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PROLOGUE

‘Will you walk into my parlour? said the Spider to the Fly,

’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;

The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

And I’ve a many curious things to shew when you are there.

Oh no, no, said the little Fly, to ask me is in vain,

For who goes up your winding stair

can ne’er come down again.

Mary Howitt, 1829

Icy fingers clawed through Len’s shirt to the tender flesh below, as his coat flapped wildly in the wind. He shivered, and tugged the thin material around him. He’d been lulled by the transient warmth of the midday sun, but the autumn nights were getting colder.

He stepped into a doorway, trying to find shelter. Movement from the shadows startled him. Someone was already huddled in the small space. He moved back out into the laneway and walked on, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around himself in an effort to preserve body heat. A slow drizzle began, dropping the temperature another few degrees. Where did people go on nights like this? An image of the Morphett Street Bridge popped into his head. He’d be able to huddle underneath it and stay dry. He picked up his pace, keen to find shelter.

Ten minutes later he was following the narrow steps down the bank of the Torrens River. He peered into the space under the bridge. Again, he wasn’t alone — figures pressed around an old drum. Flames licked at their outstretched hands, making wild shadows dance against the graffitied walls. Len’s first impulse was to turn and leave, but the rain was falling harder and he didn’t want to step back out into the cold night. He approached slowly, aware of the eyes trained in his direction. Their owners all wore a kind of uniform: layers of oversized clothing, the original colours caked in dirt or leached out with age. Len’s clothes were too new, too bright, they fit too well. The figures shuffled, eyes raking him up and down.

‘Can I join you?’ he asked.

There were five of them. Four turned to the fifth, seeking his approval. He was wearing a heavy coat with the hood pulled up, shrouding his eyes so his only distinguishable feature was a tatty brown beard that hung onto his chest.

‘Suit yourself.’

The other four shifted around, making a small gap for him. He stepped into it, not sure if the people beside him were men or women, and not keen to look too closely. He realised as he moved closer that there was a grate over the drum with something cooking on top. The smell of roasting meat assaulted his nostrils and saliva flooded his mouth.

‘That smells good. What is it?’

No one answered. Bushy-beard reached out and turned the meat with a stick.

‘If you’re going to make it out here, you need to learn not to ask questions. It’s meat, that’s all that matters.’

One of the others began to laugh, a nervous, high-pitched giggle.

‘Shut up!’ Bushy-beard snarled. ‘You want to eat, you have to trade for it. Got anything valuable?’

Len had some change in his pocket but was reluctant to part with it. There was also his watch. He tugged down the sleeve of his jumper. The watch had been a gift from his wife. He looked around the circle, their eyes fixed on him again, scanning his clothes, his shoes. They were hungry eyes. He lifted his gaze to the night sky. The rain had stopped.

‘Thanks for the warmth but I don’t have anything to trade. I’ll be on my way.’ He turned on his heel and walked away. The high-pitched giggle followed him. He was almost at the stairs when a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Shocked, he tried to pull away. The fingers gripped him tighter, bruising his skin.

‘Nice watch you’ve got there. I’d be happy to trade it for some of our food.’

His face was masked by shadow, but it had to be Bushy-beard. Len could smell him. His malodorous breath was blended with stale body odour and damp, mouldering fabric.

Len half turned, trying to twist out of the man’s grasp. ‘It was a gift. I don’t want to trade it.’

‘I wasn’t asking.’ Bushy-beard held up his hand, the other still gripping Len’s shoulder. A long, wicked-looking carving knife gleamed faintly in the dim light. The man smiled cruelly and laughed, but his laugh quickly descended into a hacking cough and his grip loosened.

Len seized the moment. He yanked the hand off his shoulder, raking his nails across flesh as he did so. Bushy-beard yelped and swore, lashing out with the knife, but Len was too quick. He leapt backwards then spun and bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He ran until his chest was heaving and his lungs were burning. Halfway up Montefiore Hill, he looked over his shoulder. No one was following him. He stopped, waiting for his heart to stop pounding like a sledgehammer. After a minute or two he began to walk, heading slowly up the hill.

The wind whipped up again, tree branches groaning and leaves dropping onto the path. The musky odour of damp earth and rotting vegetation filled the air. He moved quickly, puffing clouds of steam as he slogged up Morphett Street towards North Adelaide. Maybe he’d find a park somewhere to take shelter in.

