Aether: Detective Inspector Stratton mysteries, #1

By S.J. Thiessen

As Detective Inspector Terry Stratton emerges from the icy waters of idyllic Seven Mile Beach and sets out on the ride leg of his club triathlon, his only worry is beating his mate, Johnno. Despite his recent demotion, Stratton is revelling in his new role as head of the re-formed Homicide and Cold Case Unit, despite its reputation as a poisoned chalice within the ranks of Tasmania Police. His team, rejected as misfits by other divisions, as Stratton was himself, is part of the appeal.

 

Crossing the finish line, an urgent summons saves Stratton from Johnno's victory taunts. A body has been found in macabre circumstances, in a nearby parkland. As suspects are eliminated and leads fizzle out, a second gruesome death occurs in another of Hobart's picturesque parks. Stratton is convinced the murders are connected and that an arcane ritual is being played out in the shadow of kunanyi, the majestic mountain, looming over the city.

 

Under pressure from his nemesis, AC Morton, who insists the killings are unrelated, the local press, and even from within his own team, Stratton has a choice to make. Chase a murderer, desperate to complete their mission, or appease Morton, poised and waiting for an excuse to remove Stratton from the investigation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amos Thiessen Family Trust
• Release date: Nov 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9780648613015

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The child

The child peered around the edge of the chair, hands hovering over their ears, terrified to listen but desperate to hear. They craned their neck, far enough to see their father berate the hospital staff, but not so far as to attract their attention.

A doctor approached the child’s father and placed a hand on the man’s arm. If it was meant to placate, it had the opposite effect. Their father brushed the hand away and spun towards the doctor. The child lowered their hands to their sides and edged forward, desperate to understand what was happening.

‘You killed her. You said you would save her.’

The doctor’s eyes creased above his black-rimmed glasses. ‘It was too late. You should have brought her to us weeks ago, probably months. Even then, it may have been too late.’

‘No! We should have trusted the medicine we know.’

‘Please, think of your child,’ urged a nurse, turning to look at the chair. The child drew back as the nurse continued, ‘they need their father, now more than ever. Think how they must be feeling.’

‘How do I explain that you killed their mother?’ the man roared, lunging towards the doctor who, tripping as he stepped backwards, sprawled on the dated but pristine linoleum floor.

The nurse reached for a red buzzer embedded in the wall, but the ward door burst open before she pressed it. Two orderlies, their bulk clear even in their loose-fitting blue scrubs, raced in and, seizing the man by the arms, led him to the lifts. Captivated by their father’s plight, the child didn't notice the nurse until she crouched beside them, reaching out a hand to grasp theirs. The nurse smiled, but a tear ran down her cheek as she led the child to the stairwell. They descended to the hospital lobby and crossed to the main doors as the orderlies came inside, straightening their clothing.

‘He’s out front. Don’t go out there.’

‘But the child…’

‘I’ll take them,’ said one of the orderlies, stepping through the door and indicating for the child to follow.

Their father paced the forecourt, hands meshed in his knotted hair, roaring at the sky, a primal sound laced with anguish and fury. As the man caught sight of the child, his hands dropped to his sides, shoulders slumping. Reaching out a hand, he whispered, ‘come child, there is much for you to learn.’

The adult

They crouched, pain stabbing at their stomach. The urge to curl up, to lie down and give in, was overwhelming. They knew what was happening and where it would end. The memories of their mother were faded, but her suffering was etched in their mind. Their father too, his death recent and the memories vivid, consumed by the same ailment. Both let down by modern medicine.

A pair of middle-aged ladies exited the nearby grocer and paused in a cloud of perfume, but scurried on when the adult’s gaze settled on them. The fury that simmered after the confrontation with their neighbour blazed in the adult’s eyes, adding to the trepidation that their dishevelled clothing aroused.

It was the anger that brought them back to their feet, adrenaline surging through their body, filling them with a determination to do something, anything, to put the world right. Time was running out and someone must pay.

