The Missing

By Jeffrey Sheppard

Client, Martin McKenna, hands PI Merv Shultz a 27 yo cold case for him to solve, he’s not impressed. Especially when he finds out two Brisbane detectives were the victims. With dogged determination, Merv commences undoing the layers of intrigue and cover-ups to get to the bottom of this old case. It's a slow burner, soon enough it turns into a violent action thriller.
Intermingled with this is Merv’s off/on/off relationship with his old lover, Janice. Throw in a ruthless bikie gang, corrupt cops, and scared witnesses and the story moves along at a good pace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey Sheppard
• Release date: Jan 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215399378

Jeffrey Sheppard

In my early career I worked at Queensland Newspapers, the publisher of the Courier Mail, Brisbane's daily newspaper. Then I travelled a bit and ended up in Vienna, Austria, where I was lucky enough to get a job in the publication section of the United Nations Industrial Development Organisation, or UNIDO for short.Later on when I returned home I was employed by another daily newspaper, the Queensland Times in Ipswich, a major regional town outside of Brisbane. I followed that with a stint at Queensland Country Life, a weekly newspaper, that services the farmers and pastoralist of the huge state of Queensland.However I wanted to be my own boss, so I bought a small printing business here in Brisbane and ran that, along with my wife, Helen, for around 12 years. Sold it and retired to do what I do now, play some golf, travel, exercise and write.Writing came late to me, it's a passion and a hobby all rolled into one. Yet it can be time consuming, even though I'm retired sometimes my passion does feel like work. But . . . like lots of amateurs on Smashwords when someone, like yourself, downloads one of my books it gives me a thrill. So thanks for taking the time to read my musings.

Book preview

THE MISSING

BY JEFFREY SHEPPARD

THE MISSING

Copyright 2024 Jeffrey Sheppard

Published by Jeffrey Sheppard at Smashwords. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

Like many books published in this manner, some mistakes can occur. To the best of my ability, I've tried to eliminate them, however, I take full ownership for any mistakes found by the reader.

Please note, this book is a work of fiction. It is partly based on events that happened in Queensland, in 1987. For authenticity I have included some actual characters who lived during that era, however, all other characters come from my imagination, and any similarities to person's living or dead are purely coincidental.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

AUTHOR'S NOTES

I first wrote The Missing in 2014 long before I ever heard about Smashwords. It was my second book with Merv Shultz as a private investigator and when I learned of the existence of Smashwords five years later I was in the process of writing another book, Murders in a Time of War. That book received all my attention and subsequently became my first book on Smashwords.

Since then I've written three other books, two of which have Merv as the main character. Every book I write is a stand-alone book, however, from time to time I make references to major events that have occurred in previous books. However, with The Missing I felt I needed to explain the reason why the book is set in 2014.

And if anyone has read Terror Australis and The Set Up the love/hate relationship between Merv and Martin McKenna now might make a little more sense for you.

Being at a loose end I reread an early draft of The Missing and realised it had potential. I did some serious editing and added about 12000 words to the story. However, compared to the other two Merv Shultz books it's best described as a slow burner. Yet rest assured reader, if you managed to wade through the first quarter of the book, it heats up nicely, with plenty of action and violence, several surprises and an interesting ending. I reckon The Missing, is a reasonable yarn and it talks about the dark side of Queensland back in the 1980s. And if you’re not familiar with that part of the state’s history please read The Fitzgerald Inquiry pages for an insight into how the state of Queensland was run late last century.

THE FITZGERALD INQUIRY

Who would have thought in the latter part of the 20th century, a relatively conservative backwater like Queensland, Australia would become the stage for the largest corruption scandal ever witnessed in this country?

After an exhaustive 25 months, the Fitzgerald Inquiry completed its task of sifting through the tangled web of deceit, lies, a mountain of evidence and announced its findings: it uncovered unparalleled, endemic police and political corruption in the state of Queensland. Prostitution, SP bookmaking, illegal betting casinos, drugs, standover tactics, bribery, protection money and several murders were condoned by the police commissioner and high-ranking police officers. Indeed, large elements of the police force were proven to be corrupt. Aided and abetted by a National Party government; from the premier to cabinet ministers, and their sycophantic friends in business, corruption was not only tolerated but also encouraged as a standard business practice in Queensland.

