A Date To Die For Read online

  Gaylene B Corben is a compliance specialist living on the beautiful South Coast of NSW. She has a Science degree majoring in Biology, a post graduate Compliance degree, a Diploma of Education and has completed courses at the Australian Writers’ Centre. Gaylene has transitioned from teaching high school students to writing policy documents and training guides in the financial services industry to writing her debut novel.

  A Date to Die For

  Gaylene B Corben

  Copyright © 2022

  Published by AIA Publishing, Australia

  ABN: 32736122056

  http://www.aiapublishing.com

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, audio, visual or otherwise, without prior permission of the copyright owner. Nor can it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar conditions including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN: 978-1-922329-28-8

  Dedication

  To my mother who introduced me to the world of creative writing.

  To my father who taught me the value of hard work and perseverance.

  To my husband for his unending encouragement, support and most importantly love, throughout this journey.

  To our police, past, present and future, male, female and K9, for their commitment, courage and diligent service to the community.

  1

  The devil whispered in my ear, ‘You’re not strong enough to withstand the storm.’ I whispered back, ‘I am the storm.’ —Unknown.

  The scene held no hint of the violent act that took a young woman’s life the night before. The ocean’s salty scent, drifting on the early morning breeze, added to the freshness and tranquillity of the morning. Tiny diamonds sparkled in the silver-blue ocean under the rising sun. A golden retriever chased the white foam of breaking waves, barked at squawking seagulls, and played on the cool, wet sand with the spirit and energy only a young pup can have.

  A surfer in the distance, board under arm, whistled and called the dog. ‘C’mon girl, you’ll get left behind.’

  The dog sprinted towards the young man to catch up. Ten metres … twenty metres … then she slowed … and then she stopped. She sniffed the air and cocked her head as she looked towards where the beach meets the spinifex-covered sand dunes. She looked at the surfer, looked back to the sand dunes, looked at the surfer again and whimpered. The dog’s two-hundred-million-plus scent receptors had separated the familiar smells of the salt air, seaweed, seagull droppings and surfboard wax, from an unfamiliar, but ominously metallic, slightly sweet odour.

  The surfer strolled over to the dog and knelt beside her. ‘What is it, girl?’

  The dog ran to where the pale gold sand meets the silvery spinifex reflecting the morning sun. The surfer followed. Then he slowed … and then he stopped, just like the dog had. What the dog had sniffed moments before, the surfer now saw. He fell to his knees and vomited. He vomited where the beach meets the sand dunes. Just a metre from the mutilated body, concealed in the blood-splattered spinifex.

  ***

  Detective Joseph Paterson could hear John Lennon singing ‘Imagine’ faintly in the distance. The music grew louder and closer, more persistent. Where was it coming from? Eventually, he half woke from a restless sleep and fumbled for his iPhone to turn off the alarm. With gritty eyes and lids that didn’t want to open, Joe yawned, stretched, and put his feet on the cool timber floor. He stood, and still bleary-eyed, shuffled to the bathroom.

  Refreshed after a short, but hot shower, Joe towel dried his thick brown hair and dressed in dark grey suit pants and a white shirt. He paused at the mirror and ran his fingers across the small, jagged scar under his left eye, a more recent scar than the red, round bullet wound on his right shoulder.

  Joe checked his watch. Enough time for breakfast. Coffee and toast, maybe an egg. He walked down the long hallway, past the study and the guest room, to the kitchen. Joe stopped, put his hand on his hips, and shook his head. A smoky grey ball of fur with yellow-green eyes greeted him from the middle of the grey granite kitchen bench. ‘Banjo, how many times have I told you—benches are out of bounds for cats?’ Banjo sprung from the bench with a loud ‘meow.’

  ‘You think because you’re the same colour as the bench that I won’t notice you. I should have named you Macavity—Macavity the master criminal who defies the law.’ Banjo weaved and rubbed his way back and forth around Joe’s legs, stopped at the fridge and looked up at Joe with big round expectant eyes. ‘Okay, okay, I know—you’re hungry. Let’s find Bonnie first?’

