Night of a Thousand Whispers

About The Author

Thirty years of forensic experience, working in both Australia and New Zealand, has given Howard Kiel unique insights into the criminal mind and the inner workings of the justice system. Now semi-retired, he devotes his time to clinical counselling, teaching and the pursuit of his growing passion for writing.

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Dedication

To my darling – more precious and more beautiful with every passing year.

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Night of a Thousand Whispers

Published by Austin Macauley at Smashwords

Copyright 2018 Howard Kiel

The right of Howard Kiel to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold 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. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is

available from the British Library.

www.austinmacauley.com

Night of a Thousand Whispers Books is an imprint of

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

ISBN 978-1-78710-615-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-78710-616-1 (Kindle E-Book)

ISBN 978-1-37063-461-3 (Epub E-Book)

First Published in 2018

AustinMacauley

CGC-33-01, 25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf, London E14 5LQ

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Chapter 1

Sydney sparkled after dark, like myriad diamonds in a bed of coal. The Antipodean summer of 2009 had been hot and the night was balmy and still. Kate watched the ferry tracking back from Balmain, its wash a long, silvery tail stretching far behind, cutting through the black, glassy waters and sending the little boats at anchor into a sudden frenzy of unexpected excitement. She never tired of the view from the large windows of their fourth-floor office. What other city compared with the place she had called home ever since quitting California four years ago? Perhaps it was seven thousand miles from where the action really was, but there was more than enough crime to write about in Sydney, and that was her forte.

Kate heard the phone ring at her desk and turned back into the empty newsroom. Her stomach rumbled and she suddenly remembered that she hadn’t eaten since meeting Maurice Hayek for lunch. That was almost eight hours ago.

‘Hello?’ she said as she sat atop her desk and looked back at the windows. Distant tower blocks lit the night sky, naked windows, empty rooms, the occasional glow of an abandoned computer screen. Here and there a white-clad cleaner doing their lonely rounds.

‘Is that you Miss Walton?’ the night switch asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t think you’d still be here? Don’t you ever go home?’

‘I need a shower occasionally, Harry.’

‘Well – lucky you’re having a late one tonight. There’s a call. Do you want to take it?’

‘Sure. I haven’t put in my fourteen hours yet,’ she said. A slight exaggeration, but she was invariably there long after the others had fled back to their suburban homes and families. The very reason they would watch her star continue to rise, she reminded herself, while they remained pedestrian and dispensable. ‘Do we know who it is?’

‘Wouldn’t say. Said it was important though.’

Kate sighed. It was one of the drawbacks of this job. Every self-absorbed idiot out there thought that their issue was important. On most occasions, what they had to share was an excruciating waste of time, but occasionally there was gold. Unfortunately, one never knew when it would come. It was like mining. Six months of shovelling crap around in order to be there when the nugget was unearthed.

‘Okay put it through.’ She waited till she heard the call transfer. ‘Hello, Kate Walton.’

‘Are you that crime reporter lady?’ The voice at the end of the line was laboured. It rose and fell as though the speaker’s mouth was moving back and forth from the mouthpiece. A man’s voice. Accented. Perhaps English – no, maybe Dutch.

‘Yes. With the Herald, but you already know that. You phoned me.’

‘But you’re the one that stirs up all the shit?’

It wasn’t just hard work with Kate. She had a nose for trouble and a reputation for working a lead like a bulldog. Her grit had taken her to the top in women’s pro-circuit surfing prior to injuring her knee in a wipeout over rocks off a beach in Hawaii. She had carried the same daredevil spirit and disregard of danger into journalism.

‘I’m an investigative journalist. Who am I speaking to?’

‘My name is Peter… that is all I will tell you.’

‘What is it that you want?’

‘I’ve got a story for you,’ the man replied cautiously. ‘Big. It’ll cost something.’ His voice continued to ebb and flow, at one moment clearly audible and the next, distant and muted, as though his head were turning about watchfully as he spoke. It was a call box, not a mobile.

‘Is that what this is about? Money?’

He was silent for a moment. She could hear his breathing above the quiet hum of her computer. In the background a ship’s horn sounded, or was it a ferry? ‘I need money to get away,’ he blurted out, and he sounded anxious. ‘That’s all I’m asking for. My life is in danger.’

‘Why don’t you go to the police?’

‘No time. I have no evidence anyway… at least nothing they’d believe. And – I don’t trust the police.’