Money packed in brown paper bags found its way right to the heart of the political system, the premier's desk. Prostitutes, bookies and drug dealers who threatened to reveal what information they had to the media were intimidated or indeed assaulted, with some mysteriously disappearing, never to be seen again. The message was clear, for any low-life criminal with some inside information on illegal police or political activity, it was a time to keep their collective heads down below the parapet or risk having them chopped off. Honest police who turned whistle-blowers were transferred to small outback communities, thousands of kilometres from Brisbane for their trouble. Naturally, some didn't go quietly and protested to the media, but denials and cover-ups from politicians and senior police officers inevitably ensured their stories were never heard or simply ignored. The message to the honest cop was crystal clear, turn a blind eye to corruption, shut up and don't rock the boat, otherwise, a posting to some dusty, outback country town, with daily summer temperatures of 40 degrees was their immediate future.

In the end, the overwhelming anecdotal and factual evidence was the undoing of the corrupt forces of Queensland. Over a period of time, the Courier Mail reported some very embarrassing revelations on prostitution, illegal casinos and police corruption, but the straw that broke the camel's back was the ABC's Four Corners programme, The Moonlight State, which highlighted all that was rotten in the Sunshine State finally got the public's and honest politician's attention. A royal commission was announced and headed by Tony Fitzgerald QC. A cynical Joe Public had heard it all before; a toothless tiger of a royal commission; an expensive waste of taxpayer's money, followed by the usual whitewashing and exoneration of those brought before it. But the no-nonsense Tony Fitzgerald was having none of it—he took no prisoners. Reputations were trashed, careers were ruined, politicians and high-ranking police officers were gaoled. The premier of Queensland was forced out of office, barely escaping a gaol term himself. It was a victory of good over evil.

Despite the seriousness of the corruption levelled at many politicians, there were a few lighter moments especially when the 'Minister for Everything' Russ Hinze was involved. One anecdotal story has amused many citizens of Queensland for nearly 30 years after the event. In the early 80s Big Russ as he was referred to because he was a giant of a man, was minister for police. Late one night he was pulled over for speeding after leaving a political function held close to his home, having earlier given his driver the night off. The police detected alcohol on his breath and they gave him a roadside breath test, which he failed. Of course, the big man was incredulous and asked them if they knew who he was? Naturally, they did, so Big Russ reached over and pulled a map of Queensland out of the glove box of his Mercedes and handed it to the unsuspecting police officers. He then posed a question, which part of the state would you idiots like to be transferred to next week? The rumour went that the police officers escorted Big Russ home and avoided a transfer to one of the hot and tiny outback police stations in the state.

Meanwhile, the Fitzgerald Inquiry continued unabated, the media had a field day, and they covered events professionally and without bias. The Fitzgerald Inquiry had morphed into the biggest soap opera in the country. Between 1987 and 1989 it produced newspaper headlines at an astonishing rate and was the lead news story on all the radio and television news bulletins. The public queued for hours outside the courtroom for the few seats available to them, just to witness the legal machinations of the royal commission and be part of history. Many people were punished, yet many more evaded punishment; this is the story of some of those people.

PROLOGUE

1987

The strong wind and cracks of thunder were terrifyingly loud; they seemed to shake the very roots of the tall gum trees that surrounded him. Their tops swayed dangerously in the fierce wind as the trees spoke to him in their unintelligible, creaking and groaning tongue. Leaves flew off and dropped to the earth like confetti. Perhaps they were hurting like he was? Lightning illuminated his hiding place ever so briefly, but enough for him to see the top of his leg wound was bleeding profusely. His heart sank at what he saw, with little strength remaining he took off his tie wrapped it around his upper leg and tied it as tightly as his waning strength allowed. The wound was uncompromising in its flow. The cold air had penetrated deep into his bones, and reluctantly he took off his shirt realising he would never need it again, or sadly, any other shirt for that matter. He proceeded to rip it into three large pieces and pressed one of them hard against his wound. He almost fainted from the pain. Even with the pain a tiny smile crept across his face, as his makeshift bandage temporarily stopped the flow of blood. It was a very small victory. He checked his revolver and sighed as he counted three bullets, enough to cause some damage to these corrupt, so-called coppers and gangsters chasing him. They weren't any better than vermin, but with three bullets he couldn't win the fight, yet he'd go out knowing a few of these low-life scum would join him.

