No Working Title

Chapter 1

2007 was a bastard of a year. The weather was crap, and some clever bugger introduced mobile phones that were so smart you needed to hire a kid to program it for you. Oh, and I got shot. Twice.

*

Sometimes it can be easy to pay the bills; take tonight. I took a phone call from an old friend; he had paying work. A blonde needed to be collected in the heart of Brisbane at the intersection of Queen and Creek, and taken to meet the last flight out to Sydney. Now, while I’m not usually a taxi service, I do escort work on occasion.

Not that kind of escort work.

I sometimes do security, and every now and then the higher profile agencies pass me low risk jobs that don’t pay enough to cover their overheads. A company has a businessman in town and need to make sure he steers clear of the seedier clubs? They call me. A wife needs proof she actually went to the Bridge Club or the Ladies Auxiliary and didn’t hook up with that businessman who was avoiding the seedy clubs? I’m your man.

So I collected a car, picked up the blonde - a tidy piece as it turned out, even if she was in her forties - followed by a snappy run out to the airport. I navigated the usual insanity of the new intersection with the Gateway Motorway; walked her up to the departure lounge. Made sure she signed my invoice. Watched as her fishnet stockinged legs disappeared along the walkway to the plane. I didn’t take much notice otherwise. It wasn’t like I was being paid to talk with the client. I dropped the car off back at the all night hire joint and walked back to my Spring Hill apartment.

See my point? A couple of hours out of my night, I made enough to pay the rent for another week, everyone’s happy. Simple.

The writer is deep in thought. He sits at a table at the Beach Bar, which occupies a balcony above a major pedestrian chokepoint in the heart of the city. The tabletop is covered in circles of beer glass sweat, slowly blending into a Dali of Olympic Rings as the last of the afternoon sunlight drags its weary way across them. Every glass has been carefully investigated in the dedicated hope of finding inspiration.

He re-reads the lines he has just scribbled about his un-named hero dropping a client at the airport. The first line of a novel is always the hardest, he notes in the margin of a cheap vinyl backed notepad. A hack cliché to be sure, but god isn’t it true? Even more likely the first paragraph is the hardest. Or maybe the first page.

Carelessly strewn on the scarred plastic of the table amongst the moisture, the booklet is only millimetres away from returning to the paper pulp it was pressed from. Another note in the margin - the first line has to hook the reader whether they are Bob Jones, the Bored Commuter on a Bus, or Tanya VaVoom, starlet. The first lesson of Internet Novel Writing 101. Of course, he also knew you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the internet.

He looks away from his notes and peers over the balcony through the waist high safety glass. The spring fashion parade of the inner city office workers catches his eye, as they scurry across the intersection below. Some dodge between cars while others clump and swirl like a flock of budgerigars: colourful, noisy and soon gone. He lifts his latest glass carefully; it is slippery with condensation and the cold numbs his fingertips. He sips his beer, no longer tasting the foam that washes his upper lip, though he wiped mechanically at it regardless.

He takes another slow look around the bar. The pretty brunette bartender is chatting to a group of deliciously dressed girls around her own age, secretaries or office temps maybe, and they keep twisting their heads to look around at the occupied tables obviously desperate to sit down to drink their cheap wine spritzers.

He came to the bar hours ago, after his shift. When he first took root on this stool the sun was still glaringly bright, but it’s long gone now. The harsh white pages of his notebook are covered in untidy scrawl. He idly flips a page and sees his watch, realising with a start that he has missed his bus. He now has a long walk home from the nearest stop on the next route over.

Reluctantly, he packs his notebook and pen into his satchel and wends his way to the stairs. The bar-girl flashes a false smile goodbye, glad that her friends clustered at the corner of the bar will now have a table.

He cribs more notes on the bus journey home, his writing spidery as the olive skinned driver, apparently a speedway racer in his other job, treats every stop sign as a mortal insult that challenges his manhood and causes the pen to skip on the page.

Detective story – dark wet night inner city – body in alley – mistaken for killer – recognition of the body as son of vice figure – has to clear name before revenge is taken on the wrong man.

