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The Fallback

Pantera Presserschienen am01.07.2022
Deep down, there's something we'd all kill for. I know I would. I know I have. I know I will. Recovering addict Eric Johnstone is turning his life around until one small moment sends him down a dark path. Just months after he takes a job at the retirement village in Point Imlay, the ebbing tide reveals Eric's body, trussed to the town's oyster beds. When Senior Detective John Darken's business card is discovered in the dead man's pocket, J.D. transfers to Point Imlay to help with the investigation. But J.D.'s life is in shambles: his job is precarious, his marriage is on the rocks, and his past haunts him constantly. Two men whose lives are entwined - but how does one end up dead? Together, J.D. and homicide detective Emma Capsteen - another unwelcome new face in the sleepy seaside town - work to unravel the final days of Eric's life. But instead of answers, all they uncover are more questions. Why does a local bikie have free reign? What are the residents at Seascape Gardens retirement village hiding? And, in a town whose beating heart is community, why isn't anyone prepared to tell the truth?

David Hicks is a police officer with the Victorian Police. In his twenty-five years of service he has been on the frontline of everything from drug busts to serious collisions and all manner of violent crime, a job which he describes as giving him a front seat to crime and humanity in all its colour. Through his stories, David hopes to challenge readers to examine the line between good and evil, and how circumstance can alter a person's life in the blink of an eye. David lives in Geelong with his wife and two children. He is the author of The Devil Inside (2020) and The Fallback (2022).mehr

Produkt

KlappentextDeep down, there's something we'd all kill for. I know I would. I know I have. I know I will. Recovering addict Eric Johnstone is turning his life around until one small moment sends him down a dark path. Just months after he takes a job at the retirement village in Point Imlay, the ebbing tide reveals Eric's body, trussed to the town's oyster beds. When Senior Detective John Darken's business card is discovered in the dead man's pocket, J.D. transfers to Point Imlay to help with the investigation. But J.D.'s life is in shambles: his job is precarious, his marriage is on the rocks, and his past haunts him constantly. Two men whose lives are entwined - but how does one end up dead? Together, J.D. and homicide detective Emma Capsteen - another unwelcome new face in the sleepy seaside town - work to unravel the final days of Eric's life. But instead of answers, all they uncover are more questions. Why does a local bikie have free reign? What are the residents at Seascape Gardens retirement village hiding? And, in a town whose beating heart is community, why isn't anyone prepared to tell the truth?

David Hicks is a police officer with the Victorian Police. In his twenty-five years of service he has been on the frontline of everything from drug busts to serious collisions and all manner of violent crime, a job which he describes as giving him a front seat to crime and humanity in all its colour. Through his stories, David hopes to challenge readers to examine the line between good and evil, and how circumstance can alter a person's life in the blink of an eye. David lives in Geelong with his wife and two children. He is the author of The Devil Inside (2020) and The Fallback (2022).
Details
Weitere ISBN/GTIN9780648748816
ProduktartE-Book
EinbandartE-Book
FormatEPUB
Erscheinungsjahr2022
Erscheinungsdatum01.07.2022
Seiten352 Seiten
SpracheEnglisch
Dateigrösse2137
Artikel-Nr.11934302
Rubriken
Genre9200

Inhalt/Kritik

Leseprobe

CHAPTER TWO

As he used a screwdriver to jemmy open the fresh can of paint, Detective John Darken felt the familiar smell drive straight into his nostrils. He placed the lid messy-sideup on the sports page of a newspaper, then stood back to take in the colour. Was that really what he had ordered in Bunnings last week? If it was, maybe the sausage sizzle had gone to his head.

The tint was much more dazzling than he had anticipated and he tried to blink the brightness away, amazed at the discrepancy between the small colour swatch in the store and four litres of the stuff in a can at home. True, it was only for the front door, but still - there was orange, and then there was orange. The thick, viscous paint crept up onto the rim as he stirred it, like something straight from Wonka s factory.

It had been his wife s idea to freshen up the house, not his - at least he would always have that to fall back on when the inevitable ribbing came from his work colleagues. A front door the colour of a Jaffa - he could only imagine how well that would go down.

Come to think of it, could he still call them work colleagues? And more importantly, if they were separated, could he still call Amber his wife?

Technically, both situations were the same as they always had been, but in reality ⦠well, that was another story.

Right now, he had some painting to do. With rain forecast for later in the day, he needed to get onto it while the weather allowed. It had taken him weeks to get motivated enough to do this - to rack up a few good nights sleep in a row, to finally start to feel a little normal again, put some of the monsters back in their cages and lock the doors.

With The Angels belting out a line about Santa Fe from the portable speaker on the deck, J.D. nodded his head to the beat as he eased the brush through the bright orange paint.

Here goes nothing â¦

He slid the brush down from the top left corner and couldn t help but feel some similarity to the old wooden door. Much like his current self, it gave off the appearance of being bland and uninteresting, jaded and tired. As the colour was slapped on, that image changed to the outside world, but underneath, the old wood remained. J.D. knew he was the uncoated version, and he wasn t quite sure where the glossy paint was going to come from - or if it would ever come.

It was a mind-numbing process, but precisely what he needed. Paint, dip and reapply - over and over until the job was done. His counsellor had suggested small steps.

By the time he d finished the first coat, tiny flecks of bright orange were scattered across his hands and an apricot half-moon was smeared across his cheek. His salt-and-pepper hair - straggling about his shoulders, even longer than usual - was damp, the exertion taking its toll on his weary body.