By the time he reached Wellington Square he was wrecked. A park bench beckoned. He sank onto it and shut his eyes, trying to remind himself why this had seemed like a good idea.

He peered at the face of his watch, struggling to make out numbers in the gloom. Just after eight. It seemed a lot longer than eight hours since he’d left the house. What had passed for lunch was a distant memory. Some fruit and a bag of nuts from the pantry, not exactly a feast. There’d been no time to grab anything more substantial, and he hadn’t been able to work out where Beth had stashed his wallet. He fingered the coins in his pocket, the entire contents of the change jar in the kitchen — about ten bucks worth of silver. It wasn’t going to get him very far.

His backside was going numb. He moved along the park bench, trying to get into a more comfortable position. He ended up trading the warmth of the patch he’d been sitting on for ice-cold wood a few inches further along. His teeth chattered.

He couldn’t stay where he was. Lights from the pub across the square glowed through the darkness. He had enough money for a schooner and a bag of chips. It would get him out of the cold, at any rate.

The door swung open as he approached and a couple of young blokes in suits pushed their way out into the night, laughing at a shared joke. A whoosh of warm air fragrant with the smell of beer and deep-fried food followed them. Len’s stomach rumbled. He stepped inside, letting the waves of sound and heat wrap around him before heading to the front bar.

He spotted an empty stool tucked up next to the wall and made a beeline for it, shedding his jacket along the way. The barmaid was young, probably not much past twenty. She wore a tight black t-shirt and black pants, her blonde hair pulled into a severe ponytail. She had piercings in her nose and right eyebrow. A large tattoo of a pair of cherries nestled just under her left ear, as if they were earrings. Why cherries? Len watched her, trying to imagine her as a sixty-year-old woman with the cherries tucked away in her neck folds. It took her a good while to make her way to him along the bar.

‘What’ll you have?’

Her tone was friendly enough, but her look said otherwise. Her eyes were flat and a slight curl to her lip told him he’d failed her respectability test.

As she moved away to get his schooner and chips, he caught sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar. He hadn’t shaved, his hair was sticking up, his collar was crooked and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing his singlet beneath. No wonder she’d given him a look. He straightened his clothing and tried to pat his hair into something resembling normal. He looked like a vagrant. The thought made his gut churn. Was that what he was now?

The barmaid returned a minute later and plonked a coaster and a beer in front of him then snatched a bag of plain chips and a bowl off the shelves behind her and dumped them next to the beer. The plastic bowl rattled on the counter as it spun a couple of times before settling into place.

‘That’s eight dollars fifty.’

‘Eight-fifty? Really?’

She didn’t answer him, just stood there, giving him the same flat look. He fumbled in his pocket for his change and counted out the coins. A hot flush crept from under his collar and spread up his neck until he could feel the tips of his ears glowing red.

When he was done, the barmaid scooped up the pile and turned away. He didn’t need to look at her to know what expression she’d be wearing.

The first mouthful of beer was enough to banish her from his thoughts. It’d been a long time since he’d had a beer. He wasn’t allowed to drink; apparently it was bad for his health. Living in that house had been bad for his health too. How could Beth expect him to stay locked away like that?

Would she be worried about him? Probably. And mad as hell, but she had left him no choice. He took another draught of beer, feeling it slide down his throat. The unopened chip packet demanded his attention. He ripped open the foil and tipped the contents into the bowl before grabbing a huge handful and stuffing them into his mouth. Chips. When was the last time he’d had chips? Beth’d say they had too much fat …

Twenty minutes later, the bowl was empty except for a few crumbs and he was nursing the last two centimetres of beer in the bottom of his glass, reluctant to finish it. He didn’t have enough for another glass and the prospect of swapping the warmth of the bar for the freezing park bench … he couldn’t face it.

He fumbled with the few remaining coins in his pocket. He had enough to make a phone call. Did they still have pay phones in pubs? He looked around, then gave himself a mental slap. Surely he could survive for more than nine hours on his own? He couldn’t go running back to Beth with his tail between his legs. The repercussions would be dreadful. He could already hear the tirade, and the chances of him ever getting hold of the key again … no. This was his only shot at getting away.

