Ash Island Read online

  PRAISE FOR BARRY MAITLAND

  JOINT WINNER OF THE 1996 NED KELLY AWARD: The Malcontenta

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

  THE BELLTREE TRILOGY I : Crucifixion Creek

  SHORTLISTED FOR THE 2015 NED KELLY AWARD

  ‘There’s something about Maitland’s new work that is reminiscent of Simenon’s famed ruman durs, or “hard novels”: the simple declarative style, so spare and direct, that manages to pack so much into so few paragraphs…A hard-boiled plummet into damaged lives.’ Australian

  ‘Pacy and punchy.’

  Sunday Age

  ‘An unqualified triumph and Aussie hardboiled crime fiction at its very best.’ West Australian

  ‘A terrifically exciting novel.’

  Canberra Times

  ‘Maitland just gets better, and he’s long been, if quietly, one of the very best...the writing is lean and topnotch as always.’

  Weekend Herald

  ‘Top-quality mystery.’

  Manly Daily

  ‘Takes off at a frantic gallop towards a heart-thumping finale that promises only a brief respite. Be prepared to stay up late.’

  Age

  ‘An adrenaline-filled ride through Sydney’s seedy underbelly.’

  AustCrimeFiction.org

  BARRY MAITLAND’S OTHER NOVELS

  ‘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 and 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 topnotch 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

  The Belltree Trilogy:

  I Crucifixion Creek

  Barry Maitland was born in Scotland and in 1984 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 Brock and Kolla crime series, was published. Barry is published throughout the English-speaking world and in translation. He lives in the Hunter Valley.

  The Text Publishing Company

  Swann House

  22 William Street

  Melbourne Victoria 3000

  Australia

  textpublishing.com.au

  Copyright © 2015 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, photocopy
ing, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  First published in 2015 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

  Printed in Australia by Griffin Press

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Creator: Maitland, Barry, author.

  Title: Ash island / by Barry Maitland.

  ISBN: 9781925240368 (paperback)

  9781922253170 (ebook)

  Series: Maitland, Barry. Belltree trilogy ; bk. 2.

  Subjects: Detective and mystery stories, Australian.

  Murder—Investigation—New South Wales—Newcastle—Fiction.

  Newcastle (N.S.W.)—Fiction.

  Dewey Number: A823.3

  For Margaret

  CONTENTS

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  1

  On a November night in 2013, two kilometres off the coast of New South Wales, a helicopter rises from the deck of a Chinese bulk carrier ship. It has just delivered a pilot to guide the 260-metre leviathan into the port of Newcastle, where it will take on 150,000 tonnes of coal.

  The helicopter pilot banks away towards the coast, his last flight for the night, and checks the time. 2:16 a.m. Ahead of him he can see the white figure of the lighthouse on Nobbys Head marking the mouth of the Hunter River and the entrance to the port. To the left are the lights of the city—the city of people, mostly asleep now—while to the right lies the floodlit city of machines that never sleep. Gantries, towers, crawling scoops and humming conveyor belts, all of gigantic size, gathering up the long ridges of coal that the trains have brought down from the valley and pumping it into the bellies of the ships.

  Beyond the machines and their coal mountains the pilot can see a curious blank darkness in the general pattern of lights. It is Ash Island, an uninhabited place of salt-water marshland lying between the two arms of the river that converge in the port basin. As he turns towards his landing ground, the pilot notices one single bright point of light in Ash Island’s darkness. Puzzled, he turns back towards it. There is a three-quarter moon in the cloudless sky and as he gets closer he can make out the paler forms of pools and lakes reflecting its light—Wader Pond and Swan Pond and the meandering line of Fish Fry Creek. And there, in the crook of the stream, he sees again that unlikely spot of light. As he approaches it is abruptly extinguished. He blinks, staring into the darkness, and as he passes over the place thinks he can make out the pale rectangles of two vehicles, down by the edge of the creek.

  2

  Kelly Pool stares down into the darkness to the glow of white wave caps breaking against the base of the cliff below her. She shivers in the cool wind of Sydney’s late spring. The boom of the surf rises up to her like the rhythmic chant of some primeval chorus, the chorus of the dead.

  She really has had enough. For a while she thought she was coping pretty well, brushing off the sympathy of colleagues when she returned to work at the Times; telling them that no, everything was fine. She wondered what version they’d been given. When she asked the trainee journalist under her, Hannah told her Catherine Meiklejohn had spoken to each of them. Kelly had been savagely attacked, she’d said without going into detail, while fearlessly doing her job. She was an example to them all of what an investigative journalist should be. But that wasn’t how Kelly felt, and as the weeks and months passed her energy and will began to leak away.