Failing a miracle, he was doomed; he was scared but didn't panic. No one wanted to die, he certainly didn't but many before him had died all too early. He understood he was nobody special, just a man with a wife and two teenage children, trying his best and thought he could make a difference in his job. It was hard to understand his emotions at this point, not too many people calmly stared death in the face; it must be the blood loss and the pain from his wound that allowed him to have this level of clarity. The storm was moving towards the city, a shame really; the lightning and thunder had kept them away and gave him the chance to hide would abate quickly. Very soon they will be coming for him, only three bullets, he'll make them count when they come. He attempted to stand up; an impossible thought flashed his mind, maybe if he could keep walking he might make it to the only other house in the street. Get help. His leg gave way, it was useless and he fell back down onto the ground. That possible miracle had vanished, washed down the gutter thanks to his enormous pain. He broke out into a cold sweat and vomited from the torture. His wound was bleeding again; he tossed the blood-gorged piece of shirt onto the ground and pressed another piece over the recalcitrant wound. Gazed at it, the new piece stemmed the blood flow for a moment, soon enough it too would soak up his precious blood like a sponge.

With the worst of the storm over voices wafted on the breeze, they came from the direction of the house. He was outnumbered four to one, not a fair fight, however nothing that had happened this afternoon was fair. He saw a torch beam, probing into the scrub not 30 metres from where he was hiding. This was no covert operation, his attackers made no attempt to suppress their noise, he could hear their footsteps as they walked through the bush snapping the occasional twig lying on the ground. The one with the torch was very close, an ideal target, did he open fire and reveal his hiding place? He tossed that question around in his mind for 10 or so seconds. Decided to let his instincts and what remained of his strength dictate his next move. He tried holding up his right hand, but he barely had the strength to raise it. Once again he felt the bandage, it confirmed what he had known since he was shot, he was bleeding to death, and unconsciousness would occur in less than 10 minutes, making him easy prey for these scum. He wanted to do one last act that these corrupt thugs would remember, no point in going out without some fireworks. With both his hands he crawled to a fallen log a few metres from where he lay, managed to brace his right hand on top of it, steadied himself, sighted the target as he had done many times in target practice and squeezed off two of his remaining bullets. Unlike target practice, this target yelled out in agony before falling onto the ground. Leaning back on the log he closed his eyes, knowing he had killed his first fellow human being. He was totally devoid of pity, this one deserved to have his life ended. He heard a gunshot and felt a jolt in his chest, oddly it wasn't painful, as he struggled to open his eyes. He won that battle, stared at a blurred figure five metres from him, pointed his revolver at him, and felt another jolt in his chest, as his head dropped forward he squeezed the trigger for the last time. He never heard the shooter scream out in pain.

CHAPTER ONE

2014

For the umpteenth time, I grabbed the sweat-soaked pillow and flipped it over hoping to rest my head on a dry bit in the process. I tried my hardest to get back to sleep, but I couldn't. It was a typical warm, still, humid, Brisbane night, and blaming the muggy weather for not being able to get my 20 winks is not the sole reason for my nocturnal problems. Events of the last six months gave me cause not to sleep soundly anymore. My shrink Angela Meiklejohn reckoned I was over the worst of it, but every now and then some chilling memories permeated into my psyche. Pushing these to the back of my mind was a heavy-duty job and it required much willpower on my part, sometimes more than I was capable of producing. She had me working hard at it during my many visits to her; occasionally success was achieved, occasionally not. Fed up with my pillow I threw the sweaty thing onto the bedroom floor. Later on, it would have a date with the washing machine, meanwhile, I reached across the bed and dragged the other one, thinking this would be another bucket of sweat in no time flat. Persistence paid off, my body craved a few decent hours in the cot, with my mind purged of its demons, most likely temporarily, gratefully my eyelids closed and I succumbed to one of life's pleasures once more.

