foley-and-rose-gritty-crime-fiction-series-set-in-australia

Gritty Crime Fiction Book Series Set In Australia

Foley & Rose Series by Gary Gregor

Series Excerpt

Sam emerged slowly from the murky depths of a whiskey-induced coma. Behind his eyes, a dull pounding threatened to cleave open his skull, and an incessant ringing in his ears promised never to stop. He determined eventually, that the noise came from the telephone beside his bed. With difficulty, he disentangled himself from the bedding and reached blindly for the handpiece.

“Hello,” he groaned.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to you, Sam lad. Top o’ the mornin’,” Paddy O’Reily greeted with a cheerfulness that depressed him.

Sam grabbed his pillow and pulled it over his face to keep the piercing light from penetrating his eyes and searing his brain.

“Jesus Paddy, what time is it?”

“It’s time to go to work lad, time to go to work.” Paddy’s voice echoed painfully inside Sam’s head bouncing from the right hemisphere to the left, and back again.

“I’m on my way over,” Paddy continued. “Get your tired arse out of the fart sack. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Sam heard the line disconnect, and stared at the handpiece for a moment as his brain scrambled to focus. After two awkward, fumbling attempts to replace the handset, he managed, with consummate ease, to upset the whole works. The telephone crashed to the floor and the pounding in his head intensified. His mouth felt like he had eaten a kilo of cotton wool, and there was an after taste on his tongue that defied description.

His confusion rapidly turned to discontent. How could Paddy be so bright and cheerful after all the alcohol they consumed last night? It was unfair. It was two o’clock in the morning when he left the Irishman still throwing back whiskey like it was water, although he suspected many years had passed since Paddy had drank anything remotely resembling water. Somehow, he managed to fall into a cab and get himself home. At that hour of the morning, after consuming what seemed like half a dozen litres of Irish Heather whiskey, Sam was as drunk as ten men. He couldn’t believe where the tiny newsman put it all. Paddy was half his size and probably twenty years older. It simply wasn’t right that Paddy should be this cheerful when he was a blithering, unintelligible idiot.

On a day-to-day basis, Sam Rose was not a big drinker. He enjoyed a couple of beers, or a good bottle of wine with friends on occasions, but he was far from a hardened drinker, which many believed was at odds with much of the Territory population. Darwin, by virtue of its geographical location in Australia’s tropical north, offered a lifestyle conducive to alcohol consumption in far greater quantities than any of its counterpart capital cities. Alfresco dining, barbeques, picnics, and outdoor socialising were a way of life accepted and embraced in the steamy, tropical heat that blanketed Australia’s most northern capital city virtually all year round.

Slowly, gingerly, he eased himself out from beneath the twisted bedding. He lowered one leg to the carpet, mindful not to step on the fallen telephone. His feet hurt, his scalp hurt, his teeth hurt. Shit, even his skin hurt. He gently reached down, retrieved the phone, and placed it back on the bedside table, glad to be rid of the infernal “beep…beep…beeping”. He sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, waiting for the dizziness to fade, then looked at the clock radio on the bedside table. Nine seventeen a.m.

“Oh God,” he moaned. “It’s the middle of the night.”

He had to move. Had to get his legs synchronized with his brain. Sitting on the edge of his bed, naked save for a bright red pair of boxer shorts covered in iridescent images of Mickey Mouse, he steeled himself for the inevitable. While he waited for the dizziness to subside, he silently vowed this would be the last time he would subject his body to the poison from which it now suffered.

He stood for a long time under the powerful spray of the shower. First with the water as hot as he could bare it, the steam seemingly clearing his foggy mind, and then just the cold water. The icy spray slowly dragged him into a moderate degree of sensibility. He repeated the process, and felt himself returning slowly from the depths of wherever it was he had been. He stepped from the shower, and reaffirmed his promise never again to partake of the evil drink.

Beginning to feel as though he might just survive, he smiled at the realisation that his perceived certain demise was not as imminent as he had feared fifteen minutes earlier. He was halfway through a tuneless and barely recognisable version of the Frank Sinatra classic “My Way,” when it dawned on him he recovered sufficiently to whistle. He smiled wider and marvelled at the human body’s ability to heal itself. Perhaps he had been a tad hasty swearing off the drink.

Coffee, hot, black, sweet, and lots of it was his next priority. He was lingering over his second cup when Paddy arrived. The journalist looked disgustingly healthy, and smelled of soap and Old Spice after-shave lotion.

Do they still sell that stuff? Sam wondered as the sickly aroma preceded Paddy into the room.

The diminutive reporter looked like he had never touched a drop of alcohol in his life. He bounced into Sam’s home, wearing the ever-present smile below the ever-present trilby perched cockily on his head, and followed Sam to the kitchen where he proceeded to help himself to a cup of coffee. He leaned casually against the kitchen counter and looked closely at Sam.