A voice made him look up from the contents of his glass.

‘You look like you’ve had a tough day.’

The bloke was standing behind the bar, watching him. Len shook his head, worried he was about to be fast-tracked back to the park bench.

The barman pulled another schooner and put it in front of Len. ‘This one’s on me. I own this place.’

‘Thanks,’ Len mumbled, lifting the glass in salute.

‘You’re welcome. And if you need it, here’s a card for a hostel just around the corner. Woman who runs it’s supposed to be a legendary cook.’

Len looked down at the card then opened his mouth to respond, but the barman had moved away to serve someone else. Len looked back at the card. A hostel. The thought wasn’t appealing, but neither was a night freezing to death in the park.

Len stamped his feet and jogged up and down on the spot, trying to force the ice from his veins. Stepping out of the pub and into the night had been brutal. The temperature felt like it’d dropped ten degrees in an hour. How did people live on the streets? Len couldn’t imagine surviving even one night without shelter, and it wasn’t even winter yet.

He reached out and rang the bell again then looked nervously at the card in his hand, squinting at the address in the shadows. It was too dark to read.

He looked up at the bank of windows above his head. The building was a large, two-storey Edwardian with wooden fretwork and a bullnose veranda. The tiles below his feet had been intricately laid in the mosaic pattern popular in the era. He wondered how such a stately home had become a hostel — assuming he had the right place. Was this the right place? There was no sign out the front, but large brass numbers fixed to the sandstone wall told him this was it.

He strained his ears, listening over the din of wind and passing cars for sounds of movement inside. Nothing. It must be the wrong place. With chattering teeth he turned and headed back towards the gate. As he reached to pull it open, he heard the rattling of a lock. With a surge of hope he turned towards the light now spilling from the open front door.

‘Lockout is 9pm,’ a female voice said.

‘Sorry?’ Len walked towards the voice, squinting into the light, painful after the gloom.

‘I lock the doors at nine. You’re too late for tonight, come back tomorrow and try again,’ she said.

‘Tomorrow? But what am I supposed to do tonight? It’s only a little bit past nine. Please?’ He realised he sounded pathetic, but the prospect of being turned away felt like a physical blow.

The woman was probably in her sixties. She had iron-grey hair pulled back into a bun and gold-framed reading glasses that sat well down on her nose and were secured by a pink plastic chain looped around her neck. She was short, no more than five-foot-two, with a stocky barrel-build dominated by an impressive bust. A half-apron was tied around her waist.

The woman sighed.

‘I’m sorry, we’re full tonight. I always have a queue waiting when I open the doors at 5.30pm. Most of my regulars know not to bother this late. You’re new around here.’

Len nodded, thinking of the wasted hours he’d spent wandering.

‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you don’t look like you’ve been living rough. You look too well fed and healthy. Isn’t there someone you can call? You can use my phone.’

An image of a glowering Beth flashed through Len’s mind. He shook his head. ‘No, no one. Thanks anyway.’ He turned away.

‘Wait! Maybe there’s something I can do. Have you eaten dinner?’

He stopped again. ‘I had a bag of chips.’

‘Chips? That won’t keep you warm tonight. You look like you’re used to eating three good meals a day. Come on, I’ve got a bit left over.’

A half-smile tweaked the corners of his mouth before he remembered the state of his finances. His hand went back to the small collection of coins in his pocket.

‘I don’t have much money.’

‘No charge. My son’s just reorganising our supplies. Would you mind giving him a hand while I fix you a plate?’

‘You’re very kind. I’d be happy to work for my dinner. The bloke who gave me your card said you’re a terrific cook.’

She smiled at him. ‘I make do. I’m Mrs Jacobs. I run this place. Follow me.’

CHAPTER
1

‘Don’t you look disgustingly happy?’

Claire collapsed into the chair opposite me, wafting a cloud of light, summery perfume in my direction.

‘I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.’ I looked at my watch and pulled a mock-serious face.

‘I know, I’m sorry. Student dramas. One of my second-years bailed me up as I was making a dash for the lift. A new lecturer in the Classics department’s got them all in a tizzy. Apparently he’s set them assignments that actually require research. But seriously, look at you! You look really well!’

‘Is that a euphemism for fat?’

‘Cass, don’t be ridiculous!’