‘If you don’t have evidence, then what good is your story to me?’

‘You’re an investigative reporter, aren’t you? You can get the evidence if I point you in the right direction.’

‘And then it would be my life in danger. Right?’

‘Look – do you want it, or do I call someone else?’

‘Okay, okay. So, what is it about?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you,’ he said. ‘It is a matter of international importance. You will not be disappointed. Can we meet?’

‘Are you in Sydney?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am here in the office at Pyrmont every morning at eight,’ she advised him. ‘Come up and we’ll talk.’

He was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, it was quiet and deliberate. ‘I can’t be seen – and I have to get out. It has to be tonight. I’ll need five thousand dollars.’

‘That’s not much for a big story,’ Kate dubiously observed.

‘Can you get your hands on more?’ he demanded.

‘Not tonight,’ she admitted.

‘I didn’t think so. Do you know where the container terminals are at Brotherson Dock?’

‘Of course.’

‘Can you meet me there in half an hour? Southern side.’

She knew the part of town. Dark, often deserted after six or seven in the evening – except for the occasional sailor coming or going on shore leave. It wasn’t the kind of spot a woman would normally choose to meet a stranger unless money was going into her pocket.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kate said at last, ‘whoever you are – I’m hardly likely to be going down to a deserted dockyard after dark on the strength of a phone call. How do I know you’re not some kind of a crank?’

‘Does the name… Haraba mean anything to you?’

‘No. Should it?’ she asked, scrambling through the papers on her desk to find a pad and pen. Quickly she wrote down what she thought she heard.

‘It will soon – to the whole world,’ he warned. ‘But by then, it may be too late. Please, believe me.’

There was something in his voice – a tone of quiet desperation that suggested candour and veracity. Kate knew that she could be wrong and if she was, she would pay a high price, but her gut feelings about people rarely let her down.

‘You know something about this… Haraba?

‘I know what the plan is,’ he replied gravely. ‘They must be stopped, or the whole world will suffer the consequences.’

‘All right. I’ll be there,’ she agreed at last. ‘Who do I look for?’

‘I’ll see you coming. Do you know where the inter-terminal access road is? It runs off Botany Road. Penrhyn Road I think it is called.’

‘I’ll find it.’

‘Make your way to dock six on the southern side. I’ll see you in half an hour.’

‘I’ll need an hour. Maybe an hour and a half.’

‘Why so long?’

‘You want your money don’t you? I don’t carry that much around with me as a general rule.’

‘Okay… no longer. And come alone.’

Kate hung up the phone. She was suddenly aware that her heart was beating fast and her breathing had grown rapid with anticipation. She loved this, the unknown, the danger, the chase. Where had she gotten this crazy sense of immortality? At one level she knew the game was perilous and that she could not continue to cheat the odds. She had almost been killed in a shoot-out between rival underworld gangs whilst doing a story in Melbourne two years ago. Dodged death a score of other times. Was luck the reason she survived? Or was it instinct? The intuitive sense that the right wave was coming and knowing just how to ride it. However hazardous the assignment, life was short, she had decided a long time ago. Too short to waste on being mediocre. Too many challenges to embrace. One day she would settle down – maybe take up the offer of being a newsreader on commercial television. After all, they said she had the looks, the blonde hair and blue eyes to draw ratings, and her mild Californian accent would set her apart from the others. Maybe she would have kids too – if she found the right man. She thought she had once. Marriage had come close, but in the end he had disappointed.

She picked up the phone once again and dialled. A strong voice answered. New York accent. Greg O’Rourke had arrived in Australia three years ago on exchange from the Boston Police Department. While he was away from home, his parents were killed in a motor vehicle accident. So he resigned from the Boston PD and stayed in Sydney – took up a position in the counterterrorism unit of the AFP and he was quickly ascending the tree.

‘Greg, it’s Kate,’ she said. ‘Are you working tonight?’

‘I thought I recognised that sultry west-coast twang,’ the voice replied. ‘To answer your question, no I am not working. They get more than their pound of flesh from me without me giving up my rostered days off.’

‘Can you spare an hour?’

‘What? Now?’

‘I got a call from some guy. It might be just a crank call… but somehow I don’t think so.’

‘You want the Feds involved?’

‘No – at least not officially,’ Kate said. ‘Just you. A bit of backup I guess. He wants to meet me at the dockyard in Botany Bay.