  The nights were her undoing. Joost Potgeiter had been killed—she’d seen it herself—but each night he visited her again in her dreams. Shredding her sleep, convulsing her in sweaty horror, her own voice screaming NO-NO-NO-NO as she struggled back to consciousness.

  And so the days deteriorated too. She found it hard to concentrate, avoided leaving the office. She sat hunched at her desk staring at her computer screen, lost for ideas.

  It didn’t help that her flatmate, Wendy, was in much the same state. Wendy walked with a stick now, and they were both seeing therapists, but so far that didn’t seem to have helped. They spent their evenings and much of their nights together locked in their apartment, and drank too much.

  And now Kelly really has had enough. Sleep, release, oblivion. Just one step away.

  She thinks of Donna Fenning, the pleasant, housewifely woman who drugged her and delivered her into Potgeiter’s hands. Donna has vanished, seemingly without a trace; the police seem to doubt that she ever existed. And she thinks of Harry Belltree, who has also disappeared. She visited him regularly in hospital while he recovered from his wounds. Then one day he was gone, no one could tell her where.

  Just one step.

  She takes a deep breath, lifts up her chin. Raises her foot.

  As she feels her weight tip she hears a male voice behind her roar, ‘NO!’ and her body is checked by a tremendous jerk on her arm which brings her stumbling backwards onto her rump.

  Harry! she thinks. Harry!

  But she looks up into an unfamiliar face. He looks furious, his saliva sprays as he shouts at her, ‘What are you fucking doing? Don’t be so bloody stupid!’

  He is very agitated, shaking his head and waving his arms. She sees a dog lead in his hand and a small terrier dancing around behind him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, and subsides onto the damp grass. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘For goodness sake!’ He takes hold of her arm again and lifts and drags her away from the edge. ‘That’s so stupid! So bloody stupid!’

  ‘Yes,’ she gasps. ‘Yes, it is,’ and begins to laugh and cry.

  3

  As Harry takes the wheel, Detective Sergeant Ross Bramley pulls on his seatbelt beside him with an impatient grunt. Ross is an old hand, nearing retirement, pugnacious features crowned by grizzled wiry hair. He has been Harry’s dour partner since he arrived. Instructed, Harry’s pretty sure, to keep a close eye on him, show him how things are done up here. Maybe find out what exactly happened in Sydney.

  Two months ago, after the third round of operations—when the doctors finally conceded that he was fit to go—Harry was visited one last time by his boss.

  Detective Superintendent Bob Marshall, head of Homicide, got quickly to the point. ‘So, what are we going to do with you, Harry?’

  Harry wondered about Bob, always had. Bluff Bob, Bob the Job
, projecting an image of confidence, impatience with bullshit and care for his troops. But there was a private dimension to Bob that Harry hadn’t been able to pin down. He’d seen him reading novels. Bleak House once. Maybe it was Dickens’ harsh view of lawyers that appealed to him.

  ‘What are the options, boss?’

  ‘Retire on full pension in exchange for a legally binding agreement to keep quiet about what happened three months ago. Then take Jenny away somewhere to have her baby—Tasmania, say—and start again. Make a new life together. Put the past behind you.’

  Harry thought about that. ‘Is there an option two?’

  Marshall sighed. ‘Son, if you were dead set on staying on the force, they wouldn’t kick you out. But you couldn’t stay here, not in Sydney. Wouldn’t square with them at all. Have to be one of the bush commands. The best we could do is Newcastle.’

  This suggestion of impersonal forces at work, of ‘they’ and ‘them’, didn’t altogether convince Harry. If anyone had been embarrassed by what happened it was Marshall himself. He wants rid of me, Harry thought, and who could blame him?

  So now Harry is with Detective Sergeant Bramley in Newcastle. It could have been worse—here they’re only two and a half hours by car or train from Jenny’s family in the city. After Homicide the work here has been very ordinary—teenage bandits, drugs, domestic violence. Lots of domestic violence. It’s their campaign of the month, and it’s where he and Bramley are going now.

  They drive uphill, away from the coast, through suburbs of brick and weatherboard bungalows, the gardens growing larger, the verandas and trees more expansive in the headlights. The address comes up, an ambulance and a patrol car outside, neighbours peering over the picket fence opposite.

  Inside the house two ambulance officers, a young female uniformed cop and the victim’s mother are gathered around the injured woman. Her face is puffy, eyes swollen shut. The other uniform is trying to calm the father, who is angrily demanding that they arrest his bastard son-in-law.

  This is the fourth time that the parents know about; each time she’s gone back. The police haven’t been involved before. It seems she was picked up by a passing cab as she staggered along Industrial Drive, and brought here to her parents’ place.

  While Ross notes the details from the father, Harry gets a rundown from the ambos—suspected broken ribs, nose and cheekbone, multiple abrasions and blunt-force trauma. As they ease her onto the stretcher Harry notices the extensive tattooing.