‘I’m not. I’ve put on half a stone since I’ve been living with Ed.’

‘Well, it suits you.’ She flipped her long brown hair over her shoulders and reached for a menu. ‘So, what looks good? I haven’t eaten here in ages.’

We were seated at a table in one of Adelaide’s best-loved Italian restaurants, Amalfi. It was Friday dinnertime and every table was full. Waiters were cranking into top gear and the pizza chefs were hard at work in the open kitchen. Conversation was building to a roar, accompanied by the percussion of cutlery on plates, as wine flowed and everyone eased into weekend mode.

‘I thought this was one of your favourites?’ I said.

‘It is, but I have lots of favourites so I haven’t been here in months.’

We ordered a pizza to share and a bottle of McLaren Vale Shiraz then settled back into our chairs.

‘I’ve missed you. I don’t know if I approve of all this domestic harmony. Ed’s been keeping you all to himself.’ She tried to pout at me but failed miserably.

I laughed. ‘Ed hasn’t got anything to do with it! I’ve been busy working.’

‘The freelancing’s going OK then?’

‘A few of my regulars have sent me manuscripts but I’ve also had a bunch of new clients since I got that write-up in the paper.’

‘Clients who want you to edit for them or solve murders?’

‘Editing! You know I don’t do the other for money.’

‘You should. You’d make a killing.’

I rolled my eyes at the bad pun.

Our wine arrived and we grabbed our glasses like parched survivors who’d just crawled out of the desert.

‘Cheers!’ Claire raised her glass and took a huge slurp. ‘God, I needed that. Tell me you didn’t drive tonight.’

‘Nope, Ed’s working late. He’ll pick me up when I call him.’

‘Ah, ain’t love grand? So things are going well with you two?’

‘This is my first real relationship, so I guess I don’t have a lot to compare to. It’s hard work, but it’s mostly good. We fight a lot but he makes me happy. I’d like an interpreter who speaks male though.’

Claire snorted. ‘Wouldn’t we all. Sounds like the honeymoon’s wearing off a bit?’

‘Maybe. His job doesn’t make things easy.’

‘Is he working a big case?’

‘He’s just finishing one off. Paperwork.’

‘You weren’t involved?’

‘Nah, I haven’t been asked to help since what happened …’ My mouth went dry and I gulped at my wine.

Claire was giving me that intense look that made me feel like a butterfly pinned to a specimen board. ‘You OK with that now?’

I shook my head. ‘Not really. There are some things that stay with you. Occupational hazard.’

‘I’m just glad you and your mum are OK.’

‘Mum’s doing well. She’s back doing readings again.’

‘And your gran?’

‘She’s retired.’

‘I didn’t know psychics retired. How does that work?’

‘Gran’s a healer not a psychic. Mum’s the psychic.’

‘Uh-huh … you guys have freaky DNA, you know that, right? Seriously though, are you any better?’

‘I’m OK.’ It was a lie. My eyes fell away from her face. I’d been having nightmares for months — ever since I’d got tangled up in a case Ed was investigating. The end result was not only a dead killer, but a close call for both me and my mum. Too close.

‘And what about that other psycho you helped put away? Is he still safely behind bars?’

‘Yeah, Brian Jenson. He’s in James Nash House, the maximum security prison for the criminally insane. Ed checks every now and then. Last I heard he was still catatonic. Ed reckons they’ll never let him out.’

‘Well that’s a relief. But the memories still bother you?’

‘Not much.’ I decided not to tell her that Ed’s habit of checking was more about my obsession with Jenson than his.

‘Liar.’

Claire called me on my bluff but didn’t push. She changed the subject and we spent the time until our pizza arrived laughing over her recent failed romances.

‘I don’t understand why you can’t find a partner,’ I said, wiping away the tears running down my cheeks. ‘Maybe you’re just too fussy.’

‘Seriously? I’m willing to give anyone a go provided they can string two words together and they don’t look like something out of The Hills Have Eyes.’

We dived on the pizza, our conversation grinding to a halt as we inhaled cheesy slices of heaven. There was nothing bird-like about either of our appetites. It was one of the things I loved about Claire. She shared my passion for good food. What she didn’t share was my curves. Somehow she’d been blessed with a metabolism that could cope with anything she threw at it. Women had been killed for less.