‘Say anything else?’

‘He wouldn’t tell me what it’s about – apart from the fact that it had international implications.’

‘Did he sound legit?’

‘Well, he sounded damned scared. That made me think so. And, I think he was foreign. I couldn’t pick the accent.’

He paused for only a moment. ‘Okay cherub – where shall we meet?’

‘I will need to get some money first…’

‘You kidding?’ O’Rourke objected at once. ‘You sure it isn’t a con?’

‘No, I don’t think so. He just wants money to get away from Sydney.’

‘How much?’

‘Five thousand.’

‘Have you got that on hand?’

‘I have a debit card the paper gives me for work-related stuff. I’ll call at the local ATM and withdraw the funds. I will have to smooth it over with the boss tomorrow, but if it is a big story, he’ll be fine with that.’

‘And as far as Kate Walton is concerned, he’ll be fine with it… even if it isn’t.’

She ignored the compliment. ‘Can you pick me up at my place in an hour?’

‘Sure thing, Babe,’ O’Rourke agreed and she hung up the phone.

The BMW slowed as it entered Penrhyn Road and crossed the railway line that took goods to and from the port. There was no traffic, but that was unsurprising since the road came to a halt at the terminal. And it was dark, apart from the distant yellow lights where a ship was being worked at one of the berths on the northern side of the channel. Kate took a deep breath. She was nervous and it was the location that troubled her more than anything. Could she really be sure of her judgement? Was she walking in to a well-conceived trap? Perhaps someone with an axe to grind from one of her previous exposés. God knew there was more than one psychopath behind bars because of her nose for a story, and the ones she had helped put behind bars were generally men of position and power. Revenge was a dish best served cold, and they still had the money and connections to serve it up if they wished to do so.

They were still some distance from their destination, when O’Rourke pulled the car to the side of the road and turned off the lights.

‘That’s where your contact will be,’ he said, pointing towards the southern side of the docks. ‘On the far side of the channel. Nice and quiet and no witnesses. You sure you are up to this?’

‘I’ve got you as backup. What do I have to worry about?’ Kate stoically replied.

He grunted by way of reply and pulled his service revolver from his shoulder holster and checked the magazine. ‘Ready to go,’ he said before securing it once more beneath his jacket.

O’Rourke was a tall man. Swarthy-skinned, dark-eyed and articulate – as smooth as they came. Got his features from a Greek grandmother, someone had said. Others thought it was from a Greek god. O’Rourke was everything a woman could want. Hollywood looks, lots of money – inherited from relatives with mining interests in Africa apparently – a big house in Mosman with a long drive and a stable for his cars at the back of the block. The only problem was that he knew he had what most women wanted, and perhaps that’s why Kate had lost interest. There was a spark of old-fashioned romanticism in her heart – the kind that required a lover to find his obsession in her. So, they had dated only briefly before she called a halt to the affair. In any case, she was far too consumed with establishing her career and as for Greg – well, he was still married at the time – sultry exotic piece from somewhere in the Mediterranean. He made approaches again after his wife walked out of the marriage and disappeared, however Kate had always found it difficult to revisit that which once was, but had since been abandoned.

‘You don’t think we’ll need your pistol, do you?’ Kate asked, at the same time ensuring that the can of mace was in her bag.

‘Like I said before – might be a con,’ O’Rourke warned. ‘Five thousand dollars is enough to make a surprising number of people kill. This still may be a set-up for a robbery. Journos are an easy mark. Always out for ‘that story’ and undying Walkley fame,’ he quipped good-naturedly. ‘Where are you meeting him?’

‘He said down at dock six.’

O’Rourke scanned the area once more with his practised eye. To the northern side of the man-made channel, a container ship was loading, the decks awash with yellow light as the cranes fed its ravenous holds. Here and there, men worked in reflective overalls and forklifts hummed about the wharf. On the southern side however, lines of shipping containers stood sentinel-like, brooding and watchful, the spaces between them forming dark and malevolent caverns. There was no moon. Low cloud had covered Sydney late that afternoon, blanketing in the heat. There was only the occasional lamp-post and the reflections from the loading lights on the other side of the channel. It would make spotting their target difficult, but by the same token, the darkness would provide O’Rourke with the cover he needed.

