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  “I told you those concerns last night, but since then Commissioner Delaney has assured me there’ll be no racial profiling by officers attached to Matilda.”

  Lionel laughed into the phone. “Mr Galios, I thought you’d know better than to trust Delaney. My source within the police says the targeting of young Muslim men will be the main strategy employed by anti-terrorism squads.”

  “What source?”

  “I can’t say…” Lionel lied, because he didn’t have one. “But they’ve proven to be extremely reliable in the past.”

  Galios said nothing for ten seconds. Lionel imagined his mind ticking over, precise as a Swiss watch. “You’re right, Lionel, we must hold this government more accountable. But without concrete evidence, and plenty of it, they’ll simply deny there’s a problem in the far west, or blame a shortage of resources and budget limitations. The world evolves around priorities…”

  “And the level of media coverage on any issue seems to determine a politician’s priorities…But how do I get the media interested?”

  “You need a face, someone the public can relate to, not anonymous victims living a thousand miles away in the outback. Find someone who’ll stand up and tell the nation their story, and they’ll become the media’s darling.”

  Lionel blew hot air at the phone. Kooris in far-western communities were too afraid, too shy to discuss such matters. They’d refused to do it with him when he worked there, let alone in front of a white man’s court. And most of them accepted the way things were and had shown bemusement when he’d told them differently. “Such a witness will be near impossible to find out there…”

  “I agree, and that’s why I suggest you forget the media and concentrate on securing Karen Flintoff’s vote.”

  “And Sinclair?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about him. He was always a given, you’ve got his vote already.”

  Lionel smiled. “That’s incredible. So quickly…How?”

  “I simply mentioned that as Minister for Aboriginal affairs, it would be political suicide for him to oppose such an inquiry.” Galios chuckled. “And I may have reminded him the federal election’s only months away, and that his lot hold a fickle majority, won on my party’s preferences. I made it very clear that our continued allegiance is dependent on him supporting you. He really had no choice…”

  “Fantastic, thanks very much.”

  “You’re welcome…Now do your part, put someone to work on Flintoff and get her on side. But discretely, because it will only agitate McKinlay if he learns you’ve tried to influence her.”

  “Good advice…And I already have someone on the job.”

  “Let’s hope they do it well, your submission depends on it. Your career, perhaps…”

  “I realize that.”

  “Is it someone you’d trust with your life?”

  Lionel thought of Fred Klose. “Yes, more than any other…”

  TEN

  Porter gripped the morgue drawer, veins in his forearms bulged. He gasped at the sight of the bloody mess inside the body bag. “Oh, fuck. No!” He clawed at it and searched for something to disprove his eyes.

  Betts wheezed. “Jesus…”

  “Told you it’s not pretty,” Smith said.

  Porter fought the urge to vomit. Nadia Tindall’s severed head lay on top of her bruised stomach, black eyes wide and glazed with horror. Her tongue jutted from a half-open mouth and rested on blood-stained teeth. A crater of gristle, where her nose should’ve been, sparkled under harsh light. Hair tangled with dried blood covered her dark forehead and framed a once angelic face.

  Porter shook the drawer. “No, fucking, no!” He fell to his knees.

  Betts pulled him to his feet and told Smith to leave them. She scowled then retreated to the office.

  “This is my fucking fault,” Porter shouted. “I’m the bloke who insisted Eddy come to boxing yesterday…” He swung his head from side to side, in denial of what he saw. Why had he reacted this way? He usually treated death with nonchalance and typical cop bravado. But it had wrapped merciless hands around his throat and threatened to choke him.

  “Port, listen...Port?” Betts squeezed his shoulder with a strong hand. “Deal with that bullshit later…Right now, let’s do our job and take a good look at her. Alright?”

  Porter closed his eyes and breathed deep through his nose. He opened them, blew air out in a hiss, and dipped his head.

