Bright City Deep Shadows

by Graham Storrs

  BRIGHT CITY

  DEEP SHADOWS

  A Luke Kelly Crime Story

  by

  Graham Storrs

  This Edition, Copyright © 2020, Graham Storrs

  ISBN: 987-0-6484329-3-7

  Published by Canta Libre

  Cover design by Graham Storrs

  Interior design by Write Into Print (writeintoprint.com)

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Dedication

  This book is for my wife, Christine, who is the biggest fan of crime fiction I know and who deserves better from her husband than a constant diet of sci-fi.

  Chapter One

  The night Chelsea died, I was playing snooker with a bunch of drunken strangers in a pub in Byron Bay. I try not to think about that but it keeps coming back. While my girlfriend was being stabbed over and over in a brutal, frenzied attack, while she was suffering so much pain and fear in that squalid Brisbane alley, as the very life drained out of her body and the certainty of death chilled her soul, I was laughing and joking and drinking, hundreds of kilometres away, spending her money, money she gave me because I’m a useless, worthless waste of space who can’t get a regular job and couldn’t even be there with her when, for once, she really, really needed me.

  Doctor Huber, the therapist I saw for about three visits, told me my guilt was misplaced. She seemed to think I kept remembering that night as a way of punishing myself. I told her she was wrong, that my guilt is well-founded, that guilt is the only rational response to a life like mine and a death like Chelsea’s.

  It’s not like people didn’t tell me. They spoke to seventeen-year-old me about careers and job prospects and supporting a family but back then all I thought was important was getting to the heart of things, understanding the world and my place in it. I had nothing but contempt for their mundane concerns. So I went to study philosophy at uni, immersed myself in the complex abstractions that proliferate in the minds of gifted, idle people. I even went on to do a doctorate: “Disambiguating the Notion of ‘Posit’ in the Epistemology of A. J. Ayer.” That was the title of my thesis. Impressed? I was and so were the examiners. Two years later, I was two years into a life of underemployment and mooching off generous others and standing by the grave that Chelsea’s mother paid for, listening to some rent-a-cleric droning on about the Life Everlasting. Chelsea didn’t believe in any of that crap and neither do I. That whole thing was organised by Stacey, Chelsea’s heroic single-parent mum. I was only there, standing in a strange twilight world of misery and isolation, tears rolling down my cheeks, because I didn’t have the moral courage to be somewhere else.

  Anyway, funerals are for the living, they say. This one was mostly for Stacey, I reckon. Dr. Huber told me it might do me some good, give me closure. I asked her to give me a nice, clear definition of ‘closure’ so that I could tell if it was happening but she just gave me her sad smile and said, “We’ve talked about over-intellectualising, haven’t we, Lucas.”

  Yes, we had. Ad nauseam.

  I was only seeing the stupid woman because my own mum and dad insisted on it. They dropped everything and came over as soon as they heard about the murder. They found Chelsea’s mum staying in our unit and me in a motel nearby. Stacey had flown up from Sydney when the police told her and she’d asked them to tell me. I had still been half drunk and was confused to find myself in a hotel room when the Brisbane police woke me with a phone call. I drove back in Chelsea’s car – which she’d lent me for the trip – and met Stacey in the Indooroopilly police station.

  The police asked me a few questions about Chelsea, about my relationship with her. We lived together, I said. I don’t know what a de facto partner is, I mean, not legally. We lived together. For more than a year. No I don’t know what she was doing in Spring Hill. Yes, it’s a long way from our unit. No, I was at a conference. In Byron. Yes, I have the hotel receipt. I only checked out a few hours ago. The conference seemed like an eternity ago, like it had happened on another world. I was in the bar with… some people. No, I don’t know their names. One was called Doug, I think. One was... Steve? I don’t know!

