Lasseter's Cave E-Book

Gary Gregor

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

It's hot, remote, desolate and dangerous - and about as deep into the infamous Australian outback as anyone would dare to venture. An eminent neurosurgeon and his family, on the holiday of a lifetime, are shot dead, their shattered bodies left to the ravages of the desert sun and carrion-eating wildlife.

Detective Inspector Russell Foley and his best friend, Detective Sergeant Sam Rose, are sent into the heart of the legendary Harold Lasseter, "Lost Reef of Gold" country, to investigate the brutal murders.

But is it Gold Fever, the twisted mind of a deranged killer protecting that which he believes is his... or something else entirely?

Leseprobe

LASSETER’S CAVE

BOOK NO. 2 – FOLEY & ROSE SERIES

GARY S. GREGOR

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2016 Gary S. Gregor

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A number of people play a role in getting an author's story from an initial idea to a published book. For some of them, that role is small, for others it is significant. All who contribute in some way, regardless the level of input, are important to me, and although it might be cliché, it is true that this book would never have seen the light of day without each of them.

If I must nominate just a few, I would start with my former colleagues in the Northern Territory Police Force. You wonderful folk are the inspiration for my characters and, while those characters are fictional, I occasionally draw on the personality traits of some of those I have met in the job. If you recognise yourself in any of them, please remember that you are there because you inspire me.

My beautiful wife, Lesley, who tolerates my long hours in front of the computer without complaint, I love you and I thank you, although I still insist my love of writing is not an obsession.

Last, but by no means least, I thank all at Next Chapter Publishing. The Next Chapter team took a punt on an unknown, and that's rare in this business. I hope I can justify your gamble. I know I'll never stop trying to honor that leap of faith; thank you.

This book is respectfully dedicated to the memory of police officers everywhere who have paid the ultimate sacrifice in the service of their communities.

PROLOGUE

EIGHTEEN MONTHS AGO

Terry Jenkins had mixed feelings. His time in Australia was nearing an end. He was driving to Perth in Western Australia to catch a flight back to his home in England.

Terry missed his family and looked forward to seeing them again. Contact with his parents and his brother back home in Somerset over the previous year was limited to periodic, brief, long-distance telephone calls, and the occasional postcard sent from various locations in Australia.

He was also going to miss Australia. Twelve months was not a long time to become familiar with a strange, foreign country, particularly one as vast as Australia, but it was long enough for Terry to fall in love with Australia and its citizens.

Terry had been working in Australia on a visa for almost twelve months, and admired everything about the country some people in England still referred to as the antipodes. Given his enthusiasm for everything Australian, its people, its weather, and its lifestyle, he believed he could live the rest of his life in Australia, and had already decided one of his first priorities when he returned home would be to investigate the possibility of emigrating.

His parents would not like the idea, but he was determined, and the prospect of a future filled with sunshine, pristine beaches, and the prettiest girls he had seen anywhere was far more appealing than the dour, cold, grubby backstreets of Bridgewater in the Southwest English county of Somerset.

Terry’s desire to live in Australia was decided soon after he first became aware of Harold Lasseter’s bold expedition into the remote and unforgiving Australian outback. Lasseter was looking for a magnificent reef of gold he was convinced actually existed, and swore he had seen with his own eyes. Terry wanted to visit the place the hapless adventurer allegedly rested before subsequently perishing after setting out on his ill-fated trek to reach the Olgas, one-hundred-and-forty kilometres to the east.

He still had a few days before his scheduled arrival in Perth, and could easily have flown to the Western Australian capital from Yulara where he had been working, but his desire to visit Lasseter’s last known place of refuge was too strong.

The Lewis Harold Bell Lasseter legend captivated Terry from the first time he learned of it while watching a late-night television documentary. Lasseter’s story epitomised the adventurous, carefree, “have a go” attitude that seemed to be ingrained in the Australian psyche, Terry thought.

He had a car, not a particularly good car in relation to its aesthetics, but the imperfections in the form of mild body rust, more than a few panel dents, and one door a different color from the other three, were of little concern. Since he purchased the car in Perth, soon after he first arrived in Australia, it had given him no trouble, and had taken him across the great Nullabor Plain, into South Australia, and later to many other parts of the country.

