accurate about the cars immediately around us, I was more useful when it came to identification of the cars and people further away. I'd also recognised people when they got out of their cars during the forty minute trip as we motored smoothly over the bay. Some of them simply wanted a breath of fresh air, some I saw go down to the toilet at the rear of the deck in the great steel structure which described something of a square arch over the deck and held the bridge above the vessel. From our position on the deck I was able to see most of the steel super structure, the entry to the stairs to go up there but not the toilet door, and not the very rear of the deck, that flat area which finished where the vehicles drove on and at sea simply had a long rope slung across it.

Scotty in particular could tie facts to names and Georgia took plenty of notes in her black flip-page notebook.

That'd be MacVittie's car, said Scotty putting his finger on one of the oblongs. Georgia looked at another sheet from her satchel.

Yes. Deckhand said that. Said it was the latest model of Mercedes on the island.

That'd be right. I'd be surprised if it's done more than thirty thousand. Likes his comforts does Mac, you should see his house.

Rich?

Oh yeah.

Do you know where his money comes from?

No idea. He's a squat little Scot who wears a Tam-o-shanter and keeps his mouth shut. Handshake like a hydraulic press. Word has it he was a marine engineer on the boats for years. Might have salted his money away, might have money in Scotland, who knows?

He's the local bookie, I said.

Is he now? Georgia turned to Scotty. Were you going to tell me that?

Might have got around to it. It's his own business what he does isn't it?

Unless he breaks the law.

Yeah, well with all due respects Georgia, the law really does make a pig's breakfast out of a few things doesn't it? We manage pretty well on the island here. Roselli keeps an eye on things. He nodded toward the big sergeant who had hardly said a word so far.

OK, I'll have a word with Mr MacVittie. Thanks for your help. I have to move on, and thanks for the scones, Irma, I didn't have any breakfast this morning.

Of course the talk of the island that day at the bowls was Neil Durry, his death and the police activity.

Being on the barge yesterday, that fateful trip at the end of a Sunday afternoon just as winter's early night was descending, was to achieve instant fame and be regarded automatically as an authority on all that had happened and all that was happening.

Two people could not be together for two seconds in the clubhouse or on the greens before the subject came up in all its fascinating horror. Did he fall or was he pushed? I heard explanations of every conceivable guess from people who were sure about information they could not possibly have known; but when the finger of death pushes through the fragile tissue of life, the imagination is stirred as for no other event. People in their relief that the finger did not hook around them, went out of their way to guess why it had caught someone else. The island shivered in the horror of what had happened and for many, truth was not going to bar their indulgence in a shuddering ending of life.

Some of the so called facts and theories put to me at bowls as truth that afternoon left me speechless. That some of them came from the people they did, confused me all over again about human gullibility. It was disheartening. With one or two of them who had eyes as big as saucers I felt like taking their arms and saying in a low and awe struck voice, It was frightening, Peter. One moment the sky was as heavy as depression – and then a light beam shot out of it onto the back of the barge. It was only for an instant, so quick I wondered if I'd really seen it, then the sky was grey again, almost black and Ill swear there was a grumble of thunder. It was all over in an instant but in that moment, Neil was gone. I really wanted to say that to some of the credulous, but I didn't. I was too frightened of its cropping up in a sworn statement to the police.

With those who said that if it were murder, it must have been carried out by a very strong person, I had some sympathy. Even drunk, Joe Durry was a match for anyone we knew on the boat, even Jazz.

Naturally, on an island like ours, the whole population appeared to know exactly who was on that barge. Bowlers, began their conversations with me with the words, You were on the barge yesterday, Lockie. What happened?

They knew what happened; at least they knew as much as I did.

Neil himself was proving to be a bit of a conundrum. I asked people if they’d known him but perhaps the age group of the bowlers was too far away from Neil. Many of them had seen him in his pub appearances, usually with a worshipping Candy attached, all had heard him and his loud masculinity, but I didn't meet a person who liked him. In fact, I think his presence rather daunted a lot of them. Some said it was a hell of a way to go, and others wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy, but nobody said they were sorry he'd gone.

Another thing that surprised me about Neil was that I couldn't find anyone who knew what he did for a living. He rented a big high-set Queenslander that was on a larger than usual block of land and was sheltered from the road by stands of Casuarina and gum trees. He'd had that place for more than two years now and lived a hermit's life there. There was general doubt that even Candy had been in his house.

Then, roughly every six months, he disappeared from the island. Where he went, nobody knew, but as surely as he disappeared he'd come back again and when he did he was usually in the money, big time. Yesterday he was returning from one of those trips in his brand new vehicle.

As far as I could tell, as far as Scotty knew, he was friendless on the island which didn't seem to worry him in the slightest. The one he had most to do with – once the needy Candy was accounted for – was McVittie the rotund Scots bookmaker, the unquestioned king of all unofficial gambling done on the island. That, appeared to be exactly what it was, a gambling connection.

I finished Monday amazed at how a young