Desert Demon (Foley & Rose Book 7)

by Gary Gregor

  Standing at close to 198 cm tall and weighing in at around 115 kg, Mathew ‘Moose’ McKenzie was an imposing man by any measure. The nickname well suited him. When Moose spoke, everyone listened. It was hard not to when the big, deep, booming-bass voice reverberated through the air. Moose’s father had given him the nickname when Moose was just a teenager and, now, all these decades later, there were some who had known him for years who still didn’t know his real name. His mother said he could easily have been an opera singer with his God-given deep, baritone voice. However, as well-meaning and caring as his mother was, the flaw in her preferred career choice for her son was that Moose couldn’t sing a note without clearing a room.

  As far as his colleagues in the Northern Territory Police Force were concerned, if there was trouble on the streets, Moose was the cop you wanted on your team. Moose would, and could, stand toe-to-toe with the worst of the troublemakers and never take a backward step.

  Moose believed diplomacy was best administered with a closed fist rather than some fan- dangled, new-age counselling bullshit. There was no reasoning with an intoxicated fool in the middle of the street when bottles and cans launched by his equally inebriated mates were whizzing past your ears, Moose advocated. Although not openly encouraged by his superiors, Moose’s approach to street policing was reminiscent of the way things were done in the “good old days”. More importantly, it worked.

  Moose was the officer-in-charge of Kulgera Police Station, approximately 140 kilometres to the east of where he now stood, staring across at the Toyota Landcruiser sitting at a jaunty angle atop a large clump of tightly packed spinifex grass. He began walking cautiously towards the vehicle, stopped about ten metres short of it, and spent a few moments just looking at the sight before him.

  The engine of the Landcruiser was still running, the rear passenger-side door was open, and the front passenger-side window was down. He was close enough to see there were three people inside the vehicle, two in the front, and one in the back. None of the people appeared to be moving. All the blood he could see splattered about inside the vehicle might be a good reason for that, he mused.

  Steeling himself, he stepped closer to the vehicle, leaned forward and looked through the open door into the rear compartment. A young girl, in her early teens he guessed, lay slumped sideways against the rear driver’s-side window, her head resting against a blood-soaked pillow. Her mouth was open wide, like it was locked in a silent scream, and her dead eyes were also open, staring at the back of the driver’s seat. There was a neat, bloody hole, dead centre in the middle of her forehead and that, together with the large amount of blood that had run down her face and soaked into her shirt front, was a good indication to Moose that checking the girl for any signs of life would be a fruitless exercise.

  Dragging his eyes from the dead girl, he moved forward a little and looked through the open window into the front of the vehicle. These had to be the girl’s parents, he supposed. Both were irrefutably dead. There was more blood splattered throughout the front seat area than Moose had ever seen anywhere in the twenty-five years he had been a cop.

  “Fuck,” he murmured quietly. “This is not fuckin’ good!”

  He walked slowly around to the front of the vehicle, dropped to one knee and looked underneath at the large spinifex obstruction jammed soundly under the oil sump. Then, with a grimace and an audible grunt, he pushed himself to his feet, the arthritic twinge in his knee protesting painfully. He continued around the front of the vehicle until he reached the driver’s-side door, which he carefully opened, reached in and turned off the ignition. He stood back and, for a moment or two, looked at the bodies of Gordon Watson and his wife, and then again at the dead girl in the back seat. The loud ticking of the engine as it cooled was the only sound, incongruous against the silence of the surrounding desert.

  He waved at an incessant swarm of flies buzzing annoyingly around his face and looked beyond the dead girl in the back seat. The rear cargo compartment was packed high with luggage. Must have been going on holidays, he guessed. Or going home from holidays. Either way, it had to be the worst possible way to start, or end, a family vacation.

  Back on the road, standing next to the Kulgera station vehicle, Moose’s partner, Colin Palmer, the second man at the Kulgera “two-man” station, was talking to Laurie Anderson, the man who first happened upon the grisly scene.

  Moose McKenzie walked back across to the road and spoke to his partner.

