Crucifixion Creek Read online

  PRAISE FOR BARRY MAITLAND

  JOINT WINNER OF THE INAUGURAL NED KELLY AWARD FOR THE BEST AUSTRALIAN CRIME NOVEL OF 1995: The Malcontenta

  SHORTLISTED FOR THE CWA JOHN CREASEY AWARD FOR THE BEST FIRST CRIME NOVEL OF 1994: The Marx Sisters

  ‘Australia has arguably one of the top five crime writers in the world, and you may well never have heard of him. It’s Barry Maitland.’ Australian

  ‘A masterful writer of crime fiction who, like Michael Dibdin, has a remarkable ability to juxtapose genres and create a book that will appeal to fans of both hard-boiled and clue-puzzle fiction…Works sublimely on all levels.’ Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘Intelligent, intriguing and well thought-out.’ The Times

  ‘Clever, flavorsome…with a particularly deft knack of pulling the rug out from under you in between chapters, just when you think you’re safe.’ Kirkus Reviews

  ‘Cleverly devious, sagaciously cunning and ultimately reassuring. A pleasure to read.’ Los Angeles Times Book Review

  ‘A fine morsel…More, please, Mr Maitland.’ Washington Times

  ‘The Malcontenta is one of the best-crafted, best-plotted and most convincing British thrillers for decades.’ Daily Mirror, UK

  ‘Delightful…at once comic and creepy.’ Scotsman

  ‘An intricately plotted novel with some superbly portrayed characters…The Malcontenta is simply a very superior example of contemporary crime writing.’ Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘Maitland’s writing is suspenseful, gripping and frightening. His book is…a fine example of modern thriller writing. Highly recommended.’ Eastern Daily Press, UK

  ‘The reader is kept guessing all the way through The Chalon Heads, right up to the last page. Maitland’s plotting can be compared to the best of Colin Dexter and Michael Connelly.’

  Deadly Pleasures, US

  ‘An unguessable plot, flowing writing and solid characters—forget the stamps, start collecting Maitlands now.’ Morning Star, UK

  ‘Maitland writes astonishingly well, has a wonderful ear for dialogue and sense of place, a finely attuned sense of character development and a captivating and unsettling dark side to his fiction. The Chalon Heads…is right up there with the best contemporary crime fiction.’

  Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘Well-wrought, well-paced, original and elegant.’

  Australian Book Review

  ‘Brilliant…straight out of a top drawer that Chandler would be proud to open on deranged nights. Maitland can make the counterfeit of fiction feel real, his prose packed with the saturated detail that Henry James called “density of specification”.’

  Australian

  ‘A crafty and well-crafted showpiece of the genre.’ Los Angeles Times

  ‘In terms of contemporary crime fiction, Silvermeadow is about as good as it gets.’ Courier-Mail

  ‘Maitland is a skilled plotter who knows how to pace a novel and steadily build the suspense. It’s a terrific read.’ Sunday Times, UK

  ‘A clever plot and good characterisation make this an absorbing read with an exciting climax.’ Sunday Telegraph, UK

  ‘As a procedural, Silvermeadow is first-rate; as a crime thriller it is compelling; and as a reflection of contemporary life it is fascinating.’ Dallas Morning News

  ‘As perfect a whodunit as you could possibly wish for. Sublime.’

  Crime Time, UK

  ‘Maitland gets better and better, and Brock and Kolla are an impressive team who deserve to become household names.’

  Publishing News, UK

  ‘If you are a serious lover of crime fiction, ensure Maitland’s Brock and Kolla series takes pride of place in your collection.’

  Australian

  ‘Maitland has always been a notable spinner of mysteries, but his latest case continues to extend his range, depth, and mastery into Ruth Rendell territory.’ Kirkus Reviews

  ‘Maitland’s puzzle becomes more complex by the zigzag, but its rapids are a pleasure to navigate.’ Los Angeles Times Book Review

  ‘With a superb ear for dialogue, and characters that grow in strength and substance in each book, Maitland’s series is a firm favourite… This is a rich and compelling mystery that will hook new readers, while its subplot will keep established fans glued to the page.’

  Australian Bookseller & Publisher

  ‘Haunting, unnerving.’ Publishers Weekly, US

  ‘There’s a palpable undercurrent of menace in this immensely satisfying read. In a word, absorbing.’ Herald Sun

  ‘Satisfyingly rich fare…capped by a string of climactic fireworks that are still exploding in the very last paragraph.’ Kirkus Reviews

  ‘Chelsea Mansions is among the best entries in a top-notch series.’

