Vendetta

Copyright © 2013 by Jon Ericson.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2013901546

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4797-8593-3

                Softcover        978-1-4797-8592-6

                Ebook            978-1-4797-8594-0

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 permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 09/12/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-800-455-039

www.Xlibris.com.au

Orders@Xlibris.com.au

503130

Contents

Prelude

Book 1

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

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Book 2

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

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Book 3

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

This book is dedicated to two people: my father Richard (Dick), who died before I could make him proud, and my beautiful wife Wendy, who shares my love of living life to the fullest.

At last it has started: time to cause pain, confusion, regret, terror. It’s time for payback—sublime, spiritual, purifying, cleansing.

I’ve felt it. I’ve embraced it. Now I pass it on to you with… deep and heartfelt pleasure… and a massive lump of that sweet soothing balm—revenge.

Prelude

June 15, 1989

Shhh, they’re coming.

They were hiding in the long grass next to the railway line between Hawthorn and Glenferrie stations, just around the bend from the tunnel. They kept low, sticks and rocks held tightly in their hands. What a great chance this was to get even with those spics, those worthless Eyetalian bastards, as Mick’s dad used to call them.

So there they were, Mick Thomas, Glen Brady, Billy Mayne, and Rob George, four boys who were hell bent on taking back their territory from the immigrant gang who had been disturbing the established order of things.

Who do they think they are? cried Glen, just backing up his best mate Mick. The new Eyetalian gang were in reality a group of young kids, whose parents had worked their way into a more affluent status and made the move from the poorer western suburbs to the more established and comfortable inner eastern. Now they had to stake their claim and seek acceptance in the Anglo-Saxon stronghold of Melbourne. Gangs with an average age of between eleven and twelve weren’t capable of being too destructive back in the eighties. But for Mick and his boys, it was the principle of the thing.

Mick and Glen came from working-class stock. Both their dads had done their stints in Vietnam and come back pretty bloody beaten up over it too. Mick’s dad had developed a patriotic fervor on his return that recognized only fifth-generation Irish-heritage Aussies, occasionally allowing for a bloody Pom to qualify as long as it came from good convict stock and not the poofter aristocracy. Mick had grown up in a beer-drenched and cigarette-infused house where the Italian invasion of the fifties and sixties in Australia was as bad as the bloody commies up north.

And now they’re taking over our homes and bringing their women on to our side of the tracks. And don’t get me started on the bloody yellow peril in their boats. When Mick’s dad started on his rant, no nationality without a hint of Irish heritage was safe.

Next thing you know, the bloody Abos will move in next door.

He could let fly for a full hour without taking breath. In fact, Mick’s mum pouring a cold beer was usually the only way to get his dad back down off his pedestal.

Mick would do anything to please his dad and Glen would do anything just to have Mick notice that he was alive or even like him, so whatever Mick said was good enough for him.

Billy and Rob were as different from Mick and Glen as night is from day. Rob’s dad was the most popular doctor in the district. Rob came from a long line of popular doctors. He too was being groomed to follow in Dad’s footsteps. To give him his due, Rob had already achieved the art of being liked. He just had very little interest in following down the medical path.

Billy was simply a sports jock. He could run faster, throw farther, hit harder, and jump higher than any twelve-year-old within a country mile. His dad was the popular tennis pro at Camberwell. You could always pick Billy’s dad out at a party because he had the ability to attract a crowd. He was a tall, tanned, good-looking blond whom people just gravitated to. Rob’s father always wondered why the tennis pro hadn’t gone into politics.

He has personality plus and great bone structure, the perfect combination to lead our nation.

With successful fathers and a happy home life, things were pretty good for Billy and Rob.

Why the boys who had everything were lying in the grass on the side of the railway tracks with the boys who hated everything remains a mystery to all but boys who understand the importance of being in a gang. A gang gave you power above your own abilities. It gave you recognition and admiration among your peers. It helped you act grown-up long before you were recognized as such.

So there they all were, unaware that their lives were about to change—forever.

Stay low, whispered Mick. Put on your masks… when I say ‘now,’ hit ’em with everything we’ve got.

Through the tunnel came the Eyetis, two big ones and a runt. They recognized the leader. He was Dom Something-or-other. He and his mates had ambushed Mick and a bunch last week at the car park behind Woolies.

They’d done it well too because before Mick realized it, they were cornered and helpless in a dead-end lane. The bastards could have really hurt them.