The writer smiles – he likes this idea, there is no amateur homicide solver going to be involved here. There is going to be finger-pointing all right, but finger pointing at the hero, not by the hero.

Police have gotten pretty good at investigating murders in this age of closed circuit cameras and enormous scientific resources. They coordinate criminal intelligence experts with the investigations and utilise dozens of plain clothes officers to obtain versions of everything that happened, from everyone even remotely involved. Murder investigations become a steamroller, ponderous and massive. No interference is acceptable; they roll right over the top of any amateur sleuths who try to get in the way.

Miss Marple belonged to a time when cutting edge police work involved reading tea leaves. The writer knows all this from long experience. It is his job.

He eventually arrives home and is berated for his lateness, for his beery breath and the dinner gone cold. He helps his wife with putting children to bed and reading stories, then sits at the computer and begins typing.

The metronomic bass slammed out the open door of the club as I walked past, a fug of warm air blasting into the damp night.

The writer looks at his screen. Is fug even a word? He shakes his head. Don’t stop to think, he reminds himself. Just get it onto the page.

Giggling girls with gorgeous legs and empty heads wait in the line to enter, alongside hopeful youths wearing tight waisted shirts and the latest variation of a hairstyle. The alley entrance beyond them mingled the sounds of urgently negotiated affection and the acid stink of vomit. I ran my hand across my shaven head, feeling the chill of the light droplets of rain and the prickles of stubble on my palm. On nights like this I was glad of my heavy oilskin raincoat.

I glanced down the alley and saw that the entrance was nearly blocked by pallets stacked shoulder high. Although the street was brightly lit from the club frontages and passing headlights, the alley absorbed light the way a drunkard absorbs cask wine. Not a bad spot for desperately horny clubbers, or junkies, each seeking their own definition of bliss. I continued past the open mouth of the alley and somewhere a door slammed. The sounds of affection became an animal grunt followed by a low moan. Someone obviously got what they came for.

The crash of falling timber made me look again. The sliver of light flung from the street tentatively probed the blackness of the alley, revealing the silhouette of a body sprawled face down under several pallets.

I nearly kept walking, but didn’t. I knew full well that only an idiot would go into a dark alley with one body already there - maybe the next one was walking in.

My biggest fault has always been that I’m nosy.

Conscious that whoever caused this scene might still be in the darkness, I slid against the shadowed wall, out of the direct light, and moved up to the now somewhat shorter stack of pallets. My hindbrain kicked desperately at my self-preservation nerve, emphatically trying not to be ignored.

Walk away, it whispered urgently into the common sense part of my brain, Even better, run like hell!

My eyes adjusted from the glare of the street to the wan light in the laneway, and I peered beyond the pallets into the gloom and strained my ears past the techno beat hammering through the wall beside me. There was no movement in the darkness and as far as I could tell, no sound either.

I dropped to one knee beside the body, that of a man in jeans and a black leather jacket creased by the rough sawn timber of the pallet boards. I put my finger on his wrist for a pulse. Locating a pulse is not the easiest thing to do at the best of times, but with my heart slamming it was pointless.

Closer inspection showed there was no need to bother fumbling for a pulse. Blunt force trauma to the skull is never pretty; even as words on a page. There were torn flaps of skin, matted hair and fractured fragments of bone that peeped bloodily through the mess.

It didn’t matter if it was the first or the twenty-first time you see injuries like this; a bubble of bile rose in my throat and stung my tongue. I had to look away from the pulped skull. It was that, or puke.

There was a fallen pallet across the small of his back, supporting a second one that had slid to one side. Neither looked close enough to his head to have caused that ugly wound. A fancy mobile phone, one of those new types that have the cameras in them, lay half hidden under his curled fingers, and his jeans were rumpled on the legs and baggy around the arse. His leather jacket would cost me a full paycheque, if I cheated the taxman to make up the difference.

I reached under the obstruction of the pallet and lifted the jacket at the waist. The jeans were obviously undone. It appeared that my first impression about the sounds coming from the alley had been correct, if only briefly so.

