by N. R. Walker
Tallowwood
N.R. Walker
Blurb
Cold cases, murder, lies, and an unimaginable truth.
* * *
Sydney Detective August Shaw has spent the last decade of work solving cold cases. Since the death of his boyfriend eight years ago, August works alone, lives alone, is alone—and that’s exactly how he likes it. His work is his entire life, and he’s convinced a string of unsolved cold-case suicides are linked to what could be Australia’s worst ever serial killer. Problem is, no one believes him.
Senior Constable Jacob Porter loves his life in the small town of Tallowwood in the middle of the rainforests in northern New South Wales. He runs summer camps for the local Indigenous kids, plays rugby with his mates, has a close family, and he’s the local LGBTQIA+ Liaison and the Indigenous Liaison Officer.
When human remains are found in the camping grounds at Tallowwood Reserve, Jake’s new case turns out to be linked to August’s cold cases, and Jake agrees they’re not suicides at all. With Jacob now firmly in August’s corner, they face one hurdle after another. Even when more remains are found, they can’t seem to gain ground.
But when the body of a fellow police officer turns up under the same MO, it can’t be ignored anymore. August and Jake must trace the untraceable before the killer takes his next victim or before he stops one of them, permanently.
Copyright
Cover Art: Reese Dante
Editor: Boho Edits
Publisher: BlueHeart Press
Tallowwood © 2019 N.R. Walker
All Rights Reserved:
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
* * *
This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales is coincidental. The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only.
Warning
Intended for an 18+ audience only. This book contains material that maybe offensive to some and is intended for a mature, adult audience. It contains graphic language, and adult situations.
Trademarks:
All trademarks are the property of their respective owners.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
About the Author
Contact the Author
Also by N.R. Walker
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
– Robert Frost
Chapter One
Detective August Shaw sat in his old, cramped office, tucked away from the rest of the bustling Police Headquarters in Parramatta, Sydney. He preferred it that way. He didn’t even mind the shoebox-sized office if it meant people left him alone.
His colleagues would smile at him and some even tried to make small talk about weekend football or local festivals, but August would simply pretend to smile behind his coffee cup and make his excuses to go back to hiding in his office.
He felt at peace there; productive and useful. As the lead, and only, officer dedicated to his particular division of Sydney’s cold cases, he would immerse himself in the past, trying to make a quiet and unassuming difference to a cold and cruel world. Every day he locked himself away in his tiny office, and every day he fought to bring justice to victims long forgotten and closure for those who were left behind.
August felt older than his forty-one years. It wasn’t the fact his greying beard belied his brown hair or his recent acquisition of reading glasses. It wasn’t how his body ached when he stayed too still or if he pushed himself too hard at the gym, and it wasn’t the small lines at the corners of his eyes that made him feel old. It was the weariness in his bones. Weariness and the sullen weight of responsibility for the unsolved cases that surrounded him in his office. They bore a kind of weight that sometimes made August unsure if it was trying to pull him under the surface. Or if it was keeping him afloat.
They weren’t just file numbers to him. They weren’t faceless names. They weren’t just archive boxes full of folders or statistics.
They were family.
Each one was a human being, someone’s child, a person whose life was cut short. Each cold case in his care was someone who identified as LGBTQIA+.
Family.
August’s days were mostly filled with paperwork. That probably would have driven most cops crazy, but August didn’t mind the hours of cross-referencing numbers, evidence, and report data. He made phone calls, did internet searches, and sent evidence away for analysis. The beauty of modern technologies that had been so lacking thirty, twenty, ten, or even five years ago, now opened new possibilities of identifying killers. He could utilise pathology, DNA, ballistics, toxicology that didn’t exist at the time of these deaths. Sometimes he struck gold, sometimes he struck out, but he never stopped trying.
He’d make phone calls and speak to the family and friends of victims every so often. Some took tracking down. They were either long gone, moved on, or deceased. Not everyone was contactable; not everyone wanted to be found. It wasn’t like the movies or the TV shows. There was no glamour, no accolades. Maybe that’s what August found the most gratifying. He didn’t do this for the esteem or the reputation other homicide detectives found in recent, high-newsworthy, front-page fame.
August did this for the victims.
He did it for those who no longer had a voice. For those whose spotlight had been extinguished and whose deaths were filed under Unresolved or Inconclusive.
He also very deliberately buried himself in work. Days, nights, and weekends were spent poring over details, which didn’t leave much time for any kind of social life.
Which was very much the point.