There were three more of them and they were all big. But they didn’t do much except swear at them and tell them to leave the new kids alone or they would really hurt them next time. They didn’t hit, kick, or bash them with anything; they just laughed. But it sure did scare the shit out of Mick and his gang, though no one wanted to admit that.

So now they had a chance to get even and do it in a way that would not just even everything up but teach them a lesson about who owned the streets around here.

As the boys came around the corner into full view, all hell broke loose.

Now you’re stuffed, screamed Mick as he jumped up from his hiding place and let Dom have it in the guts with his stick. The boys could hear the thump as Dom folded like a rag doll.

It didn’t take long for the other two to realize they were outnumbered. But still, the bigger one surprised all of them by launching into Glen with a kick to the balls before poor Glen had a chance to whack him with his bat. As Glen toppled forward, the big guy brought his hand down on the back of his neck and just about knocked him stupid.

Rob jumped onto the big bloke’s back and wrestled him to the ground so that Glen could have time to recover.

The little runt just stood there terrified. Billy was looking right at him, throwing a stone up and down in his hand, smiling and threatening to brain him. In reality, there was no way that Billy would launch something at the little bloke, but before he had a chance to just chase him off, the kid did something that would change all their lives forever. While Mick stood over Dom ready to brain him with the stick one more time, and while Rob hung on gamely to the back of the big guy in a vain attempt to stop him bashing poor Glen again, the kid turned like a startled cat and jumped onto the tracks. It was a vain attempt to escape the missile that was sure to come his way any second and the terrible tongue-lashing he knew his own gang would give him for not helping them fight.

No one knows whether it was the noise of the fight, or the fact that they were on a corner that caused him not to hear the train coming through the tunnel.

But the moment the runt jumped to the tracks, the five-carriage, fifty-ton train, packed with morning commuters, came around the corner and consumed his tiny body right in front of their eyes. He didn’t even have time to scream.

Book 1

Let the games begin.

Chapter 1

Flagstaff, 7:25 a.m., September 27, 2009

What a day. It hadn’t started all that well for Elisha Mayne. She’d remember the finish for the rest of her life.

Elisha was a brilliant young lawyer in the making—top three in her graduate class and now a list of blue-chip law firms courting her to join their team. She knew she had a look to stop a crowd with her long blonde hair, blue eyes, and deeply tanned well-toned body; she knew too that she had ambition and drive to match. With brains, beauty, and a determination to succeed no matter what it took, she had the world at her feet.

But all that was in the future. Today hadn’t started at all well. First, the bloody train was canceled, and she had to catch the 6:15 instead. This meant she was late.

So she was hurrying from Flagstaff station, late for her meeting. Not just any meeting either. This was a meeting with Keith Landers, senior partner with Scanlon, Landers, and Hovey, no less. The most prestigious and certainly the biggest corporate law firm in the state. Keith was more than a little interested in her. Elisha knew he was interested from a number of perspectives: talent (check), looks (check), chemistry (well, from his side anyway). Whatever it takes was Elisha’s mantra in this male-dominated world of corporate law.

There were already two other senior partners of lesser but still large law firms salivating at the thought of Elisha joining them and fulfilling their carnal fantasies as well as adding her touch of brilliance to the team. She’d just keep them on the hook with the promise of things to come. A little tease or telephone flirtation would be all it took to guarantee her one of the best opportunities in town. But first, she would do everything she could to land the very best.

Just for a millisecond, Elisha felt a pang of guilt for her previous thoughts about Keith Landers and what she might have to do in order to secure her new job. Elisha had someone special, and if her special man knew the way she really operated, God knows how he’d react.

Sometimes she marveled at his amazing mood swings. She vowed never to cross him, and that was never going to happen; Elisha was too smart to let it and he was far too besotted to think ill of his Australian masterpiece, as he liked to introduce her.

But this morning things just didn’t work to plan. She traveled up two levels of escalators, and just when she wanted to really hurry, she was hemmed in by those determined to block her path, just because they could. She took her last steps off the final escalator and, in the blink of an eye, either slipped on a discarded newspaper or somehow tangled her feet with another member of the seething mass trying to jostle for position on the footpath. But either way, she staggered toward an oncoming public servant wearing a three-piece pinstriped suit and Windsor knot, reached for him for stability only to have him deftly avoid any contact, thereby saving himself from a wrinkled shirt or, God help him, a dirty handprint. This left her with only one option, an ignominious crash landing into the William Street gutter, drawing blood from both knees, ripping the side of her skirt, and ruining her newest pair of designer-label stockings.