‘Look – if I am going to back you up on this, I am going to have to get in there and out of sight before you show,’ he said. ‘He’ll be looking for car lights and he’ll spot me like a cockroach in egg salad if we arrive together. I’ll get out now and follow the train line by foot. You drive the car down to Brotherson House. There’s a small car park opposite, set amongst trees. Back into there and then flash your lights a couple of times to get his attention before you head into the docks. If he’s looking at you, he won’t see me. There’s a wire fence that runs right along the road down there, but there’s a couple of access gates. Don’t worry. I won’t take my eyes off you.’

‘How long shall I give you?’ Kate asked, annoyed that there was slight quaver in her voice.

‘Ten minutes. Then drive on in.’

‘What if he spots you?’

‘Then I guess at the very worst, your informer won’t show. But don’t worry. I can get down there without being seen,’ he said, his dark eyes playing over her silhouetted features in the niggardly light. ‘Fear not, fair maid. I’ll keep you in sight. If anything goes pear-shaped, just holler as loud as you can. I’ll cut him down.’

‘Be careful,’ she whispered.

‘I generally am,’ he said, giving her arm a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

O’Rourke opened the driver’s seat door and slipped around to her side of the car and then disappeared in the direction of the train line. Kate locked the doors and waited. Ten minutes seemed to take an eternity to pass. She sat and gazed through the windscreen at the dark shapes that surrounded her – deserted storage sheds, the occasional spindly tree trying to maintain a foothold in a hostile environment. Every now and then, she was sure she saw movement in the shadows, but knew at the same time that the mind can see anything in the dark – anything except what is really there. At last the time O’Rourke had requested was up and she slid over to the driver’s seat and started the car. She drove slowly, watchfully, half expecting someone to leap at her from the roadside, but the short journey proved uneventful and Brotherson House soon emerged from the darkness on the harbour side of the road. As O’Rourke had told her, there was a single line of car parks opposite Brotherson House, and she stopped adjacent to it, then reversed in beneath one of the overhanging trees. She flashed her headlights several times, before climbing out of the car and locking it securely behind her. Then, following the cyclone fencing that separated the docks from the roadway, she walked towards the southern side of the harbour channel until she found an opening in the fence. She felt suddenly conspicuous. The night had a thousand eyes – or so the old song warned – and in that moment she was sure that every one of them was fixed upon her. Keeping the water to her right and the brooding containers to her left, she started walking along the dock – staying as close to the water and the activity at the far side of the channel as she could. All she could hear was the low whine of machinery, the occasional distant voice on the breeze, the low rumble of cargo heavily coming to rest. It was warm, but that was not the reason for the sweat that was beading on her brow. Her eyes searched every crevasse, watched every corner and regularly darted behind her until she neared the end of the dock and saw the pier that jutted out into Botany Bay. Soon, it was all she was aware of, her surroundings beginning to melt into vapour as she was drawn along a tunnel toward a black and dangerous void. In the end she began to feel dizzy and she stopped, taking deep breaths and deliberately calming her racing pulse. She flipped open her bag and felt the wad of notes, then her fingers went irrevocably towards the can of mace. Her informer, if indeed that was what he was, could be near – watching her at this very moment – perhaps waiting to pounce. Maybe he was not alone – and maybe she was. Perhaps Greg had been seen and rendered inoperative. Was he still able to help her? Could she dare to go further?

With her thumb, Kate flipped the lid from the can of mace in her bag and stepped forward. In for a penny, in for a pound she said to herself, reiterating the expression so often used by her grandfather. Perhaps that’s where her courage came from. An American fighter pilot who spent the greater part of his war years flying Hurricanes with the Brits. Shot down twice, but still got up again and ended the war with twenty-eight kills – fifteen of those in the Battle of Britain.

Just then, she heard a cry and stopped. It could have come from anywhere, bouncing as it did off metal containers and echoing down man-made tunnels of steel. It was a cry of surprise, of pain – almost of despair – followed by an eerie silence. Her eyes swept to and fro, attempting to penetrate the blackness around her, while her heart raced and blood thumped in her ears. She knew the cry could have come from the dying throat of O’Rourke and in that moment, she felt as though she were the loneliest soul on earth. Her immediate impulse was to turn and run as fast as she could back to the waiting car, but it was dark and lonely there as well. Almost frozen where she stood, her eyes continued to pierce the darkness, until eventually the shape of a man began crawling on hands and knees toward her from between two shipping containers. He then stopped, slumping motionless, face down to the ground.