  Betts bent over the corpse. “There's gotta be something here to help find this mongrel…”

  Porter watched him pull the bag tight over the drawer’s edges. He grimaced at the gruesome cavity between Nadia’s shoulders, then leaned forward to examine it. Shredded tendons and protruding bone. He moved to the other end of the drawer. Thick welts circling her calves and ankles indicated she’d been tied. Similar welts circled her left wrist. Her right arm had been hacked away below the elbow and pushed inside her vagina. Its’ hand hung limp between purple thighs. His gut swirled, he swallowed acidic bile. Some sick bastards had played a cruel, demented game.

  Betts put on plastic gloves. “Get ready to turn her over, eh?”

  Porter nodded and pulled gloves on.

  Betts yelled instructions to Smith.

  She returned with a digital camera and took close-up shots of Nadia from different angles. Then she laid the camera down, took a clear plastic bag from her pocket, lifted Nadia’s head and dropped it inside. She sealed the bag, her expression colder than the refrigerator she placed it into.

  She moved back to morgue drawer. “Can’t say I’ve done that before.”

  They turned Nadia’s headless corpse onto its’ stomach.

  Betts bent towards it. “What the fuck?”

  Smith angled her head to one side. “What’s that…Writing? Carved into her skin?”

  Porter’s eyes stung, transfixed. “It’s a branding,” he told them, because he’d helped his father mark cattle the same way. “It’s been burnt into her...”

  “Motherfuckers...” Betts straightened. “And what the hell does ‘KA’ mean?”

  Porter shuddered at the agony Nadia had endured. The letters ‘KA’; bold and crisp, two inches by two inches; had been branded on her lower back. Pink letters, in contrast to her charcoal colored skin.

  Four lines of text ran under the branding. They’d been scored into her skin, were smaller and shallower than the branded letters.

  “Impure in Body, Impure of Soul,” Porter read in a grave whisper. “You have denied her, the right to grow whole.” His head rocked back.

  Betts stared. “Never in my life…”

  Smith smiled as she took photos. “Mine too.”

  Porter staggered from the room in a trance then slumped into a chair in the office. He closed his eyes and saw Nadia’s haunting face, her butchered body, and the brutal text. Another surreal nightmare…He opened his eyes.

  Betts sat opposite, face wrinkled with concern. “We’ll have to tell her mother.”

  “I’ll ask Tugger to bring her here.” Porter stood and exhaled. “Need to make phone calls...”

  Betts rubbed his gut. “I’ll speak to security and check the CCTV. Then I’m ordering pizza.”

  Porter rang Jane’s cell phone, and she finally answered. She’d been at the hairdressers for hours, without access to her phone. When she questioned his multiple calls, he said he’d responded to her urgent message and was concerned about Amber. Jane laughed, said she’d forgotten who’d agreed to collect her from school, and told him not to worry. She had Amber in the car.

  He left her oblivious to the torment she’d caused and phoned Tugger. He struggled to tell him about Nadia and omitted all horrific details when he answered questions. Tugger said he’d inform Debbie Tindall in person and bring her to the morgue.

  He then phoned Claire and asked her to arrange for forensics staff to examine Nadia prior to autopsy. She told him Azelia’s termination had made front page news. Opposition political parties and community groups were out
raged.

  Porter ended the conversation with Claire. Betts returned from the security office.

  “How’d you go, mate?”

  Betts scoffed. “Typical useless morons…Security guards and all other staff on duty saw nothing. Wasted my time asking for surveillance footage...”

  “Weren’t there cameras above the driveway on the way in?”

  “Yeah, but they haven’t worked for months…” Betts flung a dismissive hand at the ceiling and sat. “General duty crews are canvassing for witnesses. Will check surrounding businesses for any camera footage later, but doubt we’ll find anything worthwhile…”

  Porter phoned Steve Williams and gave him a summary of developments. He described the state of Nadia’s corpse.

  Williams groaned. “Tell you, Port, branding is a first for me. Are ‘KA’ the crook’s initials? Of one person, or a group? What the fuck do those letters, and that message, mean?”