‘I’m just going to duck into the bathroom,’ Claire said, pushing back her chair. ‘I don’t think I can eat any more pizza if I’m going to leave room for dessert.’

I sat back and was wondering if I could surreptitiously undo the button on my jeans to make room for another slice when a voice interrupted my musings.

‘Miss Lehman? Cass Lehman?’

I looked up, startled by the young woman standing by our table. I’d been so deep in thought that I hadn’t even felt her presence.

‘Yes?’

‘You don’t know me, but …’ She looked down at her hands, twisting her fingers into knots. ‘Can I sit down for a minute?’

‘Um, I’m actually here with a friend. She’s just popped to the loo.’

‘I know, I’ve been watching you. It won’t take long, I promise.’

She sat in Claire’s chair. Her eyes climbed up to my face and she chewed at her lip. She was young, in her early twenties. Her skin was pale to the point of ghostly, made more so by jet-black hair and a slash of bright red lipstick.

I had a strong suspicion where this conversation was going so her next words came as no surprise.

‘I need your help with something.’

‘I don’t really do that.’

‘But you help the police.’

‘I’ve helped the police twice, that’s it.’

‘Oh.’ Her face crumpled and she started to cry.

I swallowed hard and reached out to pat her arm. ‘Shhh, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll go.’ She stood up.

‘No! Wait. Don’t leave.’

I took a breath, trying to ease the knot sitting somewhere in the middle of my chest — tension or indigestion? Both, probably. I had a feeling I was going to regret it but I couldn’t let her go without finding out what she wanted. I had enough keeping me awake at night without adding guilt to the list.

She hesitated, her gaze fixed somewhere over my left shoulder and announcing Claire’s return.

‘Hello,’ Claire said, looking from me to my visitor and back again.

‘Um, this is …’

‘Melissa Kirkpatrick,’ the girl said. ‘And I think my father was murdered.’

‘I think we need more wine … and another chair,’ Claire said.

I felt my way along the passageway and into the bedroom. The glow of the digital clock by the bed was the only light. It was nearly 2am. Soft snores told me Ed was home. I’d texted him hours earlier to say I’d find my own way home.

I tiptoed across the room to my side of the bed. Unzipping my boots sounded like a chainsaw. I tugged them off and winced as they thumped onto the floor. The rest of my clothes followed, forming an untidy heap that I’d deal with in the morning. All I cared about was crawling under the covers and finding some warmth. My bones were aching and my feet felt like frozen chunks of meat.

I slid under the covers and groaned with pleasure. Ed had put my electric blanket on. That was true love. I resisted the urge to reach out and hug him. He’d never owned one until he met me. He’d bought it when he realised just how cold my hands and feet could feel against bare flesh.

‘Hello, frosty.’ The words were a sleepy murmur. ‘Turn over.’

I complied and he spooned me, enveloping me in his own warmth.

‘Jesus, you’re even colder than normal, what’ve you been doing?’

‘Walking along a country road.’

‘What?’

‘We can talk about it tomorrow. Go back to sleep.’

‘I’m awake now. Hugging you was like taking an ice bath.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I thought you were having dinner at Amalfi with Claire?’

‘I was. Someone asked me for help.’

‘Oh no.’

‘Unfortunately, yes. She thought her father was murdered.’

‘And was he?’

‘Nope. He was drunk … wandered in front of a car. But the driver was his second wife. She was out trying to find him.’

‘That’s awful.’

‘His daughter thinks she ran him down on purpose.’

‘Wait, I remember that case. The coroner ruled it an accident. The guy was tanked up to the eyeballs. He was walking home from the pub when she hit him.’

‘That’s the one.’

I shivered. My mind went back to the long stretch of dark road where he’d been struck. Melissa had talked me into going there with her. Claire came, too.

We’d pulled onto a slight verge. There was a sloping embankment that fell away from the road.

‘It happened over there,’ Melissa said, pointing to a spot about twenty metres away, where a small cross was festooned with flowers.

‘The police think he’d been down there for some reason,’ she said, pointing down the slope into the trees.

I started walking towards the cross.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Claire asked.

‘No, stay here and watch out for cars. You might need to push me out of the way. If I’m having a vision, I won’t realise I’m in danger.’

I slowed as I got closer to the spot, waiting for the vision to take me. I didn’t have to wait long.

