The Long Game

by Simon Rowell

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  A summer of relentless heat. A local surfer named Ray Carlson is found dead in a house not far from Portsea back beach. There’s a kitchen knife deep in his chest, and blood everywhere.

  Detective Sergeant Zoe Mayer is scarcely back from extended leave, and still wrestling with her demons, but she is assigned the case—alongside her new service dog, Harry, whose instincts help her in unexpected ways.

  There’s an obvious suspect for the murder, and Zoe makes an arrest. But it’s all too neat, and none of Zoe’s colleagues believes her theory that the whole thing is a stitch-up.

  Except now someone is trying to hunt Zoe down.

  Superbly plotted, and vividly set in the beachside suburbs and hilly retreats around Melbourne, The Long Game is a mystery about a tough and clever investigator who won’t give up.

  CONTENTS

  COVER PAGE

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  1.20 PM, SUNDAY 2 FEBRUARY

  1.30 PM, SUNDAY 2 FEBRUARY

  3.30 PM, SUNDAY 2 FEBRUARY

  8 PM, SUNDAY 2 FEBRUARY

  7.55 AM, MONDAY 3 FEBRUARY

  9.45 AM, MONDAY 3 FEBRUARY

  12.30 PM, MONDAY 3 FEBRUARY

  6.30 PM, MONDAY 3 FEBRUARY

  3.45 PM, TUESDAY, 4 FEBRUARY

  4 PM, TUESDAY 4 FEBRUARY

  9.30 PM, TUESDAY 4 FEBRUARY

  6.30 AM, WEDNESDAY 5 FEBRUARY

  3 PM, WEDNESDAY 5 FEBRUARY

  10 AM, THURSDAY 6 FEBRUARY

  6.30 PM, THURSDAY 6 FEBRUARY

  9.15 AM, FRIDAY 7 FEBRUARY

  1.30 PM, FRIDAY 7 FEBRUARY

  3 PM, FRIDAY 7 FEBRUARY

  6.30 AM, SATURDAY 8 FEBRUARY

  6 AM, SUNDAY 9 FEBRUARY

  6.25 AM, MONDAY 10 FEBRUARY

  8.25 AM, MONDAY 10 FEBRUARY

  7.45 AM, TUESDAY 11 FEBRUARY

  4.45 PM, TUESDAY 11 FEBRUARY

  8.45 PM, TUESDAY 11 FEBRUARY

  8.30 AM, WEDNESDAY 12 FEBRUARY

  10.30 AM, WEDNESDAY 12 FEBRUARY

  3.30 PM, WEDNESDAY 12 FEBRUARY

  8.45 AM, THURSDAY 13 FEBRUARY

  8.30 AM, FRIDAY 14 FEBRUARY

  11.15 AM, FRIDAY 14 FEBRUARY

  2.45 PM, FRIDAY 14 FEBRUARY

  7.30 AM, SATURDAY 15 FEBRUARY

  4 PM, SATURDAY 15 FEBRUARY

  10 AM, SUNDAY 16 FEBRUARY

  6 AM, MONDAY 17 FEBRUARY

  7.35 AM, MONDAY 17 FEBRUARY

  9 AM, MONDAY 17 FEBRUARY

  9.45 AM, MONDAY 17 FEBRUARY

  11.30 AM, MONDAY 17 FEBRUARY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  For Karen, my first reader,

  whose love and support means everything.

  Nobody falls halfway.

  Colum McCann, Let the Great World Spin

  PROLOGUE

  He sat in his car, high above the Portsea back beach, near the very tip of the Mornington Peninsula, watching the waves rolling in off Bass Strait, a single bead of sweat on his temple. His was the only car at this end of the car park. Behind him were scrubby dunes, and before him was an endless stretch of ocean. The summer sun, now high in the sky, blanched the scene like a faded polaroid. He held the large knife loosely, bouncing it gently in his right hand, happy with its weight. He turned it to and fro, glinting the sun’s rays off its silver edge. Twelve inches long, the knife had a series of black dots on its handle, making it easy to grip.

  When he’d been a young boy, his mother would take him to the bayside beaches a few kilometres north, across the peninsula, where the water was calm enough for him to paddle about. He could only remember his father taking him to the beach a couple of times, and it was always here, on the wilder ocean side, amid the saltbush and wallaby grass that clung tightly to the dunes.