  The policeman who interviewed me was called Trevor Reid. He was tall and rangy and looked like he should have been out driving cattle across a dusty plain – except they do that with motorbikes and helicopters these days, don’t they, not the horses in my imagination. Funny that they don’t have people jumping from motorbikes and helicopters onto terrified cattle at rodeos. Or maybe they do? I’ve never been to one. I tried to imagine Detective Inspector Reid in a cowboy hat, lassoing cattle from a helicopter. For a moment, I saw myself telling Chelsea about my ludicrous fantasy and making her laugh. She loved stupid stuff like that.

  “Do you find this funny, Mr. Kelly?” Reid asked, his face a scowl.

  Then the questions turned sharp and insinuating. No, she didn’t have any enemies. We’re just ordinary people. Our lives are just... you know… not like that. I don’t know much about her work. Yes, I’ve met some of her employees but they’re like mates. You know? Programmers and stuff. They make games. Phone apps. They’re all like geeks together. They had a work day out to Comicon last year, for Crissake, all dressed as Star Wars characters. No, there were no money troubles She’s doing fine. Doing real good. I – I don’t know if there were loans. You’d have to ask Kazima, she’s the accountant, although she likes to be called the Finance Officer.

  And, for some reason, just like that, it was all too much. It was the memory of Chelsea laughing with me about Kazima’s job title, how silly it all was, and me seeing in her eyes how it wasn’t really all that silly but a mark of how her company was growing and succeeding, how well she was doing and how proud she was.

  Reid’s scowl stayed in place, swimming in my tears. He had big hands, prominent knuckles. He gave me a minute and went on.

  No, we hadn’t rowed. We were – we were… happy. It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t at Byron on vacation. It was a work thing. Sort of. I’m – I’m trying different things. Looking for career options.

  They let me go, asked me not to leave town without telling them and Chelsea’s mum picked me up in the foyer and took control. I told her she could stay at our place and I’d get a motel room. It wasn’t generosity. I couldn’t face going back home. Not just then. I wanted somewhere small and dark to curl up in until the pain went away.

  The interminable graveside service ended with people throwing handfuls of dirt onto the coffin. I didn’t join in. I’d seen people do that on American TV shows and I assumed it was another stupid ritual Australians had picked up from that source. I wouldn’t have been surprised if two Marines had folded a flag and handed it to Stacey. Maybe if I’d thrown some soil on my dead beloved, I would have got that closure Dr. Huber seemed so keen on. Or maybe I’d have felt more of a fool than I already did, standing there in the bright Brisbane sunshine, waiting for someone to lead me on to the next location in this peripatetic theatre of death.

  I saw the big-boned cop in the cemetery as I was leaving. He was standin
g at a discrete distance with a woman – another cop I suppose – who looked tiny compared to him. She was dark-haired, about his age – mid thirties – and dressed just as drably as he was. She saw me watching her and for a moment, her large, dark eyes met mine. I looked away quickly.

  They held the funeral reception at my mum and dad’s house in Kenmore. My dad is so proud of his much-diluted Irish blood I could imagine him saying something like, “Leave all that to us, Stacey. If a Kelly can’t throw a good old fashioned wake, I don’t know who can. You just get them here and we’ll look after them, won’t we Em?”

  I was still in a daze as I stood there in that house I know so well with people – some of them only slight acquaintances, some of them complete strangers – taking turns to come up to me and tell me how sorry they were for my loss. After a few awkward words, they would leave me to face whoever was next. One or two asked odd questions like, “Have the police said anything?” or, “Are there any leads?” Not really so odd, considering, just a world away from where my thoughts were. But mostly they just said kind things about Chelsea or told me how sorry they were. Sometimes I said the wrong thing back to them like, “I haven’t lost her; she’s just not here any more,” or, “Sympathy really doesn’t help.” I tried not to be such a jerk. Funerals are for the living, I kept reminding myself. All these other people are also feeling pain. But, if that was true, I couldn’t understand why the funeral wasn’t for me, too. I’m one of the living, aren’t I? Why wasn’t all the finger food helping? Why weren’t the stilted encounters making me feel better?