They stumbled, still doubled over in pain, to the tiny park beside the shop and slumped on a bench seat. A man, seated at the other end, looked up from the screen he was gazing at as though it were the elixir itself. He made to speak, but changed his mind, instead standing and urging his son off the slide. Grasping the boy’s hand, and ignoring their protests, he scurried away from the park, leaving a half-eaten sandwich and a newspaper spread on the seat.

As they lay out along the bench to wait out the pain, a headline caught their eye. Businessman Fined For Repeated Environmental Breaches. They clutched the paper in one hand and used the other to brace upright. Their lips moved, but no sound emerged as they read the article, tore it from the paper and folded it into their pocket. A plan was forming. Someone must pay. And now they knew who.

CHAPTER 1

With fewer than two hours remaining until his demise, the early advent of which would be mourned by some and celebrated by many, the Uber carrying Bernard Vagle pulled to the curb in a subdued middle-class neighbourhood. Pausing to scrutinise the street, Vagle alighted. A street lamp above him glowed in the early dawn, illuminating Vagle’s guarded olive features and he felt a flicker of irritation with the driver for stopping at the very place he would be most visible.

His initial excitement, triggered by a text message he paused to check again, was matched by another edgy, but far less comfortable, sensation. Had Vagle been less self-absorbed, he would have recognised this as his conscience, urging him to reconsider. Instead, he ignored it, as he did his phone, which was now buzzing inside his jacket pocket. Calls from a harping ex-wife, an agitated business partner or a brother to whom he owed money, were low priorities when a conquest was at hand.

Vagle scurried across the lawn, dodging early autumn leaves raked into piles. The brisk Hobart air darted at his cheeks like a careless acupuncturist. With a final backward glance, Vagle knocked on his best mate’s door, a mate who at that very moment was attending a weekend sales conference in Launceston, a two-hour drive to the north.

The door opened before he finished knocking, a waft of perfume escaped and Vagle was urged across the threshold, the door thudding shut behind him.

Detective Inspector Terry Stratton exited the swim leg of his club triathlon, his bare feet slapping across sand left wet by the receding tide. As he ran from the ocean, his watery footprints disappeared, leaving no trace as he raced on.

Vainly pursuing younger, faster competitors, Stratton was oblivious to the existence of Vagle and unaware of his impending death. In fact, had Stratton been advised that a man in his mid forties was about to die, Stratton would have assumed, based on his current heart rate, that he was himself the obvious candidate.

As he lumbered through the softer sands above the high-water mark, Stratton clutched his goggles and swim cap in one hand. With the other, he wrestled with the zip on the back of his wet-suit. Why, he wondered, would the manufacturer fit the zip to the one part of the body no normal adult could reach? With relief, he stepped onto a firmer path leading back to transition and his bike.

Arriving in transition, Stratton was dismayed to see very few of his fellow competitor’s bikes remained, although why this surprised him afresh each race was a mystery.

Struggling to escape from his wet suit, its legs clinging to his own like a tenacious octopus, Stratton wobbled on one leg before flopping to the ground. From that position, he was able to work the wetsuit over each ankle. Free at last, Stratton grabbed his bike and headed for the road.

The woman lying beside Vagle radiated dissatisfaction. Eddie, Vagle’s mate, was always going on about what a great shag she was, which was half the reason Vagle was here. That and those amazing tits.

Bloody low standards, thought Vagle. Eddie obviously doesn’t expect much. If she was any good, she would have known to slow down. How was he supposed to control himself if the bitch didn’t listen?

As soon as Vagle had grunted to a hasty conclusion, the woman had pushed him off, rolled onto her side and left him to contemplate a back far too pale and spotty for his liking.

Vagle considered his options. He could try cuddling up and talking smooth talking. He could have a go at giving her the satisfaction she obviously felt she had been denied. Or he could just get up and fuck off. It all depended, didn’t it, on whether he wanted to keep her on tap, someone he could come back to for a shag whenever he fancied one?