Crossing the rough, dusty, corrugated Great Inland Road, while a somewhat daunting prospect prior to actually attempting it, ultimately presented no real challenge other than the time it took to traverse, and the somewhat uncomfortable ride it presented.

Terry stood on top of a moderately steep rise, shook off his backpack, and considered the landscape around him. Directly in front, at the base of the incline, was a large, dry waterhole. He imagined how fantastic it would look if it were filled with water, and how different things might have been had it been filled with water back when Lasseter sheltered in the cave not far away. He slowly turned and gazed at the surrounding countryside. He was looking forward to this experience, and now that he was actually here, it was even better than he could have imagined.

There were many who would disagree with Terry’s assessment; this was a remote, isolated, desolate place where most folk would never dare, or even want, to venture; there were no McDonalds, KFC’s or Krispy Kreme Doughnut stores out here. For Terry Jenkins however, the attraction was the lack of commercialisation. Just as the sand and rolling surf of the coast, and the beautiful bodies flocking to the sunbaked beaches were a magnet for Aussies and tourists alike, this place was quintessentially Australian. This was the Outback.

As he slowly turned, taking in the vista stretching for hundreds, and in some directions thousands of kilometres around him, he found himself facing back the way he had just come.

He froze. A man stood at the bottom of the incline smiling up at him. The stranger was holding a gun, and it was pointed up the slope, directly at him. Terry stared at the man. They locked eyes across the short expanse of ground separating them. There was something about the way the stranger smiled; more sinister than welcoming, he thought. A strong feeling of dread washed over the young Englishman.

“Hi,” Terry said, tentatively.

The man did not respond.

“I didn’t expect to find anyone else out here,” Terry continued. His eyes were drawn to the rifle, and the threat it represented.

As he watched, the man raised the barrel of the rifle. “Wha… what do you want?” Jenkins asked, the first icy fingers of fear beginning to flutter in his belly.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the man said calmly.

“I… I was just about to leave,” Jenkins said. He took one cautious step towards the base of the incline.

The man fired. The bullet crossed the short distance between the two men in a millisecond. It hit Jenkins in the throat. Blood, bone and tissue sprayed haphazardly from the back of his neck. The impact threw him backwards and he crashed to the ground, his body raising a small cloud of dust that quickly settled around his prostrate form.

1

When the shots rang out, Assi Shaloub was crouched under the low ceiling at the back of the cave, peering with intense, single-minded curiosity into dark crevices never touched by the sun.

The shots, three of them, came in quick succession and without warning, shattering the tranquillity embracing the vastness of this place. Assi had heard the sound of gunshots many times, albeit not since he had taken his new young bride and fled his war-torn homeland for the safety and future promise of his adopted country. The sound was unmistakeable. Suddenly, inexplicably, a sense of foreboding washed over him, and he felt very cold and very afraid. The sound dissipated as quickly as it arrived, and an eerie quiet settled softly around him.

Instinctively, he spun around and saw his family was no longer behind him. He never noticed them leave the tiny grotto. So engrossed had he become in the history and the feel of this place, he never noticed the excited, staccato chatter of his two children had fallen silent.

He covered the short distance to the cave entrance in seconds, and stepped out into the hottest time of the day.

Assi looked down in disbelief at the bodies strewn haphazardly before him. In an instant, his beloved family had been snatched from him. His wife of eighteen years, Myriam, lay nearest to him, her right foot almost touching his boot. She had been shot in the chest and lay on her back, her wide, dead eyes staring up at her husband as though pleading with him to help her. One arm rested along the length of her body and the other lay at an awkward angle, seemingly reaching for her daughter who lay just centimetres from her mother’s outstretched fingers.

Assi lifted his eyes from his wife’s face and looked across at his beautiful daughter. He gasped involuntarily, stumbled and almost fell as his feet felt leaden and attached permanently to the hard earth. Jamila was only six years old and was daddy’s little angel. The big, deep brown, flawlessly rounded eyes that glistened every time she smiled at him and in which he saw a cherubic innocence that warmed his heart even on his worst day were no longer visible. Now there was just an ugly, torn, pulpy mess where her eyes used to be.