  “No idea yet, but I’m certain that Nadia’s killers are with the mob who did the council blokes. Reckon they witnessed her abduction and had to be taken care of…”

  “Agreed. But why risk dumping her at the morgue and exposing themselves? Why cremate the council guys, but not her too?”

  “They could be protecting a location…Or trying to confuse us, want us to think they’re separate mobs.”

  “Possibly…Or did they simply want you and Betts to see the message? As investigators who worked Azelia.”

  “Reckon you’re onto something there, given the timing of it getting canned. Maybe they wanna lay blame, and hold us responsible for Nadia’s death?” He pictured the message scored into her back. ‘You have denied her.’ Were they referring to ‘you,’ as in, the entire Police Force? Or ‘you,’ Dan Porter, have denied her? He tried to shake the image from his head, but it lingered like a thief in a dark alley.

  “Is this a serial killer we’re dealing with, Port? Or a one-off psycho with a vendetta, someone out to disgrace us?”

  “As you said, I reckon they’ve used Nadia to send a message. Hope it’s a one-off…”

  “You and I both…What’s clear from their brazenness, is that these pricks consider us incompetent.”

  “Will be happy to prove ‘em wrong.”

  “They’re daring us to find them, Port, playing a game.”

  “I say bring it on…How have locals reacted to the Azelia news?”

  Williams sighed. “Koori leaders are meeting as we speak. You know Sam Cartright’s gang? Fucking troublemakers, spoiling for a fight. We’re in for a rough old ride...”

  “It scares me, mate.”

  “Me too, the whole city’s on edge, and I’m not sure the Force is prepared for it.”

  “Nah, not that…The mongrels abducting our girls have started to kill ‘em. And we’ve no bloody clue who they are, or how to stop ‘em. That’s what scares me…”

  ELEVEN

  Lionel Roberts forced a smile as his assistant Wendy placed a cup of coffee and a newspaper on his desk like she did at 8.30am every work day. A country girl with old-fashioned morals and a degree in political science, she’d been a wonderful asset during his short time at Legal Aid. When she’d interviewed for the position, he realized her passion for Aboriginal justice and culture was equal to his own. And for that reason, not her pretty smile, he gave her the job.

  “It’s terrible...” She pointed to the front page of Thursday’s newspaper. “They mutilated the poor girl…Not a good look for the cops is it?”

  Lionel read the headline aloud. “Sydney horror: Missing girl brutally murdered as police scrap taskforce.” Devastating news, a Koori girl taken from once safe streets and slaughtered. But, and he hated himself for the thought, it was the horrific story he’d waited for. It would grab public attention, and media coverage would stir raw emotions in blacks and whites alike. And with police announcing Azelia’s cessation on the same day, tensions would rise beyond boiling point. At least he hoped they would…

  “It’s tragic,” he said. “Any mention of a name?”

  She gulped, face paler than usual. “No, but my cousin knew her. Was Nadia Tindall, only fourteen...”

  Lionel winced, he knew the Tindall family. The father’s name he’d forgotten, a drunken deadbeat. But the mother, Debbie, was a proud Koori who’d always worked several jobs to support her kids. He’d send a card to offer condolences.

  “I can’t believe the police ignore this like it’s not happening.”

  She over-exaggerated raised eyebrows. “Lionel?”

  “Okay, I believe it…Mutilated? Does it say how?”

  “Nothing specific, thankfully. The thought’s bad enough.”

  “Indeed…” He sipped coffee. “Perfect, thanks.” He pushed the newspaper aside, then grabbed a bundle of mail from the in-tray. Wendy left the office.

  It had been a fortnight since Lionel flooded the city with pamphlets seeking information regarding Sydney’s missing girls, and his post office box overflowed. Wendy told him to be encouraged by the response, but ninety-nine percent of it had been hate mail.