The phone in his hand beeped and the screen lit up, casting a glow on the damp concrete. The screen showed a woman with bare breasts and a sultry smile. I picked it up out of curiosity, but as I did so a sudden shrill voice sounded behind me. It cut through the booming bass of the club noise, the aural equal of fingernails on a blackboard.

Danny? Are you ok? a brief pause then What the FUCK is going on?

I stood up and turned around, instantly having to slit my eyes against the now too bright glare of the street. A woman was standing at the mouth of the alley; arms loose by her sides, head pivoting as she took in the scene, eyes taking time to adjust to the dark behind me as mine adjusted to the glare behind her.

I started to say conciliatorily, Hey, it’s not what it looks like, when the damn phone in my hand started ringing.

Her voice went up an octave as she screamed, You piece of shit! and then she kicked me.

With my eyes still screwed against the background glare I didn’t even see it coming, or the punch that followed it. Her second punch loosened a molar. The sharpness of the pain took my mind off the dull throb in my groin where the toe of her boot had nearly given me a free vasectomy.

This was insane – here I was, well over six feet tall and bearing the barrel chest of early middle age, and I was being worked over by a kid.

I backed up to the wall and moved crabwise along it towards her then dropped my right arm down and flexed my knee a little, as you do when hauling off to throw a big punch. Obligingly she moved back just a half pace or so, her hands lifting ready to block it, some kind of martial arts stance. Maybe karate.

That was fine by me, and I savagely stamped at her shin with my heel, feeling the grating as my shoe slid along that thin, oh so tender skin and down to the instep. There was a satisfactory gasp of pain, only this time not from me.

I moved again, into the light so she was part blinded by it. It was a sneaky move, stamping a shin, and I don’t think anyone had done that to Little Miss Karate Chick before. It sure seemed to push her buttons and she went nuts.

Kicks and punches flailed the air around me but she wasn’t achieving much. My kick to her shin meant she favoured her left leg, and now she had to screw her eyes closed against the glare from behind me. The problem was there was so much noise that even the bubbleheads at the queue for the club would come to see what was going on.

I obeyed my instincts at last and fled the alleyway. Nobody chased me as I ran down the street, although some night crawlers watched incuriously as I did my best to run, although my aching inside leg made it a rapid hobble with a distinct limp. That damn kick was going to leave a nasty bruise.

I made a sharp turn into an all night noodle parlour - banging my way past the counter and through the kitchen - and out into the fetid lane behind, ignoring the shouts from the staff. I used to eat in here back when I was in the job, a lifetime ago.

Such a simple career description - The Job. Cops never have ‘a’ job but are in ‘the’ job. They complained about the night shifts and working with the detritus of the streets. They complained about managers promoted beyond their capabilities on the basis of merit. For all the complaints, not many seriously considered moving out of that all embracing low-grade warmth and companionship that went along with being in the job.

And yet here I was, out in the cold in Brisbane in July, having thrown away fourteen years of ‘the job’ to become a purveyor of information.

Well, call it like it really is. A private investigator. No, it’s not even like that. Now I scratch a living drawing together bits and pieces of information and selling what I think it means to whoever wants to pay. Oh yeah, and doing odd jobs.

With a rush of white noise the spotty drizzle turned into rain. Fat drops burst on my bare head as I glanced up and down the street before leaving the sheltering darkness of the lane and headed towards the office that I called home. I figured a short walk in the darkness followed by a hot shower to drive the chill from my muscles would ease the pain of that kick. A solid belt of rum to drive the cold from my mind before I racked out on the futon couch that I called my bed would round the night out nicely.

Hunching my shoulders and shoving my hands deep into the pockets of my overcoat, I splashed along the slick pavement. Instantly my trouser cuffs were soaking, and there was water trickling into my socks and filling my cheap leather shoes. What a night.

In the distance the three tone wail of a siren approached. I knew just where it was headed, although it was too late for Mr Pants-round-the-thighs in the alleyway. The sudden illumination of the intersection ahead by surreal red and blue strobing lights signalled the approach of the patrol car. It fishtailed around the corner, spray flicking from the wipers and water geysering from under a tyre.