No, the more he thought about it, the surer he was that this was a one off. Tick that box. Listening to Eddie gloat about his sex life had always pissed him off. Now he knew there wasn’t much to talk about. Next time Vagle was stuck listening to the wanker boast, he would know it was all bullshit and Eddie, the silly prick, would be none the wiser.

Vagle sat up and looked around for his trousers. They must be in the hallway. The bloody tramp hadn’t even let him get in the door before she was tearing at his belt and buttons.

‘You off then?' asked the woman, her back still turned.

‘Things to do,’ said Vagle.

‘Hope you manage to finish those properly,’ she said, rolling over to face him. A sneer transformed the face he had found so desirable less than an hour ago, into one he just wanted to slap.

‘I don’t know what Eddie sees in you,’ said Vagle, his nose curling at the acrid blend of cheap perfume and stale cigarette smoke drifting from her hair. ‘He’s always telling us what a cracker you are in bed, but he must be easy to please.’

‘So am I. For a real man. But it was too big a job for you,’ she taunted, rolling away from him again.

Vagle snatched the sheet, pulling it from the bed and leaving the woman lying exposed. Grabbing her shoulder and rolling her back towards him, he pinned her in place with a palm pressed to her chest. ‘You better be careful what you say or I might just tell Eddie what his precious wife gets up to behind his back.’

The woman swatted his hand away. ‘Just fuck off and don’t come back.’

Vagle dressed in the hallway and left, not bothering to close the front door behind him. Easy come, easy go, he thought, emerging into the glow of a new day. There are plenty more where that came from.

Stratton prepared to dismount, his mind already turning to the final leg of his race, a three-kilometre beach run. More at home on the bike than in the swim, he had managed to pass a dozen competitors, although that tally did include a novice pedalling a rusting Malvern Star and a twelve-year-old on her older brother’s rattling BMX.

As he approached the end of the bike course, an orange vested marshal, a fellow club member on volunteer duty, indicated the line at which Stratton was required to dismount his bike.

‘How are you going, mate?' enquired the marshal. ‘Feeling as bad as you look?’

‘I’m going better than you are. Why aren’t you racing?' Stratton called over his shoulder. Without waiting for a reply, Stratton jogged into transition and sat to swap his bike shoes for his runners.

‘You still going mate or are you having a lie down?’ Another marshal, this one wearing fluorescent green, grinned down at him.

‘This is hard enough without putting up with you blokes,’ said Stratton. ‘How far ahead is Johnno?’

Every weekend, Stratton and Johnno battled for boasting rights, too often culminating in a frantic sprint to the line that neither man was built for. A mutual love of red wine, no doubt a factor in their humble finishing positions, provided the basis for an ongoing wager. This week a bottle of Tasmanian Pinot Noir was at stake.

The marshal’s words followed Stratton out of transition. ‘Too far ahead for you to see him before the BBQ, mate.’

As usual, Johnno, who could swim like a fish, had established a solid lead by the time they emerged from the bracing April waters of Seven Mile Beach. As usual, Stratton had made ground on the bike and would gain more time on the run, but maybe not enough. Then again, it was a bloody good bottle of red. Stratton raced back down the path to the beach, the loose sand slipping beneath his feet. The ocean shimmered orange as the sun inched its way higher above the horizon, bringing comfort, if not warmth. Reaching the beach, Stratton made for the firmer sand just above the water line and settled into his pursuit, focusing on the tempo of his running shoes slapping through tiny pools left behind by the receding tide.

Vagle considered an Uber but elected to walk. According to Google Maps, there was an all hours pub a few streets away where he could get a beer. He needed a drink. He still couldn’t believe that tramp had criticised his performance, blaming him for her own inadequacies. Any number of women would have swapped places with her in a heart beat. She clearly didn’t appreciate how fortunate she was to have reached the front of that queue.

I’m not going to waste another thought on her, Vagle decided, setting off towards the pub. His path took him through suburban streets lined with three-bedroom, orange brick homes, each a replica of those surrounding it.