  A light tan greyhound sat on her bed in a corner of the living room, her brown eyes watchful. Joe knelt beside her and rubbed behind her ears. ‘Hey, Bonnie,’ he said gently. ‘How’s my favourite girl? Time for breakfast.’ Bonnie wagged her tail ever so slightly.

  Bonnie and Banjo fed, Joe reached for the coffee jar just as his mobile buzzed with a text from Detective Tessa Rose Mariani. ‘Can you drop by my place—need a lift?’

  ‘Okay, there in forty-five,’ he replied.

  He reached for the coffee again. His mobile rang the theme from Law and Order.

  ‘Who? … Where? … On my way.’

  He put the coffee jar back and turned it, so the label faced forward. Too early for breakfast anyway, he thought.

  Joe sent another text to Tessa. ‘Be there in twenty-five. A body at the beach.’

  ***

  Tessa was locking the security door of her town house when Joe arrived. Her conservative black pants, white shirt, black jacket, and low-heeled black boots—disguised a bubbly, extravert personality.

  Tessa opened the back door of Joe’s car and tossed her backpack on the floor. She hopped in the front, clicked her seatbelt, and brushed a strand of wavy brown hair from her dark brown eyes. Joe heaved a silent sigh of relief when she didn’t slam the door of his black Holden Monaro like she had the first time she rode in his pride and joy.

  ‘Thanks for picking me up. Any details about the body?’

  ‘Young, female.’ Joe checked the rear-view mirror, looked over his right shoulder, and pulled out from the curb. ‘A teenage boy found her early this morning. Well, his dog did really.’

  Tessa said, ‘Is it …’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Okay, I guess we’ll know more soon enough.’

  ***

  Fifty-five minutes after he got the call, Joe parked behind a police patrol car flashing red and blue lights. The general duties officer had set up the control centre on the beach and secured the scene, keeping back the usual inquisitive onlookers. Some of them, Joe knew, would be eager for ghoulish gossip fodder to munch over with friends at the coffee shop later that day. The sketch artist, wearing protective gear to prevent contaminating the evidence, recorded the scene. Joe saw Olivia Chatfield, the police photographer, talking to an officer and wondered if she’d finished filming the scene. As if reading his mind, she pointed to her camera and gave him the thumbs up.

  The forensic pathologist arrived a few minutes after Joe and Tessa, and the three made their way to the body in silence.

  Joe closed his eyes and felt the sun’s warmth on the back of his neck and a cool sea breeze on his cheeks. A perfect spring morning—no, wrong—not perfect. Not perfect for the victim’s family. Only they don’t know it yet. Joe imagined that the family would be at t
his moment carrying on with their normal daily routine, unaware of the devastating news they were about to receive. He took a deep breath, as if to renew his emotional energy. Then he opened his eyes. Opened his eyes to see the unseeing blue eyes of the mutilated corpse. Joe felt for the button in his pocket. The button he always carried with him when he was on duty. The one from his late father’s police uniform. He massaged the button between his thumb and index finger, a gesture that was his silent commitment to the victim.

  The victim’s blood-stained midnight blue cocktail dress, black bra and matching panties were shredded. The mangled flesh of her chest and abdomen, bloodied from multiple stab wounds, left little doubt about how she died. A thorny white rose protruded from between her legs, and a note pinned to her left breast fluttered quietly in the gentle morning breeze.

  Fists clenched, shaking her head, Tessa said, ‘Just like the others.’

  Almost to himself, Joe murmured, ‘Yeah ... number three.’

  ‘Roses used to be my favourite flower. Not anymore,’ Tessa said.

  ‘I’ll know more after I’ve examined her,’ said the forensic pathologist. ‘But it looks like she wasn’t alive when he, assuming he put the thorny end of the rose inside her—thankfully.’

  There’s nothing here to be thankful for, Joe thought.