Suddenly forgetting her fears, she found herself rushing to the man’s aid, all the time screaming out O’Rourke’s name. As she ran, she fumbled in her bag for her mobile phone and activated its light so that she could see the victim’s face. Falling to her knees beside the man, she saw with relief that it was not O’Rourke, nor was it anyone she could ever recall seeing before. His face was contorted with pain as he gasped for breath and the eyes that gazed blindly ahead were wide and fearful. She could tell at once that he was seriously hurt. Laying aside her bag, she muttered a few reassuring words and tried to help him to sit up, but he just groaned terribly and rolled onto his back. Then she felt the warm sticky sensation of blood on her hand.

‘Haraba,’ he muttered, his voice making an odd gurgling sound as blood leaked from his mouth. The voice was similar in tone to that of the caller, but she could not be entirely sure. ‘Haraba,’ this time just a low murmuring breath. She turned her ear toward him. Was it the name she had been given over the phone? Then, making a supreme effort, the dying man found her hand with his and thrust a small card into her palm. As Greg rushed up from behind them, the man’s hand fell lifelessly to his side.

‘Saw someone taking off… couldn’t pick whether it was a man or a woman. Too far away,’ he panted as he did a quick reconnoitre of the immediate vicinity. ‘No one else back there – at least not now. Probably had a car hidden up the road. Is this your man?’

‘I think so,’ she replied. ‘But he wasn’t able to talk. I think he’s been stabbed.’

O’Rourke looked the body over and confirmed her diagnosis. ‘I didn’t hear any shot. Whoever did this may have dumped the knife over the pier. We’ll look for it tomorrow. You hear anything?’

Kate shook her head and easing away from the man’s limp form, she stood up, slipping the card into her bag as she did so. If it was a link to the story, she wasn’t about to surrender it to either the Feds, or the local boys as evidence in a murder.

‘Mumbled out a name – but I couldn’t make it out.’

O’Rourke quickly checked the pockets of the man’s jacket and felt over his trousers.

‘No wallet… but if he’s got a record we’ll trace him.’ He then stood up and took Kate’s shoulders in his hands. She could see the concern etched into his shadowy features. ‘You okay?’ he asked softly.

Kate nodded miserably. ‘Yeah. Poor guy seemed so scared when he called me. Said his life was in danger. Obviously it was. Maybe I should have called the police.’

‘He didn’t want that. Anyway, you did – at least one of them.’

‘Sadly… not enough,’ she lamented.

‘But you’ll be okay?’ O’Rourke asked once more, his voice anxious and indulgent.

Kate nodded. ‘I’ve seen dead men before.’

‘I’ll get the local gendarmes to come up and take over. Want me to take you for a drink?’ he suggested. ‘You probably need one.’

‘No – just take me home.’

‘As soon as the local boys arrive. They’ll want a statement.’

‘No – please,’ Kate begged. ‘Keep me out of this for the time being will you? I’ll go down the pier steps and wash the blood off my hand first if you don’t mind. The mobile will give me enough light – so hopefully I won’t fall in and you won’t also have a drowning to report,’ she added rather cynically. ‘Just keep an eye out in case there’s anyone else around.’

‘Okay,’ O’Rourke conceded. ‘You get cleaned up while I call this in, then wait for me in the car. I’ll keep you out of it… but on one condition and that is that you do keep out of this. I don’t want to find you somewhere with your neck slit open. Whoever did this, knows that he was meeting someone, and probably knows by now that is was you. Poke around too much and you may be next.’

‘It’s my story, Greg.’

‘You haven’t got a story yet,’ he growled with frustration. ‘Look – we’ll start an investigation. The moment we uncover anything at all, you’ll be in on it. I promise. Just don’t go getting yourself killed. I still have hopes, you know.’

Kate sat in the lonely silence of Greg’s car, locked the doors and waited. She saw four police cars arrive – two sedans with uniform, one with suited detectives and a Nissan Patrol with the equipment to set up and investigate the crime scene. Shortly afterwards, an ambulance attended and drove down the pier to where the Police had set up their spotlights. For the first time, she noticed that she was trembling, but not with cold. As she had told O’Rourke, it wasn’t the first time she had seen a dead body – but never before had she been so involved in the actual death, so close to the murder that