The early morning sun penetrated the bedroom through the partially closed venetian blinds, fingers of the sun's rays spread out, lighting it up, displaying the tired furniture well past its used-by date. I'm partially awake, this is my meditation time as my mind throws all sorts of weird and wonderful ideas around waiting for me to pick the ones that might be useful. Yes, it's true occasionally my selection isn't brilliant, but as Angela tells me, it's better to run with a thought bubble than loll around in bed like a log. The cacophony of bird and train noises has gently stroked me into full consciousness now and I roll out of bed, sit up, and idly gaze at everything and nothing. Who cares how old the bloody furniture is, my spacious two-bedroom unit and my car are all paid for, in fact, I don't owe anyone any money, and I pay my bills on time. Mister model citizen here. These nice pieces of information have me thinking about my financial position and it gave me warm feelings. I congratulate myself for my situation, talking it up like I was a multi-millionaire. Which lamentably I'm not, but putting that salient fact aside, today is an important day in my long-term year plan that hopefully will see me calling it stumps at a respectable age of sixty. If I can dodge Jimmy Dancer, heart attacks, Parkinson's or Alzheimer's I should have a reasonable retirement with the money I've managed to put aside for this not-too-distant dream. That's providing in the meantime no crim takes a fancy to me and decides I'm an easy target, one they could add to their CV. But that's a copper's lot these days, with so many dickheads out there wanting to show off to their girlfriends, gang peers or their normally respectable mates, who morph into drunk or drug-fuelled crazies on Friday and Saturday nights and to their lament stupidly make decisions that not only alter their lives but their victim's too. In the early part of the 21st century, police have a big red bull's eye painted on their backs just waiting to be targeted by all and sundry.

Wiping my eyes I successfully got the duck's meat out of each of them and thoughtlessly flicked the remnants onto the floor. No problems there, it's due for a vacuum and mop in the next couple of days from its resident cleaner. Standing up, feeling like a piss comes as no surprise to me. Last night's consumption of three stubbies of Tooheys New has worked its way through my bladder which insists on having some urgent attention. Scratching my balls I walk the few steps to the ensuite and have my intensely private moment. Not needing to be private, apart from me, sadly my unit was barren of any other human. Especially humans of the opposite sex. The whishing sound of an electric train coming to an abrupt stop at the Bowen Hill train station 600 metres away breaks my thought pattern as the sound carries on the light morning zephyr and brings me back to reality. In a few hours, I'll join the throng of inner city commuters for the 15-minute trip to Roma Street Station and from there, the short walk to Hershel Street, the headquarters of the Queensland Police Service for my second, and perhaps my last interview with the boys in blue.

I spent the best part of 20 years in the force, but during the last eight years I've worked as a private investigator. Eight years out of the force I realised I was drifting away from old mates there, and without reliable police contacts the lot of a PI can be very difficult. My decision to rejoin the police force had been a decision I'd wrestled with for a long time. My employer for the last eight years, Peter Nolan, was devastated when I first mentioned my plans to him a month ago. He tried every trick in the book to get me to stay. More money, better conditions, however, my mind was made up and I'm proud of the way I've stuck to my guns, after all, it was my future. Loyalty to Peter weighed heavily on my mind too and as decisions go it was a toughie, but ultimately it was the best one for me. A bittersweet moment indeed.

There are no guarantees in life and I reminded myself don't get too cocky; today was only my second interview. The first one last week was a walk in the park, glad-handing it with a couple of old colleagues before I was handed over to the head of recruiting, Brian Tate. And that was a breeze too. Turned out we worked together for a short time, years ago in Mackay where I was stationed for a few years. Brian had my CV; he flicked through it and was happy enough to ask me generally non-threatening vanilla-type questions. No awkward moments there, no pregnant pauses, which suited me. Brian wanted me to flesh out my last few years working with Peter a little more. And I happily obliged, conveniently leaving out any illegal activities I carried out in some of the jobs. Well, describing them as 'illegal activities' was a bit of an overkill, except for one event I don't want to remember. I cut a few corners here and there, told a few white lies, and the odd fisticuffs with a few of the morons that populate the globe. Until . . . ah well, how can I describe Rains, putting lipstick on a very fat pig was only the beginning. A thug to end all thugs. Really I'm just warming up. Rapist and serial killer is what he was. And I used past tense for a very good reason. No, best leave that one out. Tate was a good listener. Occasionally asking me questions like, how did you get the info to proceed with that case? There were a few awkward moments when I told him, the client had a few contacts in the force and the other one was it was privileged information. He never pressed me on it; there was goodwill on both sides for the interview to be a success. It appeared he needed to go through the motions of interviewing me and that was an encouraging sign. After an hour of 20 questions and re-living old war stories, he looked at his watch, stood up and we shook hands like old mates, giving me the impression the next interview would be a formality. His last comment was a throwaway line about Chief Superintendent Seccombe, he said he could be a little officious, but was a good cop. I patted myself on the back; hurdle number one successfully negotiated and I had no reason to believe that the next discussion later on this morning would be any different.