  Constable First Class Palmer closed his official notebook and indicated the unfortunate driver who had unwittingly stumbled upon the crime scene. “Mister Anderson has given me a full statement. He is on his way to Finke and then on to Alice Springs. I have his contact details and he has agreed to make himself available should we need to speak with him further.”

  Moose looked at Anderson. “What do you do, Laurie? It is Laurie, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. I’m a diesel mechanic,” Anderson answered. “I do private work for members of the public who choose to live out here and use diesel-generated power for their establishments. I’m also contracted to the Northern Territory government to service the large generators in remote aboriginal settlements.”

  “Must keep you busy,” Moose said.

  “I have a large area to cover,” Anderson explained. “Seems I’m always on the road driving somewhere.”

  Moose nodded towards the Watson’s vehicle. “You know those people?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Anderson said. “I told your partner.” He glanced across at the Landcruiser. “Gordon Watson, his wife Margaret, and their daughter, Jacinta. They have the Mount Dare Hotel, ten kilometres across the border in South Australia.”

  “When was the last time you saw them?”

  “Early this morning,” Anderson answered. “I stayed there last night and serviced the pub generator early this morning. They left to travel to Adelaide for a three-week break. I was supposed to head south to Oodnadatta and then on to William Creek as part of my service run but the road is closed. When I finished the service on their generator, I headed back this way. I recognised their Landcruiser and wondered why it was parked that way. I guessed something was wrong and stopped to check it out. Bloody near had a heart attack when I saw it was the Watsons.”

  “You touch anything in the car?”

  “No, sir. I could see they were all dead and rang you straight away. I have a satellite phone in my van. I just waited here until you blokes arrived.”

  “Was there anyone else here when you got here?”

  “No, no one. I told your partner,” Anderson said again.

  “Was anyone else traveling with the Watsons?”

  “No, just the three of them.”

  “Any other motorists come along before we arrived?”

  “No, sir. Don’t get a lot of traffic out here in this country.”

  Moose turned to his partner. “You have all we need from Mr Anderson, Colin?’

  “Yeah, got it all,” Palmer affirmed. “I’ve given Laurie our phone number in case he thinks of something he might have forgotten.”

  “Okay.” Moose looked at Anderson. “Thanks for everything, Laurie.” He offered Anderson his hand. “We won’t keep you any longer. I’m sorry it was you who had to see this.”

  Anderson shook Moose’s hand. “If not me, it would have been someone else eventually. Better me than perhaps another family like the Watsons. Not a nice thing for a wife and young kids to see.”

  “Not nice for anyone to see, mate,” Moose agreed. “Thanks again, and we will be in touch if we need to speak to you further.”

  Anderson shook hands with Palmer and then got into his vehicle and drove away, taking one last look across at the Watsons’ Landcruiser as he left.

  Moose McKenzie watched Anderson drive away and then turned to his partner, Colin Palmer. “Okay, Colin, use the sat-phone, get onto headquarters and ask them to conduct a name-check on Mr Anderson, and to send some troops down here. We need a meat
-wagon to take the bodies to Alice Springs, we need a tow truck to carry the vehicle back to the police compound so Forensics can go over it, and we need a couple of the Major Crime chaps down here. Ask for Yap Yap Barker; he will know what we need. He’ll probably send Starsky and Hutch,” he added as an afterthought.

  “Starsky and Hutch?” Palmer asked curiously.

  “Yeah, Russell Foley and Sam Rose,” Moose explained. “Surely you’ve heard of them?”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of Foley and Rose. Who are Starsky and Hutch?”

  “Way before your time, mate,” Moose said with a wry smile. “Couple of fictional, hotshot detectives from a television show back in the 1970s. Foley and Rose picked up the nickname a few years ago. They have been involved in some of the biggest murder cases in the Territory. I went through the Recruit Training Centre with them both, back when we were all still wet behind the ears.”

  “Okay,” Palmer responded. “I’ll get on to Superintendent Barker.”

  “Good lad. When you’re done, join me over there at the vehicle. We need to see if we can find a motive for this thing.”