Assi didn’t know it, but Jamila was the first to die. The bullet had slammed into her from behind, and the impact as it tore through flesh and bone took with it the top half of her face as it exited just above the bridge of her nose. The terrible, deadly force inflicted on her tiny body lifted her and sent her careening into her mother’s thigh. The inevitable collision halted her forward momentum and thrust her involuntarily backwards. She was dead before she hit the ground and now lay on her back, her face, or what was left of it, pointed to the clear blue, cloudless sky. Her silky, jet black hair, which just moments ago fell in long, gentle waves to her shoulders and so beautifully complimented her soft, olive complexion, was now a tangled mess of strands, wet and glistening with her blood. Several strands fell across the lower half of her face and into her mouth, now frozen wide in a silent scream.

Assi’s eyes were then drawn to his son. Eight-year-old Hassin had been shot in the back as he turned and tried to flee his killer. His body lay face down, a few metres beyond those of his mother and sister, in the sandy soil at the edge of the worn, compact path leading to the cave entrance. There was just a small patch of dark red in the middle of his favourite blue t-shirt but underneath, where the bullet had exited from his chest, the blood had pooled and slowly seeped from under him. Already it was soaking into the hot sand on either side of his body.

A low, mournful, animalistic sound escaped Assi’s lips, and finally, his legs folded under him and he fell to his knees in front of his wife’s body. He reached for her limp hand, held it against his cheek, and began to instinctively rock pitifully to and fro.

He wanted to gather his dead wife and children to him. He wanted to clutch them in his arms and hold them protectively against his heart slamming painfully fast and irregular inside his chest, but he could not move, and in the moments that followed, time for Assi Shaloub stood still.

There were no seconds ticking predictably into minutes followed by minutes ticking predictably into hours. There was no sound. The soft rustle which accompanied a gentle breeze as it caressed the canopy of stunted, thirsty trees haphazardly spaced along the banks of the parched, sandy riverbed was gone. And where, just a few minutes ago, the occasional melodic trill of a bird calling to its mate as it sheltered from the intense, oppressive mid-afternoon heat could be heard, there was now only silence, save for the pounding of Assi’s heart.

He looked from one to the other; his wife, his beautiful daughter, and then the son he one day hoped would follow in his footsteps. He had failed to protect them as he promised he always would. The three people he cherished most in his life, more than his life, lay dead, seemingly carelessly discarded around him like so much of life’s unwanted flotsam and already the cursed flies had begun to settle.

Assi didn’t know how long he knelt there, and it was a shadow falling over him, which caused him to look up. He found himself staring into the black, evil eyes of the stranger who, he knew intuitively, had just slaughtered his entire family.

How he knew this was the man was not a deduction that came to him out of any rational thinking, it was just something he knew instinctively. He wanted to scream, launch himself at the stranger and tear him to pieces with his bare hands. He tried to rise and face the man, but his body would not respond.

The high-powered rifle the killer held somewhat casually but nonetheless capably was pointed at Assi’s face, but it might as well not have existed for all the attention he gave it. Strangely, it was if the weapon that took his family so brutally from him was of little significance.

“Why?” tumbled weekly from Assi’s throat in a voice he failed to recognise as his own.

The dark eyes, set wide apart in the even darker, sun-tanned face of the stranger standing over him, closed partially, emphasising deep, weathered crow’s feet furrows at the edges. A knowing, sneering smile formed on lips chapped and hardened from long time exposure to the harsh Northern Territory elements. “Because you don’t belong here,” he said calmly. Then, he smiled even wider and pulled the trigger.

Russell Foley leaned casually against the window surround in his office and looked out onto the street two floors below. He sipped tentatively at a steaming mug of hot coffee and watched somewhat enviously as a family of four walked jauntily past the police station building. Obviously, tourists, he decided. They seemed way too happy to be permanent Alice Springs residents.

In the several months, Foley had been here, it became apparent to him that the local folk, at least those of Caucasian background, were not as content with the lifestyle on offer here as they might once have been. Alice Springs was just one of the places in the Territory subject to government-imposed restrictions dealing in the main with alcohol consumption designed to minimise the effects of overindulgence by the indigenous inhabitants.