  ‘Tasmania is out there. Can you see it?’ his father had asked, pointing.

  He’d squinted and lied that he could.

  He shook his head at the memory. Despite himself, he looked up at the horizon and stared again.

  Out beyond the break, teenagers sat on surfboards, laughing and calling to one another. He’d been parked for ten minutes, watching them ignore one perfect wave after another. He knew what they were thinking: that there were plenty of waves, and there always would be. He remembered thinking the same thing. That everything lasts forever.

  As a wave broke to his left, he traced his knife through the air, following the slice of white water across the deep blue.

  Through the open window, he caught the tart scent of green apple. He turned sharply, staring for a long moment, an impossible expectation filling his mind. Then the perfume was gone, leaving a memory in its place.

  It was time.

  He returned the knife to his backpack on the passenger seat, and stepped out of the car. He walked around it, checking that the number plates were screwed on tight. Then he took a few steps towards the sea and breathed in as he watched another wave forming. When it started to break, he exhaled until the wave petered out near the turquoise water close to shore. He did this several times. It calmed him. He was in control. He had no other choice.

  Shutting his eyes, he sucked in one last deep breath. He got back behind the wheel and eased out of the car park, pulling his baseball cap down low. He kept under the speed limit, as the road curved through dunes, passing a row of drooping sheoaks and clumps of green tussock grass. After a minute, he turned left into Latham Drive. As he’d expected, the street was empty. It was too hot for gardening and everyone would have walked their dogs earlier. People would either be inside staying cool, out back by their pools, or at the beach.

  He took his foot off the accelerator and let the car glide the last thirty metres into the empty driveway.

  After checking the rear-view mirror, he grabbed the backpack, opened the door silently and stepped out. Using the door as cover, he slipped the knife into the back pocket of his jeans, before letting his shirt fall back over the handle.

  He felt good. He could hear the orchestra’s drums thumping, racing towards a crescendo. Soon, it would be over.

  1.20 PM, SUNDAY 2 FEBRUARY

  The familiar metallic smell enveloped Zoe as she reached the end of the hallway. Under her old dark work suit she was wearing a new white shirt, not yet washed enough to feel comfortable against her skin. Her black Doc Martens, polished soft over many years, were encased in powder blue plastic booties. She adjusted her forensic mask and from the doorway looked down at the man slumped against the far wall. Zoe thought he looked about forty, fit with sun-bleached blond hair and a deep tan. His pale blue eyes stared back at her in surprise. His mouth was open and his arms were spread out, as if he were still pleading for life.

  Zoe could see the blade of a large knife, an intricate pattern of dots etched into its silver handle, disappearing into a short-sleeved shirt, once white, now stained a rich burgundy.

  On the wall above the body a mirror was shattered, shards still held loosely together by its frame. She saw herself reflected from across the room, her tanned face and dark ponytail shattered into a dozen abstract angles. Looks about right, she thought with a wry smile, considering the reason for the four months of enforced leave she’d just taken. At that moment, one of the pieces of glass fell, bouncing off the victim’s head and landing, point first, in the thickening blood pooled around the body.

  Zoe swept her eyes around the room. The furniture looked cheap and new, except the television, which was high-end and huge. Nothing seemed to match, as if it had all been bought in a hurry.

  In the distance, she could hear waves crashing and children squealing. Even inside, the late-summer h
eat baked her throat and she wished she’d left her jacket in the car. She cursed the idea of the dark suit as the standard homicide uniform.

  When her phone had rung, just before lunch, she felt a rush seeing the number on the screen. She called Charlie straight afterwards to say they had a job. He moaned when she told him it was in Portsea, an hour and a half’s drive south of Melbourne, around the arc of Port Phillip Bay.

  ‘Welcome back,’ he had mumbled, before hanging up.

  While being part of the weekend on-call team wasn’t Charlie’s idea of a good time, Zoe was ready to go, happy to be back. Now she was here, though, she needed to keep her game face on. She heard footsteps coming up the hall.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Mayer. Good to see you.’ It was Oliver Nunan, the pathologist. He wore a white jumpsuit, with a hood and mask. His powder blue plastic booties matched hers. When Zoe was in training, Oliver had performed the first autopsy she’d witnessed. He was sympathetic when, along with most of her class, she threw up into one of the sick bags he’d handed out beforehand. She became a vegetarian that day.