Horrendous as this seemed for the future champion of corporate law, the drama was compounded by the torrent of filthy water carrying with it the remnants of last night’s debauchery in wild old Melbourne town. This was the stinking torrent that greeted her as she landed knees first into this moist and most unwelcome of gutters.

All pretenses of professional decorum went out the window. Fucking hell! she wailed in exasperated fury. The water was now seeping through to her underwear and even pooling in her beautiful bright red Jimmy Choos. Oh God!

In the dozen or so seconds it had taken for this drama to unfold, the scene outside Flagstaff Station had changed from a seething mass of humanity to one akin to Moses parting the waters. Nobody wanted to get involved, especially on the way to work.

Poor bitch seemed to be the unspoken sentiment as commuters averted their eyes.

But, one new arrival stood back, took the whole scene in, and waited. He waited in rapt expectation. His carefully placed leg across her shin had delivered a result so much more dramatic and helpful to his cause than he could ever have rehearsed. His gods were smiling on him today. Why was it that the pretty ones were always the easiest prey?

Chapter 2

Rob’s place, 5:00 p.m.

With one last grasp, grabbing his throat while trying to stanch the gouts of bright new blood foaming from the massive gash, the warrior king sank to his knees, looked to the heavens, before seeing no more.

YES! cried Nikki as once again she demonstrated her obvious superiority over those of us born before computer game mastery became a rite of passage into acceptable society. That was easier than last time, Bobby. You’re such a suck at this stuff. Let’s try it again.

First, I said, pulling her pigtail and threatening to tie it in a knot, the name’s Dad, or Father, or even Poppa, not Bobby, Bob, or Robert. And second, why would I even consider playing another game with such a poor winner? I still live in the deluded state of mind that as a parent I should command respect because of my superior intellect and fiscal responsibility to that of a mere eight-year-old budding computer geek who by accident of birth just happens to be my daughter.

Whatever, came the standard reply, which in every way possible for someone her age, allowed my darling daughter to retain her level of superiority over her hapless and vulnerable dad.

Don’t you have some homework to do? I’m pretty sure they give homework to eight-year-olds these days, don’t they?

Thankfully, the doorbell sounded just before Nikki retaliated with a well-practiced and hitherto successful counterargument about the virtues of child-parent bonding at this delicate stage in her upbringing.

I’ll get it, she said before I could move. Running to the front door of our small two-bedroom Clifton Hill apartment, Nikki opened the door to what some people would describe as a seriously scary man, 198 centimeters tall with shoulders that would be at home in any rugby pack, a shiny bald head, and designer-label wraparound sunglasses that are so much a part of the persona that is Junior—my partner.

Hi, Nik! The old bloke in?

Hey, Junior! she replied with some hesitation. If I said, ‘No, he just went out,’ would you leave or wait here for him?

Keeping up the already established banter, I yelled from the living room, If that’s Junior, tell him I’m in the shower, getting ready for a not-to-be-missed hot date with Jennifer Hawkins!

As if, cried Nikki.

Traitor, I retaliated.

Junior came on through, and from his look, I knew that any thought of possible dates, long hot showers, and a chance at revenge against my computer-game nemesis was no longer on the agenda.

Sorry, baby, looks like I’m calling in the sitter for a while.

Make it for the night, said Junior, with an expression that told me this one was special.

Nikki came over and hugged my leg. Please be careful, Bobby, you’re a suck at Warrior King and I worry about you out in the real world too. For Nikki, that was as mushy as she was likely to get.

Homework then bed, young lady, I’ll be back before you know it.

If only I knew then what lay ahead.

Chapter 3

Flagstaff, 7:30 a.m.

Oh my! Can I help you? Here, take my hand. I’ll get your bag, looks like it missed the water, so that’s a blessing anyway.

Elisha looked up through her tears, which were half caused by the pain of the fall and half by the violent rage she was now in… to see a kind and unusually beautiful face showing real concern toward her predicament.

The transformation from raving maniac to alluring innocent was instantaneous.

Err, thanks… Father. Do I call you Father? I’m sorry about, you know, my language a moment ago.

As she rose from the water, dripping, the face she still stared at belonged to a tall, buffed thirty-something. Loafers… dark tailored trousers… bright blue long-sleeve shirt buttoned up with that telltale clerical collar… hairless tanned face with rimless glasses, eyes to match the shirt, and a shock of bright blond hair. A perfect combination, Elisha thought, of Brad Pitt and Harrison Ford—yummy.

Thank God it wasn’t me, he said with a smile in his voice. I would have said much worse and spent the next year in need of confession.