Restrictions as to the quantity of alcohol one could purchase at any one time, and to the time of day it could be purchased, seemed to the majority of the hard working, tax-paying citizens to be onerous if not downright racism in reverse. The general consensus among these folk was that it was grossly unfair to penalise one section of the community because of the apparent intolerance for alcohol by another.

Russell watched the happy tourist family laughing and talking animatedly until they turned the corner and disappeared from sight. He thought briefly of his own family, the family he used to have before his wife took his two children and went to Queensland to live.

Not that his was ever an idyllic family in the true sense of the word. He had two kids he adored, but due to his job and the large chunk of quality time it cut from his home life, he was never able to get as close to them as a father wants to, and needs to, and now he had an ex-wife who was determined to see he never did.

His was a marriage that was never going to work, he realised that after only a year or so into it. Jennifer Foley was never about having a happy, stable, contented family life. Jennifer Foley was all about Jennifer Foley and about having a good time all the time, and it didn’t really matter who she had it with as long it wasn’t her husband. Anyone else’s husband would do just fine, but she had a particular penchant for police officer colleagues of her husband.

As for the kids, well, having kids was not something Jennifer ever planned for her future, and she also neglected to inform Russell of that before they got married. The children came along as a result of oversight, twice on her part in regards to taking the contraceptive pill. But, she had them anyway despite her undisguised, all too often expressed distaste for the whole nine-month pregnancy and ultimate childbirth thing. They were, after all, a source of extra income in the form of baby bonuses and assorted other government benefits, which subsequently went from the family bank account directly into her pocket as opposed to the benefit of the children for which they were intended.

Foley sipped his coffee. His attention was drawn to the opposite side of the street and another family. This one was not passing jauntily by, and was most definitely not a happy tourist family; a contradiction of the highest degree compared to the first family. The only similarity was, like the happy travellers, their conversation was also animated, but in this case, said animation did not convey the same image of happy holiday bliss.

There were only two of them, and they were going at it hammer and tongs. An indigenous couple, perhaps husband and wife, perhaps not, and, as was usually the case with disputes between the local aboriginal men and women, they almost always descended rapidly into physical violence, especially when alcohol was introduced into the equation, which, sadly, was also usually the case.

In the all too frequent instances such as the one across the street, the female of the species tended to be the loudest of the combatants and the example outside Foley’s window was no exception.

Russell could hear her screaming at her partner from where he stood behind the walls on the second floor of The Alice Springs Police Station. She was giving her opponent a fair pummelling, both verbally and physically, and without outside intervention, or total capitulation on her husband’s part, she was likely to kill the poor sod with her bare hands.

Foley looked at his watch. It was only ten thirty in the morning and it was a certain bet that Lucy and Desi across the road were both inebriated almost to the point of collapse. They were both grubby looking, dishevelled and barefoot, and their clothes looked like they had never seen the inside of a washing machine. Despite the plethora of assistance available to them via government and charity organisations, they had obviously not managed to find their way out of the maze of hopelessness and despair, which had become, and would almost certainly remain, their existence.

As he watched, Lucy gave Desi an uppercut, which would have drawn the admiration of any pugilist. Her hapless opponent buckled at the knees, and went down for the count. Foley, cynic that he had regrettably become, shrugged and thought it mattered little from which culture one originated, theirs or his, the women invariably won the fights.

He was about to move to his desk and phone downstairs for someone to attend to the matter when two uniformed constables, looking totally pissed off they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, exited the building and crossed the street. As they approached, the woman dropped to the ground and began wailing even louder than she had when she was beating the crap out of her partner.

Thinking perhaps she had actually killed him, she wailed and sobbed, lifted his head roughly by his wiry, unwashed hair and pushed his face into her ample and quite obviously unrestrained bosom. Perhaps she thought such a heartfelt gesture of affection might bring her hapless partner back from the dead. It was more likely, Detective Inspector Russell Foley mused, that if Desi hadn’t already passed mercifully into the Dreamtime Lucy’s demonstrative attempts to revive him were sure to hasten his departure.

Foley was a career cop with almost twenty years of service behind him, and there was a time, all those years ago when he was young and naïve, albeit enthusiastic about his future in the job, when scenes like the one below would deeply concern him and the glaring, gaping divide between white and black Australia often angered him.