Some of the more industrious residents had asserted their individuality with personal touches. Eaves painted a vivid burgundy, a replica rocket ship letter box fashioned from recycled junk, an ornate garden arch constructed over a pathway. It’s the only way they would know which was theirs, scoffed Vagle, although his own current living arrangements were not, in any sense, lavish.

Whatever they did in this neighbourhood, it didn’t bring many of them outside to greet the morning. One couple tended their garden, a short, grey-haired woman kneeling over a fresh hole, surrounded by rich, black soil and clutching a small shrub. The man beside her leaned on a spade and arched his back. In another yard, a stout man in a dressing gown and matching chequered slippers shuffled across the lawn in search of his morning paper.

‘Fifty square metres of bloody empty driveway,’ he grumbled, ‘and still they manage to toss the bloody thing under a bush.’

Vagle ignored him. These predictable middle-class types in their boring middle-class homes were not his kind of people. He wasn’t even sure why he put up with Eddie, although Vagle’s friendship list was otherwise limited to a few single blokes with nothing to fear from him.

Reaching a corner, Vagle glanced up at a pair of street signs marking the junction of Wattle Street and Gum Avenue. Even the street names are dull and middle class, he thought, checking the map on his phone and turning left onto Gum Avenue.

The sound of Vagle’s footsteps hung in the thick morning air, reluctant to fade. Hearing steps echoing his own, Vagle turned. Come to beg for more, he thought, expecting to see the woman hurrying after him.

The street behind him was empty, but it was the kind of still morning, wisps of low fog suspended above his head, on which sounds carried, so he waited, silent, for a minute before turning and walking on. Half a block later, he stopped again, certain he could hear steps. Again, the street behind him was unoccupied, so he shrugged and continued his journey. Reaching the end of the block, he could hear the sound of traffic.

He walked another two blocks before reaching a busier road. A steady stream of vehicles in both directions carried Hobartians risen early to capitalise on a forecast glorious day in a fading season. Vagle pulled out his phone to check his voice mail, remembering the calls he had ignored earlier. He strained to hear as a bus rumbled to a stop and its doors hissed open.

The first message was from his ex-wife, calling to demand that he get his payments up to date. Fucking alimony, he thought, paying for what I’m not getting.

Vagle was about to delete the message when he heard his son’s voice.

‘Mum, I want to talk to Dad.’

‘He didn’t answer. He never does.’

‘Well, I want to leave a message too.’

Thomas, the one good outcome from an appalling union, wanted to talk about the football trip his father had promised him. In the background, Vagle could hear his ex-wife insisting that the trip would never happen.

Vagle intended to keep his promise no matter how tight money was. In fact, the previous evening, he had used his company credit card to book flights, although that was sure to bite him on the backside when his business partner received the statements.

I’m no saint, thought Vagle, but no-one could accuse me of being a bad father. And when have I ever broken a promise to him?

He was still mulling these thoughts as he arrived on the doorstep of The Bended Elbow. With pubs all over town undergoing, or, in Vagle’s opinion, suffering, makeovers to appeal to the fashionable crowd, this one was an exception. It looked as it must have forty years earlier, although it had aged poorly. The red brick exterior had a chain smoker’s greying complexion and the green tin roof peeled like an English backpacker after their first weekend on an Australian beach. Above the door, a rickety wooden strut supported a faded sign swinging in the gentlest of breezes, the pub’s emblem of an arm clutching a glass distinguishable only as the faintest of outlines.

Inside, the dim lighting was more melancholy than subdued and the odour, three parts stale beer and one part essence of urine, had resisted the clearly infrequent efforts at carpet cleaning. The patrons also looked like remnants from decades gone by and they, too, had aged poorly.

As Vagle entered, a youthful barmaid in a tight pink tee shirt, a splash of vibrancy on a dour backdrop, paused, a streaky glass in one hand, a bottle of spirits in the other.

‘What can I get you, love?' she asked, her playful smile making promises instantly betrayed by her wary eyes. The endearment would have been strange from one so young in less dreary surrounds, but here they felt like part of a theme. Her smile and the contents of the pink tee shirt were sufficient to have Vagle disconnecting his call without listening to the second message. See, thought Vagle, plenty more fish.