A soft moan of pleasure left my lips as a steady stream hissed against the bark of a tree in front of me. With a grunt I shook, tucked and zipped. Light danced across the branches above me. It took a moment for me to process what that meant. A car. Someone was coming and I could hitch a ride. Bloody bartender. He had no right to take my keys.

I stumbled up the slope, scrambling through the low shrubbery, feeling the branches scratch my bare arms. Shit. I had to hurry or the car’d be gone and I’d have to walk all the way home. I surged up the last bit of the incline and lurched onto the road. Blinding light and the screech of brakes made me squeeze my eyes shut and I flung my arms in front of my face. A heartbeat later the impact against my legs threw me into the air and I struck the windscreen with a crunch of glass and bone. The air whooshed out of me and I launched into the air again. After long moments of weightlessness, the ground rushed towards me and I landed with a thud that should have hurt but didn’t. I lay there, staring up into the night sky. Somewhere I could hear a woman screaming, ‘Oh God, I couldn’t stop’ over and over again. I wished she’d be quiet. I closed my eyes and then there was nothing.

I turned over and wrapped myself around Ed, burying my head against the warmth and security of his chest.

‘Was it a bad one?’

‘Not as bad as some. No pain.’

‘So why does the daughter think it was murder?’

‘The second wife isn’t much older than she is. She thinks she was after her father’s money.’

‘Ah.’

‘She didn’t like what I had to tell her.’

‘Sometimes people don’t want to hear the truth, they just want to be told they’re right.’

‘I know. I probably should have said no.’

‘Yep, she could have been a maniac.’

‘Claire was there.’

‘Both of you could have been hurt.’

‘But we weren’t.’

‘This time.’

I couldn’t be bothered arguing. I trailed my hand down his chest towards the elastic on his boxers.

‘My hands are warmer now.’

‘They’d better be,’ he growled.

In the dark, his lips found mine.

CHAPTER
2

The jangling of the phone dragged Ed out of one of the best sleeps he’d had in ages. He was so far under it took him a few moments to recognise the source of the cacophony. His next problem was extracting a free hand to grab the phone without waking Cass. She was lying on his arm, cutting off the circulation. His fingers felt like a bunch of limp sausages. He rolled and fumbled for the phone with his other hand, eliciting a groan of protest from Cass. By the time he had the receiver pressed against his ear the answering machine had kicked in. He fumbled with the buttons, halting the recording.

‘Yes?’

‘Hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,’ Dave said.

Ed registered the implication but chose to ignore it. He peered at the clock. It was just before 6am. This was no social call. ‘What have you got?’

‘I suppose pleasantries are too much to expect from you at this hour. We’ve got a call-out to the Southern Regional Waste Management Facility.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me. The dump? At this hour?’

‘Yeah. They start work early. A crew was compacting rubbish. Bag exploded, human remains inside.’

‘I think I’ll skip breakfast. That place … it’s down McLaren Vale way, right?’

‘Yeah. Your old station got the primary call-out. The detectives from Fairfield CIB are already on the scene.’

‘Huh. And we got the case because …?’

‘Arnott thought you’d have a better relationship with the local detectives.’

‘I’m not sure they’ll love me quite as much now I’m working for the Major Crime Branch.’

‘I’ll swing by to get you in ten minutes.’

Ed ended the call and reached over Cass again to put the phone back in its cradle. He looked down and saw that she was watching him. ‘Morning, gorgeous.’ He dipped his head and brushed his lips against hers.

‘This is not morning, it’s the middle of the night,’ she said.

‘Nope, definitely morning. Sun’s up.’

‘Tell it to go away.’ She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down for another kiss.

He complied, then pulled away with a groan.

‘I can’t. Got a case and I need to shower or Dave won’t let me in the car. Besides, he’s got a nose like a bloodhound. I don’t want him smelling what we’ve been up to.’

‘That’s gross.’

‘I love your smell.’

‘It’s you who smells.’

He pushed her gently off his arm and flexed his hand, gasping as pins and needles spread through his useless digits.

Ten minutes later he was on the front porch with a travel mug full of coffee, sensation returned to all his limbs. A breeze teased his damp hair. The sky was the palest blue, without a cloud in sight. Once the morning chill passed it would be a warm day. Just perfect for traipsing around a public dump.