  Zoe had always liked Oliver. He had been kind-hearted and patient when she was learning the ropes. She pivoted to face him, smiling behind her mask. ‘Hi, Oliver. Good to see you, too. How’ve you been?’

  Oliver gave a resigned snort. ‘Okay, though I’d prefer to be at home watching the cricket.’ He turned to take in the scene. ‘Well, that’s just unpleasant,’ he muttered, looking down at the body. Zoe noticed that his greying eyebrows had grown longer since she’d last seen him.

  Three major-crime-scene examiners from Forensics pushed past them into the room. All were wearing jumpsuits and masks. One had a case of tools, for collecting evidence; one a video camera and the last a large Nikon. The woman holding the video camera took a slow sweep of the room before zooming in on the victim.

  ‘Hey there, Zoe,’ said the officer carrying the tools. ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘Hi, Jenny. Today. Charlie and I are on call.’

  ‘Glad you’re back on deck. Charlie putting off the inevitable?’

  Zoe grinned behind her mask. ‘Guess so. He’s checking outside the house.’

  ‘Being thorough,’ said Jenny. Zoe could see her smile lines around her eyes.

  Once the scene had been documented, Oliver approached the body. He felt for a pulse that was long gone.

  Zoe remained in the doorway.

  ‘Looks like just the one stab wound,’ he said. ‘Knife is a decent size. Kitchen knife.’

  She watched as he pulled a case from his pocket. Opening it, he picked out a thermometer and measured the temperature in the room, before taking a couple of readings from the victim. He pulled out a notepad and did some calculations.

  ‘When?’ asked Zoe.

  ‘Between ten-thirty and eleven-thirty this morning. I’ll be able to pinpoint it at the autopsy tonight.’

  Zoe made a note. It was now almost one-thirty. The killer might have a three-hour head start.

  Picking up one of the victim’s hands, Oliver pulled his mask aside and sniffed.

  ‘What?’ asked Zoe.

  ‘Bleach,’ answered Oliver, without looking up. He turned the hand, looking under the fingernails.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Zoe.

  ‘Exactly.’ Oliver turned towards Jenny. ‘If your team finds a nail brush anywhere, can you bag it?’

  Jenny nodded. ‘Will do.’

  Oliver let out a small groan as he stood up, his knees creaking. ‘Okay, I’m done. Tonight at eight work for you?’

  ‘It’s a date,’ said Zoe.

  Oliver nodded. ‘Right, I’m off. See you then.’

  Zoe walked to the corner of the room, her plastic booties scrunching on the wooden floorboards. She crouched down and watched as the officer with the video camera walked towards the back of the house, recording. Thirty seconds later she came out. ‘There are drops of blood leading into a bathroom. No nail brush that I could see. Bathroom’s clean though. Heavy smell of bleach and there’s a mop and bucket next to the toilet.’

  ‘The killer knew they had time,’ said Zoe. ‘Flushed away evidence. Can we check for prints on the buttons on the toilet?’

  ‘No problem.’

  From above, she heard an intake of breath.

  1.30 PM, SUNDAY 2 FEBRUARY

  Zoe looked up to see Charlie standing in the doorway, staring at the body, his face pale. At six foot two, Charlie had a good four inches on Zoe and was lean, with close-cropped blond hair. He looked every part the poster-boy homicide detective until he was near a body. After nine months in the squad, he still saw every new murder scene as though it were his first. She thought he might have toughened up while she’d been away. You haven’t even seen a truly horrifying one yet.

  ‘You okay?’ Zoe asked, standing up.

  ‘Yeah, all good,’ said Charlie, his voice a pitch higher than usual.

  ‘Any signs of forced entry?’

  Charlie turned. ‘No, I did a visual on the front and back doors. Neither has been forced. Windows are all shut.’

  ‘Our secondary team here yet?’

  ‘Yeah, Angus and Hannah are outside interviewing the neighbours and gawkers.’

  ‘Good,’ said Zoe, glad to be teaming up with Hannah Nguyen and Angus Batch on her first case back. They’d be on board for at least forty-eight hours. For most cases that would be enough time to have someone charged.

  ‘These morning murders are always different,’ Zoe said. ‘They’re more likely to be well planned, clinical.’

  ‘Domestic?’ Charlie asked, his eyes again fixed on the body.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Zoe. ‘This place looks like a bachelor pad, though. New furniture, but none of it matches. I’d reckon our victim is recently single.’