  I had never been to a funeral with Chelsea. There were a million things we didn’t get round to. A million things we would never get to do together. What would she make of it? All the women in their plain dresses, the men in their toned-down smart casual. And me, feeling stupidly overdressed in my black suit and tie. I would never know – not for sure. She surprised me a lot. It was one of the best things about her. But doesn’t that mean that I never really knew her? Was she gone before I even got to understand who she was?

  The tightness in my chest became overwhelming. I crossed the room to where Mum and Dad were standing together. They must have known far fewer of these people than even I did. Mum put on a sympathetic smile and Dad looked serious, the corners of his mouth turned down. They liked Chelsea. Everyone liked Chelsea. They were sad she’s gone but they were more concerned for me, their expressions said. So I pursed my lips and nodded. Yes, I’m miserable, but I’m bearing up, my face said.

  “I’m going out for a bit of a walk,” I told them. Mum put a hand on my arm to let me know she understood.

  “Don’t be too long,” Dad said. “We have guests.”

  “Right-o.”

  The street outside was cluttered with parked cars. I supposed it must have been irritating for people to have to find spaces down the street or round the corner and walk to the house. I tried to resent their irritation, as if they should somehow have put all worldly considerations aside for this day of mourning and reflection, but my heart wasn’t in it. It is annoying when you go somewhere and you can’t park. It doesn’t matter who’s died.

  I headed away from the shops and the people, wandering off into the quiet suburb, turning at random, only caring to be alone. In my dark suit, people might have mistaken me for a businessman but I was not. I had no business. I wandered along nature strips, gazing at people’s gardens. There were yellow flame trees in bloom and pink crepe myrtles. I didn’t know the names of trees before I met Chelsea. I knew all about Hegel and Kant but not the names of the trees I’d lived among all my life. While I had focused with blinkered exclusivity on my studies, somehow, she had managed to spread the net of her learning as wide as the wide world. Despite my degrees, I always felt like a dunce when we talked. And the wisdom of Wittgenstein and Russell, for all its logical rigour, seemed oddly sterile compared to the rich and lavish splendour of her own.

  She had opened me up. She had shown me a world in brighter colours and bolder strokes. And now, with my education barely begun, it was all over.

  I looked around, realising I’d walked a long way and I wasn’t even sure where I was any more, possibly in Jindalee, although I didn’t remember crossing the river. It was still only late afternoon, not yet evening. I got out my phone and switched it on to call an Uber to take me back to the wake. People would be wondering where I was. But the sight of so many missed calls and messages made me stuff it back in my pocket. I just couldn’t face all that. I wanted to be somewhere where people didn’t know what had happened, where they didn’t keep having to tell me how sorry they were. The Jindalee Hotel – a huge, sprawling pub and restaurant – when I came upon it, seemed perfect. Eschewing the games room and the restaurant, I found a quiet public bar where I could sit alone and drink. I ordered a bottle of Toohey’s Old and headed to a table against the wall. My phone rang and I immediately regretted having turned it on. It was Mum. Guiltily, I rejected the call and texted her back with, “I’m OK. Just want to be alone. Love, L.” Then I turned the phone off again. I definitely did not want to look at my messages or my social media accounts.

  Have the police got any leads yet?

  The question popped into my head while I was at the bar ordering my third beer. Why that? Why then? I had no idea but it hit me so hard I said, “Shit!” out loud.

  “You all right mate?” an old bloke at the bar asked me.

  “What? Yeah, yeah. I’m good.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look it.” I turned away, not wanting to engage. He was a rough-looking old fella with white stubble on his face and on his shaven head, big build, bit of a bruiser. “Who was it?” he asked. “Your mam or your dad?”

  “What?” He was watching me closely with pale blue-grey eyes.