Resting for a second, he reached for his phone. Another missed call from Amber. He reflexively shrugged his shoulders, knowing that all he d dodged was another argument. It seemed that whenever they talked these days, all they did was bicker, despite having reached the point of living separate lives.

For J.D., most nights were spent huddled under the doona, his body a tight ball aside from one arm, which hung out and rested on Samson. The Saint Bernard lay in solidarity, sprawled on the bedroom floor, his heavy, rhythmic breathing the only sound to break up the ringing silence.

At least he always had Samson s unrequited love.

The welfare people and doctors had all told him that what he was experiencing was perfectly normal, that it would take some time but they expected he would recover and be back at work full time in the not-too-distant future. Having returned four days a fortnight, he could see a pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel, but it was only that - a miniscule dot, still engulfed by the surrounding darkness.

He d never been the type to have a lot of friends, but now J.D. found himself facing an even lonelier world, as if his fragile mental health was somehow contagious. Contact from his colleagues was sporadic. Conversations were stilted. People who usually suffered from verbal diarrhoea were now constipated.

Ironically, he was acutely aware that his old partner Charlotte Callaghan would ve been the one to break through the barriers and make his progress seem not only achievable, but inevitable.

He felt the tackiness of the first coat of paint with the palm of his hand. Then, happy that it was dry enough, he knelt down and dipped the brush again and continued his task, one stroke at a time.

*

Half an hour later, he stood hunched over the laundry sink, his fingers playing through the bristles of the brush as a small orange whirlpool flowed down the plughole.

He wandered down the hallway to the bathroom, peeling off his splattered T-shirt and shorts as he went. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he took some solace in the fact that he had at least managed to keep in shape. Exercise was integral to improving his mental health, and as a longtime athlete, it was one thing he could control in a world that had spiralled out of his grasp. Pounding the footpath had remained second nature to him, as instinctive as breathing.

He ran his hands down the length of his tender thighs, digging his fingertips in deep and getting perverse enjoyment from the pain it induced. In his forties, he was far from old but neither was he a young man anymore.

He stepped under the heat of the shower, feeling the water beat sharply against his back. Lathering soap in his hands, he began scrubbing at the orange dots that speckled his palms. The water cascaded onto the tiled floor with a slap, the noise taking him back to a better time, so long ago now that the memory blurred at the edges. He and Amber had been holidaying as a family in Perth for their son Isaac s ninth birthday, only a few months before he disappeared. After a day spent visiting art galleries and museums, they had taken a trip to Outback Splash, a water-park oasis. It had blown Isaac s mind - so many options, so much fun. His favourite part had been the simplest - a large purple bucket that slowly filled with water before tipping its contents onto the waiting children below with an almighty splash. Isaac had stood rooted to the spot on the spongy yellow flooring, laughing till he almost burst as deluge after deluge of water spilt from the overflowing bucket onto his waiting head, almost tumbling him over. J.D. could ve watched his son all day that day. And if he d known what was coming, he would have.

He stepped from the shower, shaking the moisture from his hair. His mobile buzzed on the vanity, and J.D. reached for it - just too late. His boss, Detective Sergeant Phil Blake-Harris - better known as Dash - left an eight-second message.

J.D. hit play and listened as he walked to the lounge room.

John, we need to talk. Something s come up that you might have to deal with. Call me - you ll need to drop in, soon.

J.D. felt his chest tighten. The mention of work made his veins constrict. He leant against the doorframe, the timber pressing into his flesh as he counted to ten, inhaling and exhaling until his heartbeat fluttered back to an acceptable level.

Samson came padding towards him, slobber hanging in viscous strings from his jowls, his dopey eyes half closed. He sat on the rug, his huge head tilted, waiting for some attention. Squatting down, J.D. grabbed the dog s ears and ruffled them as their noses touched. As if he d been shot, Samson dropped sideways to the floor, exposing his stomach for a rub, legs pointing skyward.

J.D. grinned, scratching the beast s underbelly. That s enough boy, he muttered, taking a seat on the couch, phone in hand. I ve got business to attend to. He dialled, then leant back, eyes closed.

Detective Sergeant Blake-Harris, Gull Bay CIU. The greeting was perfunctory at best.

Dash, it s John Darken, returning your call.

He heard shuffling noises in the background, then the sharp slam of an office door closing.

J.D., how are you mate?

I m o-

Thanks for calling me back. I won t take up too much of your time, especially when you re at home. I don t want to get the blame for sending you back over the precipice, do I?

J.D. heard Dash laugh at his own words, and rolled his eyes. Thanks for the support.

Anyway, something has come up involving you, and I m hoping you can shed some light on it. We ve been contacted by local police in a small town called Point Imlay, down the coast. Ever been there?

Can t say I have, J.D. replied. What s this got to do with me?

They located a body this morning, basically right in the centre of town. The victim was murdered, most likely overnight, and left tied to the oyster beds in the middle of a lake. Local detectives searched the body and didn t find a whole lot of value other than the victim s wallet, which gave them an ID, and one other thing - a police business card. With your name on it.

My name? J.D. said, his voice rising. You sure?

We ve checked the guy s details; no criminal history; in fact, there s no history at all. It s like he s been living under a rock his whole life.

J.D. swallowed. What s the victim s name?

There was the sound of paper rustling. ID was all in the name of an Eric Johnstone. Dash paused, waiting for J.D. to fill in the blanks.

J.D. got to his feet. We need to talk. I m coming into the...
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