  The victim’s face was slashed and disfigured. Her short hair matted with blood and sand.

  ‘She’s blonde, like the others,’ Tessa said. ‘I wonder if she was pretty, like the others?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘Impossible to tell.’

  Tessa took a step closer to the young woman’s body. ‘The note …’

  Joe breathed deeply and nodded. ‘Looks the same as the other two.’

  ‘When I get my hands on the son of a …’

  Joe interrupted Tessa’s outburst. ‘What time?’ he asked the forensic pathologist. When did her heart stop pumping blood? Joe thought, feeling his own heart pounding in his chest. He stared at the body, discoloured a purplish red in the lower regions, due to gravity causing the blood to pool there.

  ‘Judging by her temperature and rigor mortis, I’d say between ten and fifteen hours ago. So probably sometime last night between seven and midnight.’

  ‘Here, or was she moved?’ From the amount of blood that had transformed patches of the surrounding sand from gold to dark red, Joe knew the answer.

  ‘Here. There’s no indication she’s been moved.’

  ‘Who was first on scene?’ Joe called out.

  An officer, who looked to be around forty, stepped forward.

  Joe recognised him. ‘Still hanging in there, Tom?’

  ‘Yeah, nineteen bloody years on the job, but this …’ he pointed to the body, ‘you never get used to it.’

  ‘Have we found the murder weapon?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ Tom said.

  ‘We’ll need to sift the sand in the area,’ Joe said. ‘Who found her?’

  ‘He did.’ Tom pointed to a young man patting his dog’s head while talking to an officer near the control centre. ‘I told him to wait till you got here.’

  A couple in their mid to late forties, who Joe assumed was the young man’s parents, stood next to him.

  ‘He knows nothing,’ Tom said. ‘The first he suspected something odd was when his dog started acting a bit weird like. The only other thing he mentioned was the car. He saw it parked up on the street when he first got here.’ Tom pointed. ‘It’s up there, near the restaurant. The blue Corolla—it’s the victim’s car. We checked. The registration matches the name on her licence. We found her bag near her body. It contains a wallet with cash and credit cards, brush, lipstick, the usual. And her mobile. There doesn’t appear to be anything missing.’

  ‘Where’s the driver’s licence?’ Joe asked.

  An officer from the evidence collection team handed Joe a clear evidence bag that contained the licence.

  The photo of Phoebe Anne Duncan on the licence resembled the victim closely enough they knew it was her. Joe examined the photo and thought, Yes, she was pretty like the others. And only twenty-three.

  Joe handed the evidence bag containing the licence back to the officer and then looked in the surfer’s direction. ‘What’s his name, the surfer?’

  Tom checked his notes. ‘Liam Gilmore. His father dropped him off at the beach just before dawn. He, Liam that is, thought it was unusual to see another car here without surfboard racks so early in the morning. And he didn’t see anybody fishing. But he forgot about it when he started waxing his board. Thought no more of it.’

  ‘I wonder if anybody up there saw anything last night,’ Tessa said, pointing to the restaurant on the hill overlooking the beach.

  Joe looked towards the restaurant. ‘Yeah, it’s closed now, but we can check with the staff later.’

  ‘The Sandpiper,’ Tessa said. ‘It’s new, but becoming quite popular, I hear. Though probably quiet on a Sunday, so maybe not so many patrons last night. The staff might have contact details from the bookings.’

  When Joe and Tessa finished speaking with Tom and the evidence collection team, they made their way to the control centre where a man, who Joe had assumed was Liam’s father, stood with a protective arm around Liam.

  ‘Hello, Liam. My name is Detective Joseph Paterson, and this is Detective Tessa Mariani.’

  Joe looked at the couple. ‘Are you Liam’s parents?’