I'm getting ahead of myself, but a degree of optimism surely was justified, and that's exactly what Angela wanted me to believe. She told me on many occasions to be 'optimistic and positive' about my future. With that thought I rubbed my right hand over my stubble; time to shave. Halfway through this morning ritual with my left cheek coated in shaving foam, the unmistakable sound of my landline tingled away in the lounge room, immediately I reached for a towel and wiped off the residue of shaving foam. Walking into the lounge thinking it was funny really; I was a creature of habit, having always shaved the right side of my face first. In all my years of shaving going back to my youth as a 14-year-old boy, my shaving ritual has been the same, starting with my right cheek first. Perhaps left-handed people did the opposite, that was a question best left to the deep thinkers, I picked up the phone and answered it on the fifth ring.

'Morning Merv speaking.'

I heard a soft dulcet tone coming through the wire, 'Merv darling how are you, it's Janice?'

My mind did a few cartwheels, I took a deep breath, my heart missed a beat or two and I was about to answer enthusiastically but stopped myself. It wasn't the time to make a fool of myself with a show of schoolboy emotion, consequently, my answer was considered. 'Janice it's been a long time, hope you're well. And . . . ah, this is a big surprise, I wasn't expecting a call from you.' And hoped my answer to her sounded a little detached. By way of explanation, I fell in love with this gorgeous woman a couple of years ago and unfortunately for me my love wasn't completely reciprocated by her. I thought I had moved on, but from my reaction to hearing her voice, it wasn't the case. Should I blame Angela? I thought that was a tad unfair, thus far Janice hadn't been mentioned in despatches with Angela yet. My love life wasn't on her radar to date. Yet how could I not feel disappointed in myself for buckling at the knees at the sound of her voice? Christ what a wimp.

Ignorance is glorious bliss, with no idea of how much stress she had put on me Janice continued. 'I only wanted to wish you luck in your interview today for the new job. That's all I rang about.'

Genuine surprise leeched out of me. Then came the massive disappointment, she wasn't phoning to ask me out on a date, or even for a fucking coffee, the girl was just trying to be nice. I swallowed a couple of times and somehow an insipid answer left my quivering lips. 'How did you find out I was going for a job interview? Ah, no . . . don't tell me, I know, it was Peter Nolan. He's the one responsible isn't he?'

A little girlie giggle, 'Darling there's no prizes for guessing, course it was Peter, he phoned me last week and told me all about your plan to go back to the police force, and I have to say it's a great move on your part. I'm very happy for you. You must know I've always thought some of your PI work was too dangerous.'

I tried to be annoyed at Peter, but I failed on that one, after all, he was only trying to protect his little dunghill. Yeah, Peter Nolan phoning Janice shouldn't have surprised me, he only wanted to recruit her and get me to change my mind about leaving. Unbeknown to Peter and not realising how strongly she felt about me working for him, it would have the opposite effect on her. I swallowed a couple of times, ran my hand through my hair, hesitated, and then finally responded. 'Thanks, your wishes are very much appreciated. As for danger, well, being a cop isn't a bed of roses either. Look, I know you're a busy girl but it would be nice to . . .'

I understood Janice was treading on a minefield, obviously, she didn't want to rekindle our romance, and she succinctly anticipated my enunciated question, she interrupted me mid-sentence and succinctly steered the conversation onto a different tangent. 'And what rank do you think you'll go back in as?' With that question, she managed to cut me down in one fell swoop.

I needed a lesson in ball growing and sighing to myself I soldiered on. 'Hopefully, it'll be sergeant, but I should eventually be back in plain clothes, which is what I've asked for. So that's not too bad, I may only drop one level of rank from last time too. Anyway, that's the feedback from the last interview.'

Her response was infectious. 'Oh that's great I know it's a big decision for you, but I'm sure it's the right one. So . . . are you nervous, you know, about the interview?'

Infectious or not I felt the whole conversation was surreal, this phone call from Janice had thrown me and I answered