Carrying his beer, Vagle slid into a booth, the bare wooden seat hard on his backside. The skin of his bare forearms stuck as he leaned on the table, its surface etched with cigarette burns, a reminder of a time when smokers were free to inflict their vice on fellow patrons.

Vagle redialled his voice mail and listened to the second message. This one, from his business partner, was even less agreeable than the one from his ex-wife. At least it was brief.

‘Call me back or you’ll be fucking sorry.’

Petty squabbling over workplace trivialities had given way of late, under increasing financial pressure, to bitter quarrels. In the past, Vagle had always been able to talk his partner round, but now might be the time to move on.

Disconnecting, Vagle grabbed his half empty glass and moved to a stool at the bar.

‘Another one, love?' asked the barmaid.

‘I’d love one. Wouldn’t mind a drink as well,’ Vagle winked at the barmaid. ‘Why don’t you pour one for yourself?’

A steady procession of runners made their way along the beach, around an oversized orange traffic cone discernible in the distance and back. Passing in opposite directions, runners weaved to accommodate each other on the precious band of hard sand above the lapping waves, but below the powdery grains guaranteed to slow the pace and tighten the Achilles.

The sun, now higher and hotter, glinted off the wet sand and Stratton had to squint to see who was ahead.

Spotting Johnno’s lumbering gait coming towards him, Stratton lifted his pace but was still over three hundred metres from the cone when they met each other.

‘Pork,’ bellowed Johnno as they passed. ‘I reckon a steak would overpower it, but pork will be just the thing with that Pinot.’

‘Don’t loosen the cork yet. We still have a lap to go,’ yelled Stratton to Johnno’s retreating back.

‘Reckon you’ll need five laps,’ Johnno puffed, the surf drowning out the last words.

Ten minutes later, on their final lap, Stratton and Johnno passed again. This time neither was prepared, or perhaps able, to spare the breath required for sledging. The gap was closing, though, but not fast enough.

A bus pulled to the curb, and the doors swung open with a hydraulic swoosh. They could feel the driver’s eyes upon them, waiting to see if they would board, but the adult didn’t bother making eye contact. The driver shrugged, swished the doors closed again, and pulled out into the traffic.

It wasn't a bus that they were waiting for. The violator had entered the pub on the corner, across the road and two doors along from the bus shelter. From where they sat, they had a clear view of the entrance. The violator would not leave unseen, and from there, the fates would decide. If the violator stayed in populated areas, surrounded by people, or if he took another Uber, they would have to create another opportunity. But there were vast open spaces nearby. If the violator strayed into those, they were ready to pounce.

Once, they would have waited patiently, for time was abundant. Now, though, illness had changed all that. Time was all they had, and it felt like it was running out.

When the violator had left the house, they had paused only to collect their equipment. They had followed the violator through the streets, taking care to tread softly despite the load. Twice they had to step behind a tree when the violator paused and looked around. Each time they waited, concealed, until the violator moved on. And now they waited again, equipment at their feet.

A movement across the road caught their eye. The pub door swung open, and the violator emerged, blinking in the sunlight. The violator stumbled but caught himself, descended the stairs onto the footpath, and turned towards the parklands and their death.

Vagle emerged from the gloom of the pub, squinting at the sudden brightness and the glare reflecting off passing vehicles. He stumbled, four beers consumed while attempting to procure the barmaid’s phone number, leaving him unsteady. Fucking cock tease, he thought, already planning to come back later in the week.

Vagle swayed down the street, making a decision to walk for a while before calling an Uber. His mother, the other person Vagle would never break a promise to, was expecting him to visit her at the nursing home later in the day. His Sunday afternoons, swapping stories and telling jokes with his mum and the other residents, had become a safe space for him, and the highlight of his mother’s week. But he had better sober up, hence the walk. A shower and nap were also in order.