Dave pulled up a couple of minutes later and Ed climbed in.

‘Where’s mine?’ Dave said, eyeing the travel mug.

‘You don’t drink instant.’

Dave pulled a face. ‘Swill. I know a place on the way that does a perfect espresso.’

‘Of course you do.’ Ed studied his partner. His dark hair was nailed into place with product — gel or wax, whatever — and he was wearing an impeccable dove-grey suit and white shirt. Silver cufflinks peeked out from under his jacket sleeves and his tie was a candy-stripe affair of lavender and blue. A picture of Dave knee-deep in rubbish popped into Ed’s head and he suppressed a smile.

Settling back against the car’s upholstery, he took a gulp of coffee and screwed up his face. He shoved his mug into a cup holder in the console. Dave had a point. He’d wait for an espresso.

It would take them at least forty-five minutes to get to the dump even though traffic was still light and they were heading against the flow.

‘Ever been to this dump?’ Dave asked.

‘Yeah, when I was a kid. My dad used to load up the trailer every now and then and we’d do a run. I thought it was exciting. You?’

Dave shook his head. ‘My old man used to hoard everything. He’s probably still got the first TV he ever owned stashed in one of his sheds.’

Ed was surprised. It was unusual for Dave to talk about his family. They’d been partners for nearly eight months and Ed still felt like he was only just scratching at the shiny veneer that Dave showed the world. Dave’s background was blue collar and Ed knew he’d grown up around Adelaide’s north-western suburbs. A state-school education and humble beginnings. It wasn’t something Dave liked people to know. His flashy suits, fast cars and trophy girlfriends were all about showing the world how far he’d come. Ed decided to stick his foot in the chink in Dave’s armour.

‘Your dad’s still fit and healthy?’

‘Yeah, him and Mum. They’re only in their early sixties.’

‘Had you young, eh?’

‘Mum was twenty-two.’

‘Seen them lately?’

‘Nope. You see your parents much?’

‘Mine died in a car accident years ago. You’re lucky to have both of yours.’

‘Yeah, lucky me.’ His tone told Ed the subject was closed.

Ed stared out the window at the passing scenery. It wasn’t very appealing; clusters of businesses, used-car lots, fast-food outlets and shops. Trees were few and far between. McLaren Vale would be nicer with rolling hills of vines and farmland. He closed his eyes.

‘Wakey, wakey. We’re nearly there.’

Ed sat up and blinked against the bright sunlight streaming through the windscreen. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to fall asleep. Cass got in late last night.’

‘And here I was thinking it was because she’d kept you up all night.’

‘You have a filthy mind.’

‘I just say what everyone else is thinking.’ Dave grinned.

‘If everyone thought like you, no one would ever get any work done.’

‘I get the job done.’

‘Yes, you do, amazing but true. Weren’t we stopping for coffee on the way?’

‘We did. I didn’t have the heart to wake you so I got you a takeaway. It’s probably stone cold by now.’ He nodded at the cup in the console.

‘Thanks.’ Ed grabbed it and sipped at the tepid contents. Even at this temperature, it was better than instant.

Five minutes later they pulled up to the boom gate at the entry to the dump, but there was no one in the booth. Dave rolled down his window and pressed the button on a small intercom box. Fetid air wafted through his window, making them screw up their faces. Ed switched to breathing through his mouth.

A tinny voice answered and Dave gave their details. The boom lifted and they followed the road around to the large tin shed where they’d been directed. A cluster of vehicles, marked and unmarked, announced the crime scene. A single figure bathed in bright sunlight stood next to the cars, waiting for them. Her short cropped hair glowed like a red halo. She was wearing jeans, army boots and a plain white t-shirt.

‘Check her out. Looks like they sent out a welcoming party,’ Dave said.

A smile tugged at the corners of Ed’s mouth. Things were about to get interesting. ‘That’s Phil.’

‘Phil … as in your old partner Phil?’

‘The same.’

‘You didn’t tell me she was hot in a GI Jane kind of way.’

‘Don’t even think about going there.’

‘What, I’m not good enough for her?’ Dave said it with a smile but Ed could hear the edge that had crept into his voice.

‘No, you have the wrong tackle.’

‘She’s a dyke? Really? You never told me.’