Some days, the only time he spoke to anyone was when he ordered coffee or lunch, if he got forensic or ballistic reports, or if his boss called him into his office. He didn’t dislike his boss exactly. August didn’t exactly dislike anyone. He didn’t like them much either, but August avoided human interaction if he could manage it. Except for anyone in the periphery of a case, of course. But it was usually him who had to make those calls, which was why, when his desk phone rang, it scared the shit out of him. It also took him fifteen seconds to find the handset under open files and papers.
He snatched up the phone. “Detective Shaw.”
“Hello, Detective Shaw, this is Senior Constable Jacob Porter from the North Coast Area Command. How are you today?”
August frowned. “I’m fine. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Yes, actually, I think there might be. I have a case I could use your help with.”
August’s frown deepened. “My help? With what, exactly? I work cold cases.”
�
��I know who you are, Detective,” he replied. “And while this particular case is new—we found human remains two days ago—this body’s been there a while.”
“I’m not the only cop in the state who specialises in cold cases.”
“No. But you are the best.”
August almost smiled. “If it’s a homicide, call homicide.”
“Detective—”
“I have enough cases of my own to get through, Senior Constable.”
“That’s just it,” Porter answered. “I think this is one of your cases.”
“One of mine . . .” August’s frown became a scowl. “How so?”
“The victim was gay,” Porter answered.
“That hardly makes it mine.”
“It was made to look like a suicide,” he added.
“And you don’t think it is?”
“No. That’s not all, Detective. The medical examiner suggested I call you. Said it would be familiar. The body was found with a note in his pocket, a quote from a poem. And a silver cross.”
August’s stomach dropped and he could feel the colour drain from his face. “Oh.”
“So yeah, I was wondering if you could help with some finer points. I could email—”
August looked at the file he’d been reading and reread the name. Mustafa Holzieg. Mustafa, like the others, in all the files that surrounded him, deserved better. August nodded, more to himself than anyone else. “I can be there first thing tomorrow morning.”
Chapter Two
Jacob Porter waited at the airport, trying not to appear nervous. Having a tense and uneasy cop in uniform at the airport tended to make other people feel the same, so he tried to rein it in a little. The thing was, he was very familiar with Detective August Shaw’s name. His reputation preceded him. He’d made the news a few years ago, and since then, he’d been credited with solving a slew of cold cases.
Jake didn’t just remember him because of his unusual name or his policing work—which was exemplary—or the fact he was a handsome and mysterious loner who shied away from all publicity regarding his work. It was the fact he was an openly gay police officer.
That wasn’t such a big deal anymore. But years ago, when Jake was coming up through the academy, he recalled seeing a photograph of August Shaw in the Gay and Lesbian Liaison brochure. August had been at Sydney’s annual Police Gala, looking sexy as hell in a tux with his equally handsome boyfriend. In public, surrounded by his peers, not giving one single fuck what anyone else thought. He was an out-and-proud, well-respected police officer living the life Jake only dreamed of.
And that was something Jake had never forgotten. People like August paved the way for guys like him. It was no big deal these days. Hell, Jake was even the local LGBTQIA+ Liaison Officer for his town. And it was only that way now because of people like August Shaw. As the kids would say these days, August had crawled so that Jake could run. Or something like that.
Jake’s sexuality was something he wore, like his uniform or his badge, or the colour of his skin or his Indigenous heritage. It defined him. And in a lot of ways, he was fine with that. He was proud of who he was and what he’d accomplished. But it wasn’t the only thing about him. He wanted people to see him and let his work stand on its own. Jake didn’t want to be viewed as just a gay cop or an Aboriginal cop. He was good at his job. He wanted to be known as a good cop. No, not even good. He wanted to be known as a great cop.
And Jake was all too aware that August Shaw had been out and proud when it wasn’t as widely accepted. Not just by his workplace, but by the law. When homophobia was rampant, particularly in a police force that was still clutching to its ‘men’s club’ mentality.
In Jake’s head, August Shaw was such an icon that he’d even been nervous calling him on the phone. He’d only intended to ask if he could email some details and get his opinion on a few things. Jake hadn’t expected him to want to come here. This hotshot city cop was about to arrive in Tallowwood, a backwater district with a few thousand people in the middle of the North Coast forests.
So Jake stood in the small airport terminal, two coffees in hand, waiting for Shaw’s plane to arrive. He had no idea if Shaw drank coffee, but at least holding two cups gave him something to do with his hands. Because as much as he wished otherwise, he was nervous.