  Sergeant Sarah Collins, Officer in Charge of Yalara Police Station, stepped from the shower, lifted a towel from the rail and quickly dried herself. She wrapped the towel around her body and tucked it securely above her breasts, the bottom edge of the towel falling to a point high on her shapely thighs. Studying her image in the mirror above the vanity, she ran her fingers roughly through her damp, shoulder-length blonde hair before leaving the bathroom and crossing the short hallway to the bedroom directly opposite. She stopped just inside the room and looked at the man in the bed.

  Sam Rose, Detective Sergeant attached to Major Crime in Alice Springs in the heart of the Northern Territory, turned his head and watched Sarah enter the room. He ran his eyes up and down her towel-enclosed body and smiled. “Good morning,” he said throatily.

  “Hi,” Sarah smiled.

  “Who are you, and what are you doing in my room?” Sam asked.

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m a funny man,” Sam said. He allowed his eyes another slow, lingering journey over her body. “What’s that you’re wearing?”

  Sarah glanced down at the towel wrapped snugly around her. “It’s one of your towels. It’s a bit short. You need to buy longer ones.”

  “Looks good on you.” Sam lowered his eyes to the hem of the towel.

  Sarah smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Is it wet?”

  “Just a little damp. Why?”

  “I would hate you to catch a chill,” Sam explained.

  “It’s six o’clock in the morning and it’s already twenty-two degrees outside. I won’t catch a chill,” Sarah said. “But thank you for your concern.”

  “I’m nothing if not caring.”

  “Funny and caring? I’m a lucky girl.”

  “If you come over here, you might just get luckier,” Sam said with a wink.

  “I got lucky twice last night.”

  “One can never have too much luck,” Sam said.

  “I just had a shower,” Sarah said, only half seriously.

  “There’s plenty of water. You can have another shower.”

  “Don’t you have to go to work?”

  “Not at six o’clock in the morning,” Sam answered.

  Sarah untucked the towel and let if fall to the floor.

  “Whoo-oo,” Sam uttered softly. “You are so beautiful.”

  “Why thank you,” Sarah smiled demurely. “But you have seen it all before.”

  “I never get tired of looking at you.”

  Sarah padded across to the bed and knelt on the edge, staring down at Sam. “What happens now?”

  “You don’t remember what to do in a situation like this?”

  “Bits and pieces,” Sarah said with a shrug.

  Sam flicked away the light sheet covering his nakedness. “These bits and pieces?”

  “There it is!” Sarah exclaimed. “Now I remember!” She fell gently forward, maneuvered one naked leg between Sam’s thighs and kissed him.

  “And … you’re a good … kisser,” Sam mumbled softly between kisses. “Is there … no end to … your talents?”

  Sarah lifted her head and smiled. “You are a good motivator,” she murmured softly. She shifted her body and sat astride him. “Are you sure you don’t have to go to work?”

  “Not yet. You do know I love you, don’t you?”

  “Is that because I’m naked and sitting on top of you?” Sarah asked drolly.

  Sam laughed. “No, not just because you’re naked and sitting on top of me, but it certainly helps.”

  Sarah slapped him playfully. “Bastard! I love you too.” She lowered her head and kissed him again.

  Sam Rose was no stranger to the affections of beautiful women. History would show, however, that he was not a “one-woman” commitment sort of chap. Now in his mid-forties and never married, he was fortunate enough to have been blessed with what many of his colleagues, particularly his female colleagues, would say was good-looking genes. He was not what one might call “movie-star handsome” but he was, by anyone’s standards, a nice-looking man, and rather than deteriorate with the passage of time, as looks did with most people, Sam’s looks seemed get even better as he aged.

  The envy of his male counterparts in the Northern Territory Police Force, there was a running joke through the Force that Sam’s “little black book” held more names than a Chinese phone book.

  While it was true that Sam had enjoyed the company of many women, he had only been genuinely “in love” twice in his life. The first time was some years ago when he was working in what was then known as CIB—Criminal Investigation Branch—at Police Headquarters in Darwin, the capital city of the Northern Territory.