He reached Wentworth Park, a vast area of public space running parallel with the foreshore and encompassing sporting fields, playgrounds, BBQ facilities, and an expanse of coastal bushland. Checking his pockets to ensure he could scrounge together the money, Vagle veered across the fields towards the shopping complex on the main road. Perhaps a florist there would have a cheap bunch, although he couldn’t afford anything that would match the mix of gerberas, irises and lilies that had delighted his mum on her birthday.

Vagle’s path took him between two football ovals. On the larger one, a pre-season practice match was in progress. Tribal urgings to ‘go in harder’ and the smack of bodies colliding in a marking contest stirred something primal in Vagle and he paused to watch. His own playing days were well over, although he was certain he could still hold his own.

After watching the game for a few minutes, the beer made its presence felt in his bladder and he dashed into a nearby copse of trees. As he urinated, Vagle became aware of silence. Not absolute silence, because he could still hear distinct sounds. Footballers shouting encouragement to each other, the incongruous, hideous screech of the beautiful black cockatoos, even the hiss and splash of his own urine. This was a weighty silence, a malevolent void that accentuated noise from beyond it and had the hairs on his arms tingling. Had he been sober, this heightened alertness would have alarmed him sooner. As it was, even as apprehension flickered, he was struck across the head by a blow so unexpected that he had little time to register, let alone brace, for it.

Stratton could hear footsteps pounding behind him as he neared the end of the beach. At least he thought he could. Surely that wasn’t his own heart pounding in the futile effort to catch Johnno?

Knowing that the honours, and the bottle, were Johnno’s today, Stratton allowed himself to ease up. A seductive voice in his mind made a compelling argument for stopping, just for a moment, to wade in the cool water and bring a brief respite to his aching legs.

To distract himself, Stratton contemplated his afternoon. He would phone Charlie, perhaps even play an online game with him. His son had been out of sorts in the last few weeks, his ebullient nature edged with a frisson of melancholy. Charlie struggled at school, something that Stratton found it difficult to help him with, even when they had lived under the same roof. Of course, the domestic situation wouldn’t be helping.

With these mental torments competing with his legs for attention, Stratton cast around for happier thoughts to carry him to the finish line. One of the pleasures afforded by a Sunday morning triathlon was a guilt free Sunday afternoon. No matter how little was achieved nor how much was consumed, solid or liquid, for the remainder of the day, he was in credit. Now, if he could just persuade Johnno that the spoils of victory were most enjoyable when shared with a rival.

As Vagle regained consciousness, his first instinct was to reach for his zipper, remembering only that he hadn’t completed the routine. It was only when he was unable to move his arms, or his legs, that he recalled the blow. He struggled against the restraints, his arms scraping against the coarse bark of the gum tree to which he was bound.

Vagle was accustomed to angry women, angry husbands, angry business associates … in fact, angry people in general. This, though, was a whole new level of angry, even for him.

Still groggy, he cursed and recoiled in surprise at the mask covering his mouth and nose. With rising anxiety, his eyes followed the clear tube running from the mask and disappearing over his right shoulder.

He renewed his efforts to pull free of the bindings, but stopped as he heard new sounds. Footsteps, light but not cautious. A metallic ringing as a gasket was opened. The steady low hiss of gas escaping a cylinder.

Panic quickened his pulse and deepened his breathing as the clear tube clouded and an acrid taste filled his mouth.

Arching his back, he tested the ropes again and thrashed his head from side to side, trying to dislodge the mask. The effort made him breathe faster and, horrified, he stopped moving, although his gasping for air didn’t slow.

He tried to hold his breath but each reluctant lungful left him sleepier until, defeated, he lay slumped against the tree, his body’s instinctive need to inhale killing him breath by breath.

Running through the soft dunes a final time, Stratton gulped mouthfuls of air purified on their voyage across thousands of kilometres of the Pacific Ocean.

He knew the ambivalent pleasure of finishing his race was less than a minute away. While Johnno would capitalise on his bragging rights without mercy, the simple joy of stopping would make it all worthwhile. Plus, there was the post-race debrief and stories of triumph and despair to look forward to.