“Well, I’m surprised, Sam, to be honest,” he announced between sips of coffee.

“Surprised? Surprised at what?”

“I’m surprised someone who last night climbed onto the bar and delivered a painfully awful rendition of “My Way” followed immediately by the absolute massacre of “Danny Boy”, could look so… so, remarkably recovered this morning. And, may I remind you, “Danny Boy" is not an old Irish drinking song as you insisted it was last night.”

"Did I do that?”

“Yes you did, and who was it, I would love to know, who told you that you could sing?”

“Singing is just another form of self-expression,” Sam argued. “Some people paint portraits, some write books, or play piano… I sing.”

“Sam lad, as your friend, I know you won’t be hurt when I suggest it would be in your best interest to try one of them other things you just mentioned when next you feel inclined to express yourself. On second thought, maybe not the piano.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Sam said, ignoring the advice.

“And I thought it was the toast burning,” Paddy joked.

“No, seriously,” Sam continued. “I’ve been thinking about the murders, and the money.”

Paddy shrugged. “There's nothing to think about. You just do it. You’re an investigator. People hire you to investigate, so, investigate.”

“I’m gonna give the money back.”

“Give it back? What do you mean, give it back? Is business that good that you can turn down a five grand hand out?”

“That’s the whole point; it’s not a handout. In return for the money, I have to track down a serial killer. If the police with all their resources can’t get him, how the hell am I supposed to?”

“You did it for years, Sam. I don’t understand the problem.”

“It’s like I said,” Sam explained. “I don’t have the same resources, or the manpower. I don’t have access to the results of the investigation so far. Besides, Russell Foley is in charge of the case, and you know we don’t exactly see eye-to-eye. Perhaps Hackett’s judgement has been clouded by his perceptions of my past reputation.”

Paddy poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. “You seem to have forgotten, lad. Hackett offered the job and the money to you. It’s not as if you approached him and offered him the opportunity to retain your services. He and the other legal eagles believe in your ability, and for what it’s worth, so do I.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Sam smiled. “I’m just not sure it’s a faith I can vindicate.”

“You will, you will,” Paddy encouraged. “And now that I have eased your feelings of inadequacy, where do we start?”

“Okay,” Sam resigned. “We start with the victims. You’ve been writing about the murders from the beginning, tell me what you know about how they died.”

“I can’t tell you any more than you have already read in the papers. There is a ‘no comment’ order in effect down at the station, and no one’s talking.”

“What about suspects?” Sam asked hopefully. “You’re around headquarters every day. Any whispers?”

“As far as I’ve been able to determine, there is no one person in particular they are focusing on.” Paddy lit a cigarette, and the two men sat in silence for a few moments. As it was in his office, Sam considered his home a non-smoking environment also, but what the hell, this was Paddy O’Reily, and Paddy O’Reily usually did whatever he pleased.

“What the bloody hell are they doing?” Sam asked absently. “It’s been six weeks. They must have something by now.”

“If they have, they’re not telling anyone,” Paddy responded. “If you want my opinion, I think they have nothing and are too embarrassed to say so.”

“I hate to admit it Paddy, but you’re probably right.”

Paddy blew twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. “So, where do we start?”

Sam pushed an empty saucer towards Paddy. Despite his good intentions, Paddy's cigarette ash missed the saucer and fell on the table.

“We split up,” Sam answered. “Who do you know at the morgue?”

“I’ve got a good contact there,” Paddy confirmed. “I’ve had him for years. But I tried that approach when the information from the police dried up.”

“No luck?”

“No. The autopsies were conducted under strict security on Foley’s orders. I believe the chief pathologist himself conducted them, and his reports are strictly confidential, off limits to everyone not immediately involved in the investigation, even to his staff.”

“I can understand the reports not being made public,” Sam said. “That’s standard procedure in any murder investigation, but autopsy reports have been leaked to the press before.”

“Not this time, Sam lad.” Paddy stubbed out his cigarette. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to go back there,” Sam instructed. “Speak to your source again. Someone knows something.” He counted out five one hundred dollar notes from the envelope that lay on the table and handed them to Paddy. “Here, buy the information if you have to. Remind me to bill this to Hackett under expenses,” he added as an afterthought.

Paddy stuffed the money into his pocket. “What about you? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to see what I can find out about the sick bastard responsible for these murders,” Sam answered.

“Where?”

“There’s a very lovely lady I’ve looked forward to meeting for a while,” Sam winked. “I’m sure she can help me.”

Paddy’s curiosity was immediately aroused. “I’m a journalist. I thirst for knowledge. Anyone I know?”

“Ann Curtis,” Sam smiled.

“The forensic psychologist?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well,” Paddy said, “she is lovely, to be sure.”

“Yes, she is,” Sam agreed.

“How come you get to visit with a pretty lady, and I get to go to the morgue?” Paddy asked.

“Because I’m the boss.”