‘I didn’t think it was relevant.’

Dave parked the car next to the rest of the vehicles and they climbed out.

‘Well, look what the cat dragged in,’ Phil said. ‘Do we have to find a body for you to show your ugly mug around these parts?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘You’d be Dave. Hope you brought a change of clothes. This isn’t really the place for Armani’s summer collection.’

‘Nice to finally meet you.’ Dave held out his hand but Phil ignored it.

‘You’ll want these, and some gloves.’ She threw some paper masks at them.

Dave fumbled but managed to catch his before it hit the dust.

‘This way.’ She strode off, leaving them to scurry behind.

‘Wow, I think she hates me,’ Dave said.

‘Phil hates anyone from MCIB.’

‘She doesn’t hate you.’

‘No, she loves me, but sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.’

They followed Phil inside the compacting shed, a huge structure made of corrugated iron. Open windows just below the roofline let the heat and stink out, or at least tried to. To one side was a towering mound of rubbish. A large tractor with impressive spiked rollers sat on top of it, like a sleeping dragon. Crime scene techs were also on top, clustered just in front of the tractor’s front roller. A group of uniformed officers and men in Hi-Vis gear stood at the base, talking in low voices. Two front-end loaders stood off to one side. More sleeping monsters.

‘The remains are up there,’ Phil pointed to the group on top of the mound. ‘My new partner Steve’s up there too. I’ll introduce you. He’s like a younger, less fucked-up version of you, Ed.’

‘So you’re not missing me?’ Ed said.

‘Not a chance.’ Phil snorted and began to climb up a ramp that had been flattened into one end of the mound to give the tractors access.

‘Watch your footing. It’s pretty solid but sometimes a bit sticks up and snags your legs.’

They walked up the incline, picking their way over compacted rubbish that seemed to consist of everything from bagged junk to broken furniture and old clothing.

‘This is where the household rubbish trucks come to unload during the week. Private dumpers come here on the weekend. The front-end loaders over there push it all into a mound and then the big boy up there compacts it. This shed sits over huge underground passages. There are trapdoors under this mound. Every so often they open them up and drop the compacted stuff into trucks below. When the trucks are full, they take the load to other parts of the dump for landfill.’

‘Wow, sounds like you know a lot about waste disposal.’ Dave gave her his Prince Charming smile, flashing a set of teeth straight out of a toothpaste commercial.

Phil tossed him a look. ‘No, I just spent ten minutes talking to the manager.’

By the time they had reached the top and navigated their way around the large tractor Ed could feel damp patches under his arms and a sheen of sweat beading his brow. ‘It’s hot in here,’ he said.

‘Foreman says it gets over fifty degrees Celsius in the middle of summer. Combination of sun on the tin roof and heat given off by the composting organic matter.’

‘And it’d stink to high heaven,’ Ed added.

‘Yep, think yourself lucky that all you have to deal with is putrefying remains.’

‘So they’re pretty bad?’

‘Can’t you smell it?’

‘I’ve been trying to breathe through my mouth since we got here,’ Ed said. ‘But yeah, I can.’ Despite the mask, the cloying smell of decomposing flesh was unmistakeable, even over the rotting organic matter.

They came around the front of the tractor. Sonya, the pathologist who serviced the Fleurieu area, was working off to one side, together with the crime-scene team. She gave Ed a friendly wave. Phil took them over and made the introductions.

‘Ed, Dave, this is Detective Steve Williams.’

‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ Steve said, shaking Ed’s hand, then Dave’s.

‘All good, I’m sure,’ Ed said. Phil was right. Steve was at least ten years younger than him and still had the air of enthusiasm that the job had beaten out of Ed a long time ago. Ed felt a pang in his midsection. He remembered being like Steve. Maybe Phil really didn’t miss him.

‘If you make your way over to Sonya, she’ll let you check out the remains,’ Steve said.

‘Oh goody,’ Dave said.

Sonya was stooped over, focused on what was in front of her. As they approached, she stood up and rubbed her back. ‘Hey Ed, good to see you. I was beginning to forget what you look like.’ She gave him a toothy grin.

He instantly thought of horses, then felt bad. Her smile always had the same effect on him, and he always felt guilty about it. ‘Sonya, this is my partner, Dave. What’ve we got?’