Despite this being the worst moment of her life to date, Elisha Mayne laughed. All her senses were alive and well, and she was instantly into charm mode. What’s going on here? cried the little voice in the back of her brain as she held on to his hand much longer than was necessary.

He said, I don’t know what your plans were this morning, but unless we do something about your clothes, your cuts and bruises, and I’m sorry to say, that most unpleasant aroma of street rubbish mixed with something much worse and too delicate to name, all plans are off, I’m afraid.

This prompted Elisha to snap back to reality. Jesus Christ, oh sorry again, Father—he smiled and just shrugged his shoulders—but I was meeting Keith Landers at Dominic’s Bistro around the corner in Bourke Street—glancing down at her dripping but still functioning watch—ten minutes ago. Oh God! What a mess.

Reaching for his mobile, he asked Elisa for the number, to which, without even querying why, she fumbled through her purse and finally came out with Keith’s business card. What was she doing? She had just let a perfect stranger and a man, to boot, take command.

My goodness! A partner in Scanlon, Landers, and Hovey! Even I’ve heard of them. No wonder you’re distressed. Don’t worry, I’ll fix everything.

Elisha just stood there. This priest even uses an iPhone… what next?

Hello, is that Keith Landers? My name’s Patrick Dermody—that’s Father Patrick Dermody from the Church of the Blessed Covenant in Flagstaff Place. I’m calling on behalf of a young lady who was to have been meeting with you at this very moment—excuse me a moment. Father Patrick leaned her way. I don’t even know your name! he whispered.

It’s Elisha, Elisha Mayne, she said with surprising coyness.

Yes, sorry to keep you, he continued back into the phone. It’s Elisha Mayne, that’s right… well, I’m with her at the station and I’m afraid she’s had a small accident. No, not hurt badly, but certainly not able to recover in time to meet with you this morning. She’s quite upset about missing this meeting and I hope you allow her to reschedule at your earliest convenience… Oh, well, I’ll pass that on to her Mr. Landers. I’m sure she’ll be very grateful… Thank you and good-bye.

So, he said, passing the card back to a still half-dazed Elisha, that’s that. He sends his regards and concerns and told me to say that he’ll be only too happy to meet with you as early as tomorrow morning if that fits in with you. What a lovely fellow. Now we need to concentrate on you.

Oh yes, she said, looking down and seeing the true nature of the damage. I suppose I should call in sick and hop back on the train. Though she said it, she was holding her breath in the hope that her new guardian angel had other ideas.

You don’t really want to travel home on the train looking and feeling like this, do you? If you can walk with all your injuries, you should just walk over to the church with me. We have a bathroom and shower, medicine cabinet, and a wonderful housekeeper, Blanche, who will get you feeling almost normal.

Oh no, I couldn’t, she said (hoping he didn’t believe her for a moment).

It’s no trouble at all. We have a full laundry facility and the ladies who help around the church will fuss over you like a daughter. Come, Elisha, it would be my pleasure to assist. The church is just across the park here. I was on my way there as I have to stop at the sports shed and pick up some nets for the boys’ soccer game this afternoon. We run a small school just at the back of the church. If you don’t mind a two-minute stop to pick up the nets, we can have you drying off in ten minutes.

Drying off in ten and eyeing you off all the way over, she mused to herself, with senses coming alive. This priest had more to offer than he perhaps thought. If anyone could take him to forbidden places, she knew she could.

Elisha Mayne? said Father Patrick. A fine Anglo-Saxon name with just a hint of the Irish about it.

Elisha Mayne at your service, Father Patrick, she said as she placed her arm through his, still feeling somewhat unsteady and certainly conspicuous in her sodden clothing, damaged knee caps, with eye makeup dripping down her already muddied cheeks.

Elisha Mayne—now there’s a beautiful name. I’ve known a family of Maynes in my past life. I once played tennis against a Brian Mayne. He ran the tennis club I belonged to. Much older than me, but we used to have some wonderful games against each other. We—

My father’s name is Brian, said Elisha, and he plays tennis down in Camberwell.

Camberwell? Brian Mayne? Well, that’s where I used to play! What a happy coincidence. My Brian would be approaching sixty by now—tall left-hander with a wicked slice backhand.

That’s Dad! This is amazing—wait till he hears about this.

Yes, I’m sure he’ll be absolutely astonished, said Father Patrick as he crossed Latrobe Street and took the diagonal pathway into Flagstaff Gardens, a pathway that took him to the locked sports shed behind the netball courts. A short walk through a leafy archway of one-hundred-year-old birch trees. A short walk to a place and a time that made him almost wet with anticipation.