  Charlie looked at the large window stretching up towards the cathedral ceiling, and then at the thick marble benchtops. Through a set of french doors, he could see a large deck with an inground spa. ‘Doesn’t look like any bachelor pad I ever lived in.’

  ‘Domestic or not,’ said Zoe, ‘I’d bet your next pay cheque that the victim knew his killer. This is no break and enter gone wrong.’ The rug lay straight on the floor in front of the victim. The coasters were stacked on the coffee table. ‘The victim is near the back of the house and there’s no disturbance until here,’ she said, pointing to the area around the body.

  ‘Small gash in the back of the head,’ said Jenny, beside the victim. ‘A piece of glass. Looks like he was caught in a surprise attack and he smacked the back of his head on the mirror. Instinctively backing away, you know?’

  ‘He probably hit his head twice in the struggle,’ Zoe said. ‘With the first hit he shattered the mirror; with the second, the shard was embedded in his head.’ Zoe mimicked the action, before turning to Charlie. ‘You got details on the victim?’

  Charlie opened his folder. ‘Yeah. Wallet was on the sideboard next to the front door. Mobile phone’s there too. His name is Ray Carlson. Thirty-nine. Apparently he’s a local. Grew up in Sorrento.’

  ‘Not far from here, then.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Charlie, ‘and you were right about him being recently single. Separated, no kids.’

  ‘That’s a lot of information from a wallet,’ said Zoe.

  Charlie smirked. ‘I asked a couple of the local uniforms outside. One of them knew him from the footy club.’

  ‘How well?’

  ‘Enough to say g’day. Said he was a friend of a friend.’

  ‘We know what Ray did for a living?’

  ‘Yeah, he works…worked…at a winery up at Red Hill.’

  ‘Did he own it?’ asked Zoe, looking around the room again.

  ‘No. Apparently he managed the cellar.’

  ‘Any form?’

  ‘No. I ran his name through the system. Zilch.’

  ‘Wallet still full?’

  ‘About two hundred in cash and credit cards are still there.’

  ‘You’re from down this way, a
ren’t you?’ asked Zoe.

  ‘Kind of. I grew up in Mornington,’ said Charlie, pointing vaguely over his shoulder. ‘Far more middle class than here.’

  ‘Who found him?’

  ‘An old mate of his, Dwayne Harley. Friends since primary school.’

  Zoe pushed a loose strand of hair back with her left hand. ‘Right. Where’s Dwayne now?’

  ‘Outside. Sitting in the shade, talking to the local sergeant.’

  ‘That his ute in the driveway?’ asked Zoe.

  Charlie nodded, wiggling his pen between his fingers.

  Zoe watched the pen. ‘Ask one of the forensics team to open up the garage and see if the victim’s car is still there. I can’t see car keys anywhere. The killer may have taken it.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Charlie.

  Zoe stood up and made her way back down the hallway, squinting as she walked out into the glare. She looked back at the house as she pulled off her face mask, and removed the plastic booties from her shoes. The house was modern; its large windows were framed by angled, polished concrete, intersecting with sheets of corten steel, which gave a rust-like finish. The grass in the front yard was lush under foot. She sighed, not seeing any CCTV cameras under the roof line, and put on her sunglasses.

  Charlie came out a moment later. ‘There’s a new Ford Ranger in the garage. All the bells and whistles. Key’s on the passenger seat. Called the rego in. It’s Carlson’s. The only vehicle registered in his name. How much, you reckon?’ asked Charlie, gesturing at the house.

  Zoe gave the smallest of grins, remembering their old game. When Charlie was first partnered with Zoe, he and his girlfriend were looking for a house to buy and every job gave him a chance to check out the real estate. ‘Around here, over three million, maybe four,’ she said. ‘Less now it’s a murder scene, though.’

  ‘You’d need to either be lucky or ruthless to afford to live around here,’ said Charlie.

  ‘That counts us out then,’ Zoe said. She looked across to where a golden retriever was lying in the shade of a tree. The dog wore a harness that read ‘Victoria Police Service Dog’, with a blue and white checkerboard strip that matched the police tape sealing off the area. A special exemption had been made for Zoe to get Harry, but only after her boss kicked up a fuss and the Commissioner’s office finally relented. The dog sat up when he saw Zoe, alert and ready. She put up her hand, palm out, and he slumped back down on the grass.