Now, twenty years later, and like most of his colleagues who had some time clocked up in the job, he was accepting, even mildly blasé about the seemingly hopeless plight of the First Australians.

Despite all the so-called good intentions of politicians and other lawmakers, crime statistics in Alice Springs, and the Northern Territory in general, were on the rise, particularly street offences involving members of the aboriginal community and their lack of tolerance for alcohol.

Foley was not a big drinker, which in itself tended to be a life choice somewhat at odds with most police officers, and for a man of forty-three years of age he was much fitter than most men of the same vintage, which also tended to be outside the norm in his profession.

Where alcohol was concerned, he was not an abstainer exactly, he enjoyed a cold beer on a hot day as much as anyone, and in this part of the country there were more hot days in any given year than there were cold days, it was just that he never seemed to develop the passion for it that others did. Besides, he liked to keep fit without being fanatical about his health and well-being, and he believed that over indulgence in the demon drink could not possibly be conducive to maintaining what he considered to be an acceptable level of fitness.

He liked to believe he was in good shape for his age, whereas Lucy and Desi across the street, although probably also in their forties, looked to be in their sixties, and more than likely would not live much past their fifties. He shook his head in a gesture of resigned acceptance, turned away from the window, and sat down behind his desk.

He picked up the Incident Report that arrived on his desk every morning and glanced again through the events of the night just passed. Two car accidents, one serious, one minor; four drivers arrested for driving under the influence—a quiet night in that respect he mused; several domestic disputes precipitated by the excessive consumption of alcohol and resulting in the physical assault by one participant upon the person of another—bloody booze again, Foley shrugged. But then, this was the Northern Territory, and there was more alcohol consumed per head here than in any other state or territory in the country. Not a statistic to be particularly proud of, he thought.

Russell Foley missed the street. Before he moved to Alice Springs, he worked as a highly experienced Detective Sergeant out of the Major Crime Section in Darwin. He missed the nitty, gritty, nose to the ground investigation side of his job. The search for a suspect; the questioning and subsequent arrest of a suspect, and hopefully, the eventual courtroom conviction and sentencing of said suspect was an interconnecting cycle of events that never ceased to provide him with a great deal of job satisfaction.

It was not that he disliked the position he now held, he applied for it because he wanted it. Officer in Charge of Major Crime, Southern Command was a prestigious, coveted position and he was lucky to have it, but the administrative side of police work, sitting behind a desk perusing prosecution files submitted by his team of detectives was a reasonably new experience for him and one he was still to become completely comfortable with.

He placed the Incident Report in a tray on the corner of his desk, sipped at his coffee, which was now only mildly warm, and wondered what number and manner of crimes would come across his desk today.

2

Sam Rose had never been to Alice Springs. This, although not extraordinary, was surprising given he was a Territory boy, born and raised. For all but two years of his life, early in his police career when he served as a General Duties officer in Katherine, three hundred kilometres to the south of Darwin, he had lived in the Northern Territory’s capital city.

Exactly what inspired Rose to visit Alice Springs now was best described as an affair of the heart. At forty-four, Sam fell in love, perhaps genuinely in love, for the first time in his life; and then, it all fell apart.

Sam was no stranger to the charms of members of the opposite gender. Indeed, it would be fair to say he bore the reputation of being somewhat of a playboy. It was not a reputation that sat comfortably with him, but it seemed he was stuck with it, and there was not a lot he could do about it short of becoming a monk and migrating to the mountains of Tibet to live a life of prayer and contemplation.

It would also be fair to say Sam Rose was not blessed with classic Hollywood leading man looks, but he was nonetheless a good-looking man who seemed to draw the attention of the ladies without any real effort on his behalf.

Every feature of his face, his eyes, his nose, his ears, all seemed to be proportionately in sync with the others, and when he walked he carried his six foot-two-inch body with a confidence that telegraphed an assuredness most people struggled to demonstrate.

Despite the playboy image, Rose was not the type of character who would cheat on the lady he happened to be with at any one time. Mostly his romantic dalliances were brief and hence the practice of monogamy was not difficult to uphold. Besides, when a particular relationship had run its course, it was never long before he was sharing his bed with another; such was the attraction he radiated to the fairer sex.