  Sam met Associate Professor, Ann Francis, a criminal psychologist at Darwin University, when he sought her assistance with a profile on a dangerous serial killer wreaking havoc amongst Darwin’s legal fraternity. When Ann was subsequently taken hostage by the killer and used as bait to lure Sam into a death trap, she knew that if she got out of the situation alive, she could not stay in Darwin. Thanks to Sam and his partner Russell Foley, she got out alive, accepted a job offer from an elite university in England and left Australia for good; it broke Sam Rose’s heart.

  The second time Sam fell in love was when he first laid eyes on the woman now lying beside him in his bed. Like Sam, Sarah was a cop; she was indisputably beautiful, she loved him, and she could care less about his skirt-chaser reputation. For Sam, Sarah ticked all the right boxes—it also didn’t hurt that she knew her way around a man’s bedroom better than any woman he had ever been with.

  Sam lay on his side, one arm draped casually across Sarah’s naked chest. “Wow,” he said softly. “That was nice.”

  Sarah smiled. “Are you suggesting all the other times were not nice?”

  “No, no,” Sam said hurriedly. “With you every time is nice—no, better than nice.”

  “Right answer, big boy,” Sarah laughed.

  Sam nuzzled her neck. “You want to go again?”

  “That would be four times since we came to bed last night,” Sarah said. “Must be some kind of record.”

  “I don’t see you very often. I have to go to work soon and you’re going back to Yulara. I don’t know when I will see you again. We need to make up for lost time.”

  “You’re already late for work.” Sarah turned on her side and kissed him. “But then …”

  On the bedside table, Sam’s mobile phone burst loudly into song with Queen’s “I Want to Break Free”.

  “Oh shit!” Sam cursed.

  “Stop kissing me and answer it,” Sarah murmured.

  Sam turned over and picked up the phone. The digital display indicated the caller was his partner, Russell Foley. He switched the phone to speaker. “Good morning, Russell,” Sam greeted.

  “You’re late. Where are you?” Foley asked.

  “I’m
home. In bed.”

  “In bed? What’s the matter, are you sick?”

  Sam sat up and smiled at Sarah. “I’ve got this strange lump in my groin,” he said to Foley.

  “You’ve got wh—oooh, I get it. Sarah’s in town, isn’t she? Hello Sarah!” he called loudly.

  “Hello Russell,” Sarah called back. “Lovely to hear your voice.”

  “You too, Sarah,” Foley said. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to do something for me.”

  “Anything for you, Russell, you know that. What is it?”

  “I want you to climb out from underneath my partner and kick him out the door. We have a job.”

  3

  The Kulgera/Finke Road ran west-to-east for 145 kilometres from Kulgera on the Stuart Highway to the tiny, remote aboriginal settlement of Finke, just seven kilometres from Lambert Centre, the recognised, expertly surveyed geographical centre of the Australian continent.

  Like many of the isolated Outback roads in the Northern Territory, the Kulgera/Finke Road consisted of seemingly endless kilometres of bone-shaking, back-jarring corrugations and deep potholes filled with bull-dust as fine as talcum powder that were virtually invisible until your wheels hit them.

  Occasionally, perhaps once or twice a year, the government would appoint someone to grade the road and smooth out the potholes and corrugations. However, over such a long distance, it took several days to complete the task and it was easy to wonder if perhaps they might have forgotten to grade it at all, or they simply couldn’t find a worker willing to take on the slow, monotonous, mind-numbingly boring task.

  “Are we there yet?” Sam Rose asked, his voice chattering in concert with the constant rumbling of the wheels over the severe corrugations.

  Russell Foley, wrestling with the jolting, bucking steering wheel, glanced quickly at his partner in the passenger seat. “If you ask me that one more time, you can get out and fuckin’ walk,” he snarled.

  “I think they should seal this road,” Sam stated.

  “Why?” Foley asked. “We’ve been traveling on it for almost two hours and haven’t seen another vehicle. The people responsible for roads in the Territory probably don’t think it warrants sealing.”