  Richmond Times-Dispatch, US

  ‘Maitland shows his stuff as a writer, belting to a truly gripping conclusion… this is classy stuff and a pleasure to read.’ Age

  ‘A terrific thriller… Beautifully, leanly written: the characters and places drawn with skill.’ Weekend Herald, NZ

  ALSO BY BARRY MAITLAND

  The Brock and Kolla series:

  The Marx Sisters

  The Malcontenta

  All My Enemies

  The Chalon Heads

  Silvermeadow

  Babel

  The Verge Practice

  No Trace

  Spider Trap

  Dark Mirror

  Chelsea Mansions

  The Raven’s Eye

  Bright Air

  Barry Maitland was born in Scotland, studied architecture at Cambridge University and went on to work as an architect and urban design expert. In 1984 he moved to Australia to head the architecture school at the University of Newcastle in New South Wales. In 1994 The Marx Sisters, the first in his London-based Brock and Kolla crime series, was published. Barry is now published throughout the English-speaking world and in translation in a number of other countries, including Germany, Italy, France and Japan. He lives in the Hunter Valley.

  Crucifixion Creek is the first instalment of the Belltree Trilogy, the first of Barry’s series to be set in Australia.

  textpublishing.com.au

  The Text Publishing Company

  Swann House

  22 William Street

  Melbourne Victoria 3000

  Australia

  Copyright © 2014 by Barry Maitland

  The moral right of Barry Maitland to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), witho
ut the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  First published in 2014 by The Text Publishing Company

  Cover design by W. H. Chong

  Page design by Imogen Stubbs

  Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro 12/16.5 by J & M Typesetting

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Author: Maitland, Barry.

  Title: Crucifixion Creek : the belltree trilogy / by Barry Maitland.

  ISBN: 9781922182456 (paperback)

  ISBN: 9781925095401 (ebook)

  Subjects: Detective and mystery stories, Australian.

  Dewey Number: A823.3

  This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.

  For Margaret

  CONTENTS

  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

  AFTERWORD

  1

  In south-western Sydney, on a chilly winter’s night, a siege is in progress. The street is very ordinary—suburban, brick veneer and tiled roofs—and the only thing a stranger might notice is the number of houses that have steel roller-shutters on their windows. They’re all closed now.

  Two neighbours have reported a man’s shouts, a woman’s screams and a burst of gunfire. Now everyone is here—ambulance and fire brigade, local area command uniforms and detectives, scene of crime, and Harry Belltree and Deb Velasco from homicide. And the Tactical Operations Unit, the black ninjas, who have parked their big black American armoured Lenco truck, bristling with menace, in the driveway of the house. This has surely given the occupants something to think about.

  Nothing is known about the man apart from a neighbour’s hazy description of the female resident’s new boyfriend: bulky, pony-tailed, bearded, tattooed. The TOU negotiators got a single grunt from him before he disabled the house phone, and now they are using the loudhailer, trying to ‘engage’ him. The house backs on to rough ground in the area known locally as Crucifixion Creek, and there are marksmen out there and in the gardens on either side.

  ‘This could go on for ever,’ Deb mutters. When Harry doesn’t reply she starts the engine again to warm them up. Outside two uniforms are crouched behind their patrol car, blowing into their hands with misty breath. Deb takes a sip from her takeaway cup. ‘And why do we need to be here? Nobody’s dead, far as we know.’

  She wants conversation and Harry rouses himself, picking up his own cup. She is five years older than him and more experienced. This is the first time they’ve been sent out together.

  ‘Not yet, but when it happens we’ll be right here.’

  ‘Does this remind you of Afghanistan?’

  ‘In a way.’ He doesn’t really want to respond but knows he should. Sharing confidences is an important part of team-building, apparently. ‘Sydney is very like Afghanistan, only here the Taliban wear Armani.’

  She gives a croaky laugh and lights up again. The whole car stinks of it. ‘Not in this neighbourhood.’

  ‘No.’

  Another long pause, sipping as the coffee cools. ‘They say you died over there.’

  Oh dear. He likes Deb, what he’s heard of her—fierce, thorough. But she wants to talk. And smoke. He thinks of Carmen in the tobacco factory and tries to picture Deb dancing flamenco.

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘Oh, you know, some of the blokes were talking. Is it true?’

  He nods.

  ‘Seriously? How long?’

  ‘Eighteen minutes.’