  The mother folded her arms across her chest and nodded. ‘Yes, we are. And we need to take him home now. The officer over there.’ She pointed to Tom. ‘He told us to wait for you. But we’ve been here for …’

  ‘We understand,’ Joe said. ‘But we need to ask Liam some questions, while the details are still fresh in his mind.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever forget.’ Tears streamed down Liam’s face. He ran shaking hands through his sun-streaked hair. His father held Liam closer.

  Joe turned to Liam. ‘We’re very sorry for what you’ve been through. But if you’re up to it, just a few questions and then you can go home.’

  ‘Dude … Sorry, I mean detective … sir, I already told the other cop everything I know.’

  ‘Just a few more questions. We promise,’ Tessa said. ‘And then you can go home.’

  Liam recounted the details of his morning. He was waiting for his friend so they could surf together. He confirmed he knew nothing was wrong until his dog picked up on the scent.

  ‘Did you touch or move anything?’ Joe asked.

  ‘No, no.’ More tears. ‘I puked—in the sand. And then I just ran … as fast as I could. I just wanted to get away.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Liam’s mother said. ‘He’s obviously distressed. We need to take him home. Now.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Joe said. ‘Just a couple more questions.’

  After confirming the details of who Liam called and how long after he found the victim he’d called, Tessa and Joe gave Liam and his parents their cards. ‘Thank you for your time,’ Tessa said. ‘Contact us if you think of anything else. Anything at all, the smallest detail, even if you’re not sure if it’s relevant.’

  Joe patted the dog. ‘She looks like she’s a great friend. She’ll help you through this tough time. But contact me if you think you need further support. We know groups who can help.’

  When Liam and his parents left, Joe and Tessa collected more information from Tom and the evidence team. Then gave final instructions to the officers before heading back to Joe’s car. Before they reached the car, a pack of reporters assaulted them like a flock of hungry squawking seagulls at a beach picnic fighting over the last potato chip. The reporters shouted questions at them, shoving microphones in their faces. ‘Who’s the victim?’ ‘Is it a woman?’ ‘Any clues?’ ‘Is it connected with the others?’ ‘Is it a serial killer?’

  ‘You know we can’
t release any information at this stage,’ Joe said. ‘I expect the superintendent will give a media statement in due course.’

  ‘How do you sleep at night … facing horror and tragedy every day?’ asked a journalist who Tessa had introduced to Joe only a few months ago. A journalist Joe now knew well and respected. A journalist who had a gift of asking questions Joe couldn’t ignore.

  ‘Sleep?’ Joe bit his bottom lip, closed his eyes, and shook his head. He then opened his eyes and looked directly at the journalist. ‘Sleep doesn’t come easy, Alex. A lot of nights I don’t.’

  2

  Joe parked outside a modest, but neat, blonde brick two-storey home, separated from the footpath by a freshly mowed lawn enclosed by a Lilly Pilly hedge. Joe’s stomach churned and his legs felt like rubber as he and Tessa climbed the three steps that led to the front door of the house that Phoebe would never enter again. Joe closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled before ringing the doorbell.

  Mr Duncan’s face paled when Joe and Tessa introduced themselves. Joe recognised the dread in Phoebe’s father’s eyes. The family always knows something’s wrong when they see us at the door.

  Joe heard Mrs Duncan call out to her husband, asking who was at the door. He reached out and touched Mr Duncan gently on the shoulder. ‘Can we come inside? It’s best if you sit down.’

  When Joe and Tessa told Phoebe’s parents what had happened to their daughter, Mrs Duncan was too distraught to speak. Mr Duncan was equally distressed but composed himself long enough to give Joe and Tessa Phoebe’s older sister, Sally’s mobile number before showing them to his daughter’s bedroom.

  ‘Anything that will help you find who did this to our precious daughter,’ Phoebe’s grief-stricken father had said, as he led Joe and Tessa up the stairs to Phoebe’s room.

  He stopped just before the bedroom door and slumped to the floor. ‘I can’t … I can’t,’ he sobbed.

  Tessa squatted next to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s all right,’ she said softly. ‘We can go in … if it’s okay with you.’