As he rounded the final corner, a waft of incinerated sausage drifted from the club BBQ, giving Stratton hope that the faster finishers may have, for once, been restrained in their exercise inspired feeding frenzy and some meagre scraps would remain.

Stratton spotted Johnno standing on the finish line, fifty metres ahead, brandishing the bottle of red. The cheeky bugger has been in my bag already, thought Stratton.

As he drew nearer, though, Stratton saw that Johnno’s face was grim rather than triumphant. And in place of the bottle, it was Stratton’s phone he was clutching.

Indicating the timekeepers, Johnno said, ‘they reckon it’s been ringing non-stop for the last fifteen minutes. I thought I better answer it. The station needs you to call them urgently.’

Stratton took the phone from Johnno who, seeing his hard won bragging opportunity being snatched away, landed a consolation blow.

‘Pity they weren’t ringing for me, mate. I’ve been here a while.’

CHAPTER 2

Stratton nosed his faded sedan, vermilion in its heyday according to some nauseating marketer, but now just grimy orange, into a cramped space alongside a sports ground. Footballers stood in small clusters at one side of the ground, striped black and white jerseys mingling with red and black ones. Four figures in white, one with a ball clutched under their arm, stood a little apart. It seemed that even proximity to violent death couldn’t bring umpires and players to an easy camaraderie.

A white plastic table, probably scrounged from the red brick clubhouse, had been placed in the goal square nearest the car park. A police officer called players forward one at a time to answer a series of questions. Another officer fed their responses into a laptop computer. Stratton knew that each player was being asked a standard set of questions - name, address, anything unusual they may have noticed, whereabouts at the assumed time of the murder, identity of anyone would could verify that?

Stratton hoped that some common sense was being observed. It was hard to imagine the combatants in a football match noticing anything of use -and harder still to imagine one of them slinking off, unnoticed, to commit a murder, if that’s what this was. Still, it was a job that needed doing. More often than he could recall, an offhand response to an obscure enquiry had brought momentum to a stalled investigation.

As he exited his car, Stratton took in his surrounds. The football ground was on his immediate right, the squat red brick clubhouse and a peeling wooden grandstand on the far side. To his left were open grasslands and, in the distance, a busy main road and shopping centre. The rumble of traffic carried across the open space on a gentle breeze. Thickets of trees and patches of low scrubby bushland were scattered between the grasslands and the sports fields. Police officers, forensic specialists, paramedics and other official figures crawled over this landscape like flies on an abandoned meat pie, confirming that this was the direction he needed to go.

A couple of dog walkers, drawn at first by the activity, were now trying to drag their excitable chocolate and white spaniels away. An overweight jogger shuffled laps around the perimeter of the parkland while two younger runners, trimmer, faster and clad in lycra suits that left no questions unanswered, ran fartlek efforts across the open grassed area.

Stratton straightened his tie and shrugged into his jacket. Although only a few months into his new and punitive role as head of the reincarnated Tasmanian Homicide and Violent Cold Case Unit, Stratton had been a police officer long enough to know that a day off was never guaranteed. A change of clothes had permanent residency in a tattered brown bag stored in the boot of his car.

Before leaving the race venue, Stratton had bundled his dripping wetsuit, goggles, swimming cap, helmet, cycling shoes and assorted racing gear into a bright orange plastic lug which he dumped on the backseat of his car. Then, wedged between two cars for privacy, he exchanged his running gear for his work clothes.

He was now resplendent in a charcoal suit animated by a lilac shirt and a purple and white striped tie. Underneath, though, a greasy residue of sunscreen layered with sweat itched his legs and torso. His day old whiskers were crusted with salt and he had a thin red lash across his face, the result of a mid swim encounter with a white spotted jellyfish.

Depending on how this case went, his race gear might sit festering and rancid, except the bike, for days. The racing bike, mounted and locked on the roof of his car, was worth more than the vehicle it adorned. Their relative values were reflected in the care and attention they received. Where the car was lucky to receive an annual wash and was only vacuumed for visiting family members and, perhaps soon, for first dates, the bike was cleaned and