  “Well, from your clothes, I reckon you’ve come here straight from a funeral. From your red eyes, I reckon it was someone close. My guess is you’re about twenty-five, so it’s not likely to be your wife or a sibling – although that’s possible, I suppose.”

  It was intrusive and annoying, more so because he was pretty near the truth. I’d forgotten about the black suit and tie. I was walking around like a billboard with my grief written in giant black letters.

  “None of my business,” he said, turning away to cradle his glass of whisky – no, too dark for whisky, must be rum. I realised I’d just been staring at him without responding. The barmaid turned up with my beer at last and I handed her the plastic, ready to go back to my table.

  “It was my girlfriend,” I said on impulse.

  He swirled his rum and nodded, lips pursed. “Chelsea Campbell,” he said.

  If he’d jumped up and slapped me, I couldn’t have been more surprised. “What the fuck? How did you know?”

  He turned his pale eyes towards me, his expression grim. “There’s not that many brutal murders around here. Your girlfriend’s was about a week ago. It was all over the news. Given a slight delay while the police examined the body, that puts the funeral around now.”

  I was impressed by how quickly he’d put it all together and alarmed that Chelsea’s death had become a media circus, broadcast nightly for the entertainment of the masses. “You some kind of detective?” Worse still, maybe he was a reporter.

  “Not any more.” It seemed to be the end of the conversation, which suited me fine. I was about to leave but he asked, “Who’s the SIO?”

  “The what?”

  “The cop in charge of the investigation.”

  “Are you a reporter?”

  He gave a silent, derisive snort. “Your first guess was nearer the truth. Ex-cop. Ex-PI. Now ‘retired’. So who’s the SIO?”

  I perched myself on the bar stool next to him – not exactly committing to a conversation but not exactly willing to leave yet. Maybe the old fella had some useful insights. “I don’t know. There was a big guy called Trevor something. And a little dark-haired woman I just saw at the funeral service.”

  He nodd
ed to himself. “Looked like the Marlboro Man?”

  “I – don’t know what that is.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Kids! Like Clint Eastwood on steroids.”

  “Something like that, I suppose.”

  “That’d be Trevor Reid I reckon. The woman was probably Alexandra Bertolissio. He’s a bit ordinary if you ask me. But she’s the dog’s bollocks. Sharp as a pin, that one.”

  “Right. And that means what?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. I was just curious.”

  I stared at him flatly for a few seconds, then got up. “Thanks. You’ve been a great help.”

  I went back to my table and sucked on the bottle. When I glanced his way again, he was swirling his rum and gazing into its depths. I wanted to google “Marlboro Man” but didn’t want to turn on my phone again so I left it. Some ancient cultural reference, I guessed. The past is a foreign country, I told myself. Old fossils like the guy at the bar must feel like displaced people, refugees forced to settle in a strange land where they barely speak the language and nobody wants to know them. I tried to guess his age but it was impossible. Somewhere between sixty and three hundred, probably. A strong, tough bastard in his youth, I reckoned, but now finding his joints were aching, the fat was piling on, and his muscles were getting weak and tired. Yet he still seemed sharp. His blue-grey eyes had been keen and steady and he’d pieced together my story pretty quickly. I hoped I would still have all my marbles at his age.

  The bottle was empty and I didn’t want to go back to the bar and risk getting into another conversation with my friend there, so I left. It was dark outside. The breeze was warm and I felt like walking again. I didn’t know Jindalee well, so I was soon lost but that was OK.

  Have the police got any leads yet?

  I suppose the question was so disturbing because I didn’t have the faintest idea. After that one interview, I hadn’t had anything at all to do with the police. They must have checked my alibi and realised I was nothing to do with Chelsea’s murder. I supposed they’d asked her mum and her workmates questions but I hadn’t spoken to any of them, either – except at the wake that afternoon. But now I started to wonder. Was there a suspect? Had they arrested anybody? It was obviously some random crazy – a druggie, or a mugger, or something. Chelsea would have fought them.