The writer looks in annoyance at the red squiggle that appeared under the word ‘geysering’. He reaches for the mouse to run a spell check, but stops. Keep typing, keep typing!

as it rammed its way through a muddy puddle. The wheels spun briefly as the sedan straightened up and the barely glimpsed driver stabbed a foot at the accelerator.

It must be a quiet night at the communications room for a car to have been despatched so quickly. I watched it snarl past me, watched as the front passenger, pallid in the gloom, held the radio microphone to her lips. Watched as she made eye contact with me. Watched as she pivoted in the seat to keep staring at me through the rivulets streaking the window, and hoped she didn’t have a description of me. She kept staring, and started shouting.

So much for playing it cool. I didn’t need to be able to lip read to guess the exchange inside the cabin as she demanded the driver reverse up to check me out. There couldn’t be too many tall guys with shaved heads near a dead body at this time of the night.

The brake lights flared nova-red and the wheels spun again, this time in reverse, and I was faced with the age old question. Why do coppers chase people? Because they run. And why are you running? Because the cops are after you.

No win.

Somewhere, a phone rang. Not somewhere, this was close by. I looked mutely at my hand, where my fingers curled around the phone I had picked up in the alley. The screen was flashing and body vibrating. What to do? Why the hell had I picked up the phone? It was evidence at a place that any idiot knew was a crime scene, and should never have been disturbed. Look but don’t touch. That mantra had become second nature during my years in the job. What on earth had possessed me to ignore it now?

The world came into sharp focus as I realised I had two uniformed police who wanted to speak to me, apparently rather urgently, and I was carrying a dead man’s phone. I stabbed the hang-up, and dropped it into an inside pocket. It would be a little better protected from the wet there. I wondered if I was just an obnoxious drunk would they go away? There was a time I would have done exactly that.

I allowed myself to lurch a little, and let my shoulders slump. The rain intensified; almost tropical in the way it drummed on the street and poured from the shop awnings. Although my collar was turned up, what seemed like a small river was pouring down the back of my neck and soaking my shirt. Definitely crap weather.

The sedan splashed to a halt alongside me, the female cop in the passenger seat cracking the window a little, enough to talk but not enough to let too much rain inside.

Hey mate she said, staring intently, hungrily, at me.What’s your name?

I mumbled a reply, a slur of words with no real meaning, and staggered a half step backwards before catching myself with exaggerated care.

I said, her voice went up a notch in volume and took on a sharper edge this time, what is your name?

I peered blearily at her, the rain sluicing across my face. Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins.

Don’t be a dickhead. Get in the car and talk, out of this rain.

Wha…? I didn’t call a taxi. I rubbed my scalp in apparent confusion and looked around. A couple, sheltering from the rain under a nearby shopfront watched the scene. I leaned forward and exhaled in a long wheeze into the gap in the window.Hey beautiful, did you know I’m a hobby… I mean hobbish… I mean hobbit?

A what? Cut the crap and get in the car, idiot.

A hobbit. I have to be a hobbit cuz I’ve got big feet.

She got out of the car, unfolding like a giant in a children’s pop-up book. She glared at me, unamused. I leered at her and wheezed in my best impression of being blind rolling drunk, Do you know what they say about guys with big feet?

The rain plastered her hair down, and her navy jumper beaded with water. She got right up into my face. Maybe trying to bluff as a drunk was not working too well.

No, she said, her face twisting into that mask of distaste everyone gets when too close to the sobriety-challenged. No, I don’t know what they say.

She was wearing too much perfume, something flowery not musky, and it leaked into my nostrils, even as the rain streamed down my face.

How about you tell me what they say about guys with big feet? She was obviously hoping I would say something to give her an excuse to lock me up as a public nuisance. That way, she would get out of the rain and there would be plenty of time to ask about a little matter of a body in an alleyway.

In one movement, I latched my right fist around her right wrist and lifted it up and away from her holster. I don’t like guns that might end up pointed at me.

My left hand slid along her gun belt to the base of her spine where her handcuff pouch sat. My thumb popped the snap, and I slid the cold metal out of the case with my fingertips. The flick of the wrist was a technique that I hadn’t used for years but will never