Nor was Sam the marrying kind; he had seen far too many marriages among his colleagues fall over as a direct result of the demands their chosen career in the police force placed on them to consider spending the rest of his life with any one woman.

However, unheralded thoughts of marriage did slip into his mind occasionally, particularly in recent times, and when they did they were almost always precipitated by thoughts of Ann Francis, the only woman he had ever met who could give rise to such thoughts.

Ann was a Forensic Psychologist and Vice Chancellor of Darwin University and, as it happened, also not the marrying kind. Like Sam, she was absorbed in her career, and when the opportunity arose to move to England to take up a position at prestigious Eton College, there was simply, but sadly, no contest.

When she broke the news to Sam, he was overtly thrilled for her, but covertly devastated at the prospect of losing her. She had been gone several months and while communication between them was regular at first, it had abated to a point where they now exchanged e-mails only occasionally.

Eventually, in a briefly worded e-mail, she announced she had met someone else and thought it unfair on her new partner to maintain a long-distance relationship with him.

Sam was not one to follow an exercise regime, in fact, the only physical energy remotely resembling exercise he ever expended was chasing the occasional fleeing felon down a suburban street, but his weight hadn’t changed more than a kilo or two since he was in his twenties. He was one of the lucky few who possessed a metabolism that inhibited weight gain regardless of what he put in his mouth, and the lack of anything that might be misconstrued as an exercise regime.

All in all, from a woman’s point of view, Sam Rose was a neatly arranged package, more than worthy of a brief, or perhaps not so brief, romantic interlude.

Sam did not like flying. His dislike of the experience didn’t qualify as a phobia, but was more intense than a mild aversion. As paranoid as some might consider his discomfort, Sam never came to terms with the physics of how something so big and so heavy could stay in the air, seemingly with ease, and not fall from the sky like a rock.

The Airbus A 320 banked sharply over the MacDonnell Ranges extending some six-hundred-and-forty kilometres east and west of Alice Springs. Sited in what many considered to be the centre of the Australian continent, although the actual geographic centre was a couple of hundred kilometres further north, “The Alice”, as the locals referred to it, was divided by these ranges. Half the rapidly growing city lay to the north and half to the south with access to either side gained by passing through Heavitree Gap a natural, geological break in the formation.

As the aircraft banked, Sam gripped the armrest until his knuckles turned white. He sat on the opposite side to the banking manoeuvre and looked across the aisle trying to get a glimpse through the far side window of the vista offering expansive views of the ranges formation, weathered and shaped over 300 million years.

An attractive blonde girl sat across the aisle from him, and as if sensing his discomfort, she turned to face him and smiled. Sam smiled back, but knew it came out more of a grimace than a smile, and the pretty girl immediately looked away. Too young for him anyway, he mused.

The aircraft was low now, and thermals rising from the ranges below buffeted the plane as it levelled off and made its final approach into the airport some thirteen kilometres on the southern side of the city. Not wanting to broadcast his uneasiness, he checked his seat belt again on the off chance it might have come unfastened during the flight. Satisfied, he then verified his seat was still in the upright position even though he had not altered it since he boarded the plane in Darwin two hours earlier.

Russell Foley sat at his desk perusing a prosecution file submitted by one of his team members. Foley was not pedantic exactly, but he was particular, and he hated it when a case fell over in court because there was some issue with the prosecution’s case a half-smart defence lawyer could exploit with the express intention of getting the case dismissed.

Of course, the members in Prosecutions Section would review all files before they reached court, but Foley needed to satisfy himself his people had dotted the “I’s” and crossed the “T’s” before the files left his office.

When he was on the street doing the investigative work and subsequently preparing prosecution files himself, he never once submitted a file to his superiors until he was personally satisfied he had done everything in his power to ensure the case would stand up in court. It was a principle he followed stringently and accordingly had never had a file sent back to him for review and correction. It was a record he was proud of, and wanted his detectives to embrace the same work ethic. To his mind, there was nothing worse than a perpetrator walking because the prosecution file was sloppily put together.

Engrossed in his reading, he did not notice the man standing in his doorway.

“I never thought I’d see the day when you would be sitting permanently behind a desk polishing the seat of your britches.” Sam Rose laughed.