Jake recognised Shaw as soon as he walked through the gates, older than the magazine photograph Jake remembered but still strikingly handsome. Shaw was about six foot two and maybe a hundred kilos. He was fit looking, even wearing a suit. His hair was brownish, a little grey at the sides, and he had a neatly trimmed beard that was greying at his chin. And it wasn’t even his appearance that made him sexy. It was the way he walked, the way he held his head. He was confident and poised. Not arrogant, but there was a quiet, self-assuredness to him that appealed to Jake and probably scared him a little, if he was being honest. August Shaw’s body language said he could fuck your shit up without even breaking a sweat.
So, yep. Sexy as fuck.
And Jake’s nerves ratcheted up a notch or ten.
“Detective Shaw,” Jake said by way of introduction, realising his mistake of buying two coffees because he couldn’t shake his hand. Jake held one of the coffees out to him anyway with an apologetic shrug. “Figured you could use the caffeine given your early flight.”
The corner of Shaw’s lips flinched, almost upward, in what could have been the beginning of a smile. He took the coffee. “Senior Constable Porter, I take it.”
Jake pulled the breast of his coat away to reveal his name badge. “Jacob, or Jake, Porter,” he replied. “Thank you for coming.”
“No problem. Thanks for the coffee.”
Jake sipped his. “Do you need to collect any luggage?”
“No.” He nodded toward his carry-on. “This is me.”
“Okay then,” Jake said, pointing his coffee toward the exit gates. “I’m parked out front.” One of the perks of driving a patrol vehicle was the close parking. Well, it was actually a Nissan Patrol four-wheel drive, white with the blue Police chequers down the sides, and the unmissable blue and red lights on top. There were also sprays of mud up the sides from the last two days he’d spent in the forest. “Sorry it’s a bit of a mess. Figured there wasn’t much point in washing it seeing’s though we’ll only be going back out there again today.”
Shaw slid his bag into the back seat and climbed into the front. “Have you had rain?”
“Don’t go too many days without it,” Jake replied, starting the engine. “Enough to keep the farmers happy. And the surfers.”
He looked a little confused.
“Rain and high swells keep the amateurs out of the water, apparently,” Jake explained. “Leaves the hardcore surfers to do their thing.”
He did that almost-smile thing again. “No, I meant at the crime scene.”
Oh fuck. Jake could feel his cheeks redden. “Oh. Yeah, I mean, yeah. We’re sub-tropical here. It rains pretty frequently, not so much in winter.” He waved his hand out the window to the cold and dreary sky. “Sorry, I . . .”
“It’s fine.” Yep, definitely an almost-smile. “I can stow that away for future reference, if the victim or killer was a surfer.”
Jake laughed—at himself—and gave himself an internal kick in the shins. “Sorry. You make me nervous. I wasn’t expecting you to want to come all this way. I would have been more than happy with an email or phone call. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful you’re here. I’m feeling a little out of my depth. We don’t get many human-remains cases up this way.” He pulled the Patrol to a stop before leaving the airport and turned left instead of right toward Tallowwood. “We’re a three-person station in a tiny town. Our entire district probably has fewer people in it than your station has uniformed officers.”
Detective Shaw sipped his coffee. “I make you nervous?”
“I said that out loud, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Well, maybe we could j
ust pretend I didn’t say that. Or the thing about surfing. Or maybe we could just start the whole conversation thing again.”
He took another sip of coffee, and goddamn it, he smiled. “Maybe. And maybe you could tell me why we’re going into Coffs Harbour instead of to your station. The sign back there said Tallowwood was twenty kilometres in the other direction.”
“We don’t have lab facilities at Tallowwood. The remains were taken to Coffs,” Jake explained. “It makes sense to go there first, considering we’re just down the road. But if you wanted to go to the crime scene first or the station . . . ?”
“Morgue’s fine. I rather like the smell of formaldehyde with my morning coffee,” August replied, and his poker face was so good, Jake wasn’t sure if that was humour or not. “Tell me what you know so far.”
“Some kids from Coffs on motorbikes found the body. They’d been camping in the forest and riding, which they’re not supposed to do either of, mind you. Anyway, one of them stopped his bike to take a piss, or so he said, and saw the clothes. He looked closer and realised it was a body. He said he never touched anything. He was pretty freaked out. They weren’t gonna say anything because they weren’t supposed to be there, but the kid was spooked.” Jake knew August probably didn’t want that much detail, so he tried to rein that in too. “It appeared the body had been partially buried at some point, or poorly buried with leaves and branches, which makes no sense. Because if it had been suicide as the note suggested, why would he have been buried? Evidence suggests he died at the scene, so he wasn’t moved. We found a box cutter with the remains.”
