Fifty Fifty (Detective Harriet Blue #2)(9)

Whitt had been exhilarated. Was this the Georges River Killer, trying to nab another victim only hours after Sam had been arrested? If it was, then surely Sam would go free! The nightmare for his friend and her brother would be over. All they had to do was find Caitlyn McBeal.

Then problems started to emerge with Linny and her tale. Linny admitted she’d fainted after reaching the bottom of the stairs of the car park, terrified by her ordeal. She’d hit her head and suffered a concussion. Details of her ordeal were inconsistent across her interviews with police. Her abductor had tried to get her into a white van. No, a green van. He’d been tall. Maybe not so tall. There had been another girl in the car park. Caitlyn and one other. Two others, maybe.

Then Linny’s history was exposed. Her teenage drug use. A stalking report against an ex-boyfriend that had been entered and then withdrawn. The police were still searching for Caitlyn McBeal, and were heartened by reported sightings of her in Queensland. Maybe she’d just run off. That was the solution in most Missing Persons cases. The stress and struggle of daily life simply got too much. They dropped their belongings and fled, started again somewhere new. Whitt had seen it plenty of times during his career. He’d seen mothers lock the front door on their children and simply wander off, turning up years later with a new name, a new job, halfway across the country. Caitlyn was young and alone on the opposite side of the planet from her life back home. She had no serious commitments. Disappearing, even just for a while, would be easy.

Whatever had happened to Caitlyn, Linny Simpson’s explanation for it wasn’t anyone’s favourite lead, because she was inconsistent. Confused.

But if she was right, even somewhere close to the truth, it meant two things that no one on the Georges River case wanted to admit.

That Sam Blue was innocent.

And that the killer was still out there.





Chapter 15


I STOOD BY the side of the road, watching the sun rising on the distant edge of the crater, a depthless black in silhouette against warm pink. The temperature was coming up fast. Soon the town below me would be swirling with gossip about the explosion in the early hours. Already, local farmers who had heard the bang and become curious had started to line the roadside, eyeing me cautiously as they met with Snale to get the lowdown.

The town’s only police officer was barely keeping it together. Snale’s chief, a man in his sixties named Theo ‘Soupy’ Campbell, owned the bloodied, dirt-clodded head she had found about ten metres from the centre of the blast zone. I assumed he’d owned the arm we’d seen hanging from the tree, and the various other bits and pieces of human that had been strewn about the bush. We hadn’t done too much more wandering around in the crime scene. It was best to leave it for Forensics, who would soon be boarding a helicopter back in Sydney. The entire police force from the nearest town, Milparinka, were on their way to help us secure the scene and the dead police chief’s truck, which we’d found parked in the bush on the opposite side of the road to the blast. Milparinka’s force comprised two officers, bringing our total to five. I felt drastically out of my depth. I was used to securing crime scenes with the help of dozens of people, patrollies covering doorways with tape, chiefs standing about looking important before the cameras, Forensics experts donning their gear.

I went to Snale’s truck and sat in the front passenger seat with the door open, brought out the photocopy of the diary and began reading through it again. I didn’t want to leap to any conclusions about the connection of the bomb to the book. Yes, what had happened to Chief Campbell looked like murder. The duct tape on the wrist was a sure sign, even if one accepted the highly improbable idea that he’d chosen to commit suicide by bomb when he likely had a perfectly good gun in his possession. I needed to find something in the diary that connected the idea and the crime.

The first pages were all about guns. I spread a page over my knee and looked at the photocopied pictures of two handsome teenage boys.

The page was a study of the Columbine killers, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, who’d gone on a shooting spree at their local high school in Colorado, killing twelve students and a teacher and injuring twenty-four others. I knew the story, had read a couple of true crime books about it. The diarist had made a list, beside a doodled sketch of the wolfish Harris, entitled ‘Successes’.

Kept the circle of conspirators small.

Surveillance of victims for maximum impact.

Covert weapons purchases.



What was this? A list of the things the Columbine killers had done right in their evil plan? Was the diarist comparing and contrasting the massacre plans of high-profile shooters to come up with the perfect kill plot? I flipped the page. More about the Columbine killers’ work, excerpts from the boys’ diaries and maps of their school. There were five pages dedicated to the Columbine shooting in the diary. A sickly feeling was creeping up from the pit of my stomach. I ran my fingers over a note at the bottom of the last page on Columbine.

Thirteen victims, it read. I can beat that!





Chapter 16


ELLIOT KASH HAD come to the open door of the car and leaned on the window, folding his thick arms on the sill. I reached for a cigarette. I figured I was going to need one.

‘I’ve had a chat with Victoria about our operations, but I really want to sit down with you before this thing kicks into high gear so you can download my concerns,’ he said. ‘The priority right now needs to be security. I want maximum operational confidentiality throughout this case. We need to keep covert information tight. This is a small town, and we know there’s a lone wolf or, possibly, a terrorist sleeper cell hidden within it. We cannot afford unplanned leaks right now.’