Foley looked up, a surprised look on his face. “Sam, what the hell are you doing here?”

Sam stepped into the room. “I came to visit you and check out just what it is that brought you to Alice Springs.” He crossed the floor and offered his hand to Foley who rose from his chair, came around the desk and shook Rose’s hand firmly.

“It’s good to see you Sam, how are you?”

“I’m good thanks, and you?”

“Fine,” Foley answered. “I’m surprised to see you down this way though; I thought you were somehow permanently attached to Darwin. When did you get in?”

“I came directly from the airport,” Sam explained.

“Why didn’t you ring? I would have met you.”

“I wanted to surprise you. Besides, it was pretty much a last-minute decision. You’ve got a position advertised in the latest Gazette. I thought about it for a while and wondered if a change of scenery might be a good thing. I’m still not sure, so I decided to come down and have a look for myself and see if this place had any attraction for me.”

“We’re looking for a Detective Sergeant,” Foley confirmed. “You would be just the man for the job, and as it happens, I have some influence in that regard.”

“If I make the decision to apply I will be counting on that,” Sam smiled.

Foley looked past Sam. “Where’s your luggage?”

“Downstairs, there is a hot young constable at the desk watching it for me.”

“Forget it, she’s married,” Foley warned.

“That’s a shame,” Sam shrugged.

“I doubt she feels it’s a shame,” Foley said. “Anyway, what would Ann think of you eyeing off pretty young constables?”

“Unfortunately that’s another story,” Sam said. “I haven’t seen her for months. She got a job in England, at Eton College, and has since met and moved on with someone else.”

“Shit, Sam. I’m sorry to hear that. I thought she might be the one to bring your philandering ways to an end.”

“So did I,” Sam shrugged. “Shit happens. It took me a while to get past it, but I’m okay now. Probably a good thing in the end, I’ve never been one to be tied down.”

“How was the flight?” Foley changed the subject.

“No problems, I laid my seat back and relaxed the whole way,” Sam lied.

“How long are you staying?”

“I’m on leave; I’ve got a couple of weeks. I’ll have a look around for a few days and then decide when I’ll go home.”

“Have you got somewhere to stay?”

“I was hoping you could recommend somewhere.”

“I recommend my place. I have a small but comfortable two-bedroom unit over near the casino, across the river. You can stay with me.”

“Sounds good,” Sam said. “Are you sure I won’t be imposing? I don’t want to be in the way if you are in a relationship.”

“I’m not,” Foley answered. “I date occasionally but there is no one I see regularly. I’ll give you the key and get a patrol unit to take you there. I keep office hours these days, but if you can occupy yourself for the rest of the day we can catch up when I knock off.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sam agreed. “Maybe we can have dinner somewhere and grab a couple of beers.”

“Well, you know me, Sam, I’m not much of a drinker, but I think I can manage dinner and a few cold ones.”

A shrill ringing from behind interrupted their conversation. Russell Foley turned, reached across his desk and picked up the phone. “Foley,” he answered. For a few moments, he stood in silence listening to the caller on the other end of the line. His expression changed from one of initial curiosity to one of deep concern.

“Where?” he asked finally, and waited a few seconds. “How many?… four… shit!” He looked across at Sam, frowned, and then spoke again to the caller. “Who’s there?” He waited again then said, “Get back to them and tell them to secure the scene… lock it up tight… nobody in, or out. Tell them I’ll be on the ground there as soon as I can. I’m on my way to the airport, get onto Air Services and organise me a chopper.” He dropped the receiver onto its cradle.

“Sounds bad,” Sam Rose guessed.

“As bad as it gets,” Foley confirmed. “Multiple murder… four victims… looks like a family.”

“Where?”

“Lasseter’s Cave.”

“Lasseter’s Cave, where’s that?”

“About one-hundred-and-sixty kilometres past Yulara Resort, not far from Docker River near the Western Australian border.”

“Shit, that’s a long way. What’s the situation?”