I can’t believe you, of all people, actually know my dad—what a coincidence!

I don’t believe in coincidences, Elisha, said Patrick as they arrived at the sports shed. He unlocked the door with his personal key, pulled the door right back to let the light in, and gestured for Elisha to join him within the low-ceilinged but surprisingly roomy interior.

There’s always a bigger plan, of that I’m sure, he said. I’ll tell you why I think that in a moment, but first could you please help me with these nets? It will be much easier with two… just move in here to the right.

Oh, if only I wasn’t so wet and stinking to high heaven! wailed the silent voice within Elisha. We could have really turned this into a sports shed. Perhaps I’ll get the chance to help him bring the nets back, she thought with a tiny giggle escaping her lips.

Just step in through to the back of the shed… that’s a good girl.

Chapter 4

Flagstaff Gardens, 5:40 p.m.

A rainy and cold spring afternoon in Melbourne—the bureau said fine with a light breeze and temp about twenty-two. So it’s wet, windy, and sitting at about fourteen.

Good one.

We had to park the four-wheel drive in a loading zone. I hoped to hell that the parking nazi takes time to read the note left on the dashboard. Otherwise, it would be a wasted two hours at the clampers’ . . . again.

What a pair we made: Detective Inspector Robert George and Detective Alfonse (Junior) Condelleti. Inspector George, a seventh-generation Australian, from the medical Georges of Camberwell. My father, his father, and his father before him, in general practice to the wealthy folk of Camberwell and the surrounds. There’s always been a Dr. George in Camberwell. To his eternal gratitude, the new generation of Georges have carried on the tradition with older sister Elizabeth hanging out her shingle next to Dad’s.

Detective Alfonse Condelleti (Junior), first-generation Australian from the Sicilian Condelletis, fruiterers to the wealthy folk of Camberwell and the surrounding suburbs.(Truth be known, there really aren’t many private fruiterers anywhere in Melbourne who aren’t connected via a financial drip feed to the Condelleti family.)

Junior is the first Australian-born Condelleti. He astonished all connected to the family, when criminology became more important to Junior than the Condelletis’ fruit and real estate empire—there were also rumours about the family’s connection to extortion, vice, and gaming. Junior grew up knowing that there was always another way for the family to increase their wealth and their standing within the Italian-Australian community. Anything was possible, anything was OK but not drugs—never drugs. There’s honor among thieves.

Flashback: February 1991

Junior’s dad (Alfonse Senior) met my father (Harley) the first day we were enrolled at Carey Grammar middle school. I followed a long line of Georges into the hallowed halls. Junior came because his family had decided it was time for the next generation of Condelletis to rise above their humble beginnings and move into the world of acceptable society. Besides, they could afford it. Alfonse Senior had enough stacked away to support the whole of the junior school, and it was time people started to realize it.

On this first day, Alfonse Senior and Harley met in less than amicable circumstances. Both preoccupied with taking the last available visitor’s car park at Carey, they approached from opposite sides, both turned in faster than they should have, and then both registered utter disbelief when the corner bumper bars of their flashy four-wheel drives came together with a louder-than-expected metallic crunch and became entangled in a sort of a Greco-Roman wrestling embrace. Giant oversized four-wheel drives locked together at forty-five degrees to each other.

Having both jumped out to survey the damage and size up their opponents in what could have declined into an ugly Please, gentlemen, not at Carey! all-in stoush, both men responded as only well-rounded, confident, and financially independent men would in this situation—they laughed. It started with a small chuckle from Harley and Alfonse looking up surprised, quickly caught the possibilities then joined in with a laugh that soon became a very loud and raucous bellow. Both men were now trying to outdo each other with their magnanimous response to an awkward predicament.

Meanwhile, two nervous young men on their first day at this daunting new school were totally forgotten. Alfonse Junior and I climbed out of our respective backseats, said hi, then moved quickly away from this embarrassing scene and followed the other young kids into their assembly area. Together from the outset, we were to remain all but inseparable for the duration of our six years at Carey.

Meanwhile back at the car park, a mutual bond was also formed. Born through embarrassment, awkwardness, and the realization that they had all but abandoned their boys, they would need a strong story and each other for backup when faced with the daunting task of telling this tale to their respective wives.