  ‘Shit. Didn’t that—?’ She stops.

  ‘Leave me brain-damaged?’ He smiles and she ducks her head, embarrassed. ‘No, I was like this before. We had much better A&E than you get around here.’

  ‘Did you…see stuff, like they say?’

  ‘You mean a bright light? Someone dressed in white beckoning at the end of a tunnel? No, nothing like that. Nothing at all. Maybe I was going,’ he grins at her, ‘elsewhere.’

  At that moment a bright light from the TOU truck blazes on the front door which is opening slowly. A woman stands there looking blinded and disoriented, clutching a bundle to her chest, perhaps a baby. One of the men in black calls to her, urging her to walk forward. She puts a hand to her eyes against the glare and begins to move, painfully slowly, towards the light. After she has taken four or five steps there is a sharp noise, muffled inside the car, like the branch of a tree cracking, and the woman falls. Then several more shots, and they get a glimpse of a figure in the doorway toppling backwards into the house. ‘Fuck.’ Deb grinding her cigarette out. Black figures are running forward.

  They get out of the car and wait. Watch the TOU secure the scene and call the ambos to the victims. Scene of crime join in, filming, and when the last black figure has cleared the house the white overalls move inside. The last one waves from the doorway and Harry and Deb move forward to look at the bodies.

  The woman, shot in the back, has fresh bruising all over her face and arms. The bundle she was carrying is a white woollen jacket. In the hallway, stretched out on the floor, lies her killer. They have an ID now. Stefan Ganis: known to police as an armed robber and dealer in methamphetamine. Deb opens his lips to expose the blackened and missing teeth of the meth user. She pulls back an eyelid and looks at the pupil. ‘High as a kite.’ She seems enthusiastic about poking about in the corpse and Harry turns away—not squeamish, God knows, just a feeling, close to superstition, that the dead are out of it and deserve to be left alone.

  The TOU men (they are all men) have put two bullets in him, and Harry is thinking ahead. Police shooting, a Critical Incident Investigation Team from another command brought in quickly. When that happens they’ll most likely all be cleared out and interviewed, and he’s impatient to have a look around the house before then. He begins to move off. Deb says, ‘What’s this?’

  She has rolled up the man’s sleeve to inspect his tattoos, and she points to a solid block of black cross-hatching on his left biceps. Harry squats down and makes out a pattern faintly visible beneath the hatching. ‘He’s inked over another tattoo.’

  ‘Old girlfriend’s name?’

  ‘No, an emblem of some kind, probably a bikie logo. Looks
like he got kicked out of one of the gangs. You don’t get to keep the colours. Come on.’

  They begin to work quickly through the rooms, all of them in chaos as if the place has been trashed. Almost all of the stuff tossed around seems to be hers, except for one small corner with T-shirts and a pair of heavy biker boots. Above them, he has haphazardly taped a spread of photographs to the wall, a little shrine above the Harley boots. There are several pictures of him with some hairy, beefy blokes, all grinning at the lens; a faded old snap of a middle-aged woman, arms folded, perhaps his mother; a photo of a white tow truck.

  Harry studies the pictures carefully, making his own record of them with his phone. He can just make out the name painted in vivid letters on the truck door—13 Auto Smash. He peels the photo off the wall and slips it into an evidence bag.

  Deb looks over his shoulder. ‘What’s that?’

  Reluctantly he offers her the plastic pouch and she examines the photo inside. ‘Important?’

  He shrugs.

  She peers more closely. ‘Why 13?’

  ‘The thirteenth letter of the alphabet is M. Short for meth.’

  ‘Really? The tow truck from hell. Just the sort of thing you’d want in an emergency. Can’t see the rego.’

  ‘I’ll see if the techs can bring it up.’

  She starts to ask him why, but he turns and moves on to the mess in the kitchen.

  Crime scene will have bagged and removed any drugs, cash and weaponry, and taken 3D laser scans of all the rooms, which will have recorded every dent and scratch and bloodstain. The two of them sift through the debris anyway, without result.

  It is after 5:00 a.m. when they are told to leave by the Critical Incident Team. Outside they see the TV cameras and reporters at the barriers, waiting for the local area commander to give a media briefing.

  Harry’s phone rings: Superintendent Marshall. Bob the Job. He pictures the old man in his pyjamas, pacing around his living room with his phone at his ear, grey hair awry, his big frame looming over the tiny porcelain ornaments his wife liked to collect. ‘Sir?’