“A tourist couple stopped there on their way from the west to have a look. They found the bodies… a family of four… looks like a husband, wife and two small children. They phoned our chaps at Yulara and they arrived about half an hour ago. They called it in. It looks like they’ve all been shot.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Yeah,” Foley nodded, “you can come with me. We’re a little shorthanded here for the moment with two of my chaps in Darwin on a course, and another two on leave.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, you’re here, and I need someone with your experience in murder investigations. I’ll clear it with the boss and grab a change of clothes in case we have to stay overnight. You go back downstairs and get your bags from the pretty young constable and I’ll meet you in the car park out the back shortly.”

“Are we going to fly?” Rose asked somewhat tentatively.

“Yes, it’s too far to drive. We are about four hundred and fifty kilometres from Yulara and then another hundred and sixty to the cave. I’ll organise a couple of chaps from here to drive out there. They will not arrive on the scene until much later today, but it sounds like we need boots on the ground sooner than that. We’ll take a chopper, it’s much quicker.”

“A chopper?”

“There’s nowhere to land a fixed wing aircraft. There’s a narrow emergency strip at Docker River used by the Flying Doctor when necessary, but we have no way of getting from there to the cave. Why, what’s the problem?”

“No problem,” Sam said a little too hurriedly. “I’ve never flown in a chopper before, it sounds exciting.”

“Okay,” Foley nodded, “let’s go, I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Sam Rose and Russell Foley used to be partners, back when they both worked in Darwin as members of what was then known as Criminal Investigation Branch. They were not just partners but best friends, and had known each other throughout their respective careers in the Northern Territory Police Force.

That long friendship came to an abrupt end, however, when Sam fell victim to the wiles of Jennifer Foley, estranged wife of Russell Foley. It was a late-night thing, he had overindulged at a dinner and drinks with some colleagues, including Russell, and she came calling at his home very drunk, very late at night, and very determined to seduce her husband’s partner.

When Sam woke in the morning, Jennifer was gone. He was racked with guilt and tried to ease the weight of that guilt by justifying what they had done with a warped reasoning that convinced him it was okay because Russell and Jennifer were separated.

Jennifer Foley was an attractive woman but she was also a man eater. She hated life in the Territory, and was never able to convince her husband to leave and return to Queensland. She wanted Russell to suffer for his obstinacy, and she did this by sleeping around.

Jennifer wasn’t fussy about who she slept with, but she had a particular penchant for police officers, married or otherwise, it made very little difference to her. Her promiscuity was no secret and serving members talked about it openly, but certainly never when Russell Foley was within earshot.

Russell knew of course, he could not possibly not know, but he loved his wife, despite her blatant infidelity, and he loved his children and inwardly always hoped Jennifer might change her ways and reconcile their marriage. It was never going to happen, Sam could see it, everyone in the job could see it, but Russell Foley continued to live in what a half competent shrink might label classic denial.

Sam knew what happened between himself and Jennifer would never happen again, it was a misguided, reckless romp which should never have happened in the first place, and he knew the minute it was over he would never tell his friend. Hell, he couldn’t even remember if the experience was good or not! But, Russell did find out. The very next day in fact. Jennifer couldn’t wait to tell her husband how she had bedded his best friend, and she was extremely descriptive with all the lurid details.

It was inevitable there would be a confrontation, and it played out in the main squad room of what was then the C.I.B. offices at Police Headquarters in Darwin.

Amidst a barrage of accusations, curses, and wild threats, Foley threw a punch at Rose’s face which, had it connected, may well have put an end to his rugged good looks there and then.

Rose somehow managed to move his head just in time as Foley’s clenched fist whistled past his ear, and he counter punched, more out of reflex than considered reaction, and connected with Foley’s nose, sending his partner sprawling across the squad room floor.

At that instant, alerted by the commotion, their superior stepped into the room. Foley lay on his back on the floor, moaning incoherently and clutching at a bloody nose. Sam Rose stood over Foley with clenched fists looking very much the part of the aggressor in what was essentially not that much more than a dispute between two members, which manifested itself into a physical confrontation.

Sam resigned from the force. When the facts came to light, he was considered the instigator of the assault, and given Foley had seniority over him, albeit only in time served in the job, he was never going to escape without wearing some sort of penalty.

The powers that be were reluctant to dismiss him because he was one of their best investigators, one they could ill afford to lose permanently. Foley was given an official reprimand, which was noted, in his personnel file. He returned to work in the same position, with the same status he held before threatening to put Sam’s lights out.