After an hour of tow trucks, winches, and red-faced explanations, the two men retired to a Glenferrie Road coffee shop where they found conversation surprisingly easy. Before the hour was out, the story was clear and a date had been made for the Georges to lunch with the Condelletis. So began a friendship that spanned two generations.

Chapter 5

Flagstaff Gardens, 5:45 p.m.

We arrived at the sports shed at the same time as assistant coroner Terri Winters—Terri to her face, but Slasher from the homicide team, behind her back. That is, Slasher from all but her boyfriend. This bloke was a very big and capable martial arts exponent who would spark up at the hint of criticism toward his favorite assistant coroner. His name was Junior Condelleti. When Junior was around, Terri remained Terri.

The unfortunate tag Slasher was coined after Terri was attacked in the autopsy room at the city mortuary by a drug-infused sibling of a recently wheeled-in corpse. This newly departed came to Terri’s table courtesy of an old-fashioned Western-style shootout between two rival bikie gangs.

Terri’s confused attacker, having somehow staggered past security, believed her act of inquisitive postmortem probing to be further physical abuse on his once-beloved brother. Terri, sensing danger as the attacker launched himself over the spread-eagled chest cavity of his now-defunct sibling, raised her scalpel just in time to connect with the unfortunate’s face, thereby increasing the dimensions of his smile by at least six centimeters. This left the now howling but alive unfortunate spread out and bleeding within the openness of his once brother. A story to dine out on for years, and we have.

Oh shit, sighed Slasher in her usual candid way of greeting us. They assigned the rookies to the case.

Move over, assistant coroner, quipped Junior, let the men get on with their work before we let you come in to tidy up.

It’s a strange reality that playful silly banter always seems to precede those entering into a crime scene. Perhaps it’s about finding a sane place to run before the horror of reality catches up.

We ducked through the low entrance into the sports shed and walked straight into a scene from Dante’s Inferno.

The cops who had discovered the scene had rigged up portable lights, as things were usually very dingy within this windowless shed. But today, it was lit up like a night football game, which means everyone could really appreciate the lengths someone had gone to in preparing the shed.

Junior went back outside to tell Terri she probably wouldn’t be needed for an hour or two.

Writings on the roof, writings on the walls—to be more precise, not writings, but one line written maybe one hundred times… in blood. Blood, it was assumed, belonging to the corpse of a young female (mid-twenties) now hanging upside down, legs attached to some sort of butchers hook which in turn was dangled over a support beam, fully clothed, with one wrist sliced open, causing a massive pool of blood below her.

Lying within the pool of blood were three paintbrushes of various sizes. There were bruises around the girl’s mouth where she may have been gagged very tightly, but it was plain for both Junior and me to see that this poor kid had hung there and watched her life drip away onto the floor below.

As well as the usual sickly sweet overpowering smell of human blood, which had become all too powerful a reminder of violent cases such as this one, there was also another strong pervading and very acrid smell. In the corner of the shed there were four empty and discarded plastic bottles of Safeway’s home-brand turpentine and a large towel soaked in a mixture of turpentine and blood. Whether one person or more than one person had committed this crime, it had taken some time to stock up and prepare so that all traces of blood could be washed away from hands and face, clothing, and whatever else had to make a reappearance once the deed was done.

This was premeditated, this was macabre, and this was scaring me to death. Not because of the nature of this crime, for I’d seen far more violent and grisly scenes. No, this one was personal. The note on the walls and the ceiling was addressed to me.

"Your fault, Rob."

Chapter 6

The office

There was still so much careful and time-consuming work to do at the scene that we didn’t let Slasher in to do her stuff until way past 9:00 p.m. She wasn’t pleased. The two men carried a big box of takeaway goodies from the scene back to the office for careful investigation.

We sat staring at the pile of bagged-up evidence confronting us: one very smelly and blood-soaked towel, four plastic containers, three paintbrushes, a series of digital prints of the walls and ceiling, a very expensive designer-label handbag containing a vast array of female bric-a-brac. The technicians had gone over all of the evidence, testing for prints of any description, and looked for the opportunity to take DNA samples from all possible avenues. We waited on the results.

Junior sat carefully removing each item from the handbag with a small pair of metal tweezers. I was amazed at how steady and how delicate Junior’s movements were. The most important item was the driver’s license: Elisha Mayne, twenty-six years old, Glencairn Close, Mount Eliza.

The biggest item was the obligatory purse, packed to overflowing with plastic Amex, Eftpos, Safeway discount vouchers, Frequent Flyer, Qantas Club, health and spa fitness center, Medicare, Private Health, etc, receipts, business cards,