  Obscure political parties accused him of dividing society. Fanatical white supremacy groups, Neo-Nazis and the National Socialist Alliance, condemned his prejudice against whites and warned him to watch his back. Police Associations demanded he stop badmouthing their members. Asian and African community groups suggested Aboriginals sought preferential treatment. Religious leaders asked he place trust in Jesus, Mohamed or Buddha. Peace activists expressed fear he’d start a civil war. And there were pictures of kidnap suspects, with obscene notes attached. Suspects ranged from famous movie stars to a horde of Ku Klux Klansman on horseback.

  Lionel took an envelope from the pile, opened it, and chuckled at the picture that slid out. Ronald McDonald’s hair and nose had been colored black, and a caption read ‘It’s you, Lionel, you’re the kidnapper!’

  He opened another twenty letters and discarded nineteen. In the one he kept, an anonymous source alleged a convicted child rapist living in South Sydney had abducted the girls. He’d copy the letter and send it to the police as he’d done with a hundred others. But he hadn’t received a reply and wasn’t expecting any. If police couldn’t bother investigating missing girls, who’d read anonymous tip-offs?

  Bored with hate mail, he toggled his computer mouse, and the monitor flicked into life. He opened his email inbox. Near full, and judging from recent days, most of it would read similar to the paper mail. He scrolled down the page, skimmed over the ‘subject’ fields. He reached the bottom, prepared to click to the next one, then noticed a ‘subject’ written in capital letters near the top of the page.

  He read the line in a whisper. ‘IMPORTANT INFORMATION RE MISSING KOORI GIRLS – PLEASE OPEN’ He opened the email and read it in a blur. After reading it a second time he sat back and played with his goatee. The third time, he leaned towards the screen and read slower.

  Dear Mr Roberts,

  I’ll stay anonymous, my nickname’s Shirley. I’m a Koori woman living in Sydney. I saw your message in the paper before I came away (I’m on holiday in the UK) and like you, I’m sickened by the disappearance of so many Koori girls. Just now I’ve read on the internet about the murdered Tindall girl being found.

  It’s horrible and something must be done to stop it. You sound like you care so I’m willing to give you a chance. You see, I know of bad things that’ve happened. I’ve been scared and afraid for a long time and there are those I need to protect. That’s why I can’t tell you everything from the start. Make some progress and let me trust you and maybe I’ll tell you more.

  My history teacher used to say, ‘To deal with the present, we must first understand the past’. It’s one of few things I remember from school, because I think it’s true. I don’t know who exactly is taking these girls, but go to Crooked River mission. I’m sure you’ll find some answers there.

  Please don’t reply to this. If you do, I will ignore it and cease communication. Don’t try to find me, and
keep this email to yourself. Good luck, and trust no-one.

  A shiver of hope ran down the back of Lionel’s neck. “Yes. Finally…”

  ‘Shirley’ had provided anonymous, unsubstantiated information. But if he could confirm she’d sent the email from the UK, it would lend credibility, and help him believe in her the way he wanted to. He jotted down the internet provider number in the email’s header, opened an address search tool from the computer’s desktop and entered the digits. He hit the enter key, and waited for the search to complete.

  After a few minutes, the ‘Geographical Location’ flashed on the screen. The email had originated from Scotland, United Kingdom. Lionel grinned. Could ‘Shirley’ be genuine? He printed her email and locked it in the desk drawer.

  His cell phone rang. He read the caller ID and answered. “Fred, good to see your ESP’s still working. Just the man I need to talk to.”

  Klose sniggered. “Thought you’d be waiting on my call…”

  “I was, but first, you remember that email search program you gave me?”

  “Aha…”

  “Is it accurate?”

  “Has been for me. It playing up?”

  “No, I’ve just used it to confirm a location, and seemed to work okay.”

  “Location of who?”

  Lionel hesitated. ‘Shirley’ had requested complete secrecy, but what did he have to hide from Klose? “Received an email from a Koori lady this morning, in relation to the missing girls.”

  “And?”

  “Told me she’s in Scotland. The search confirmed it.”

  “Excellent…Who is she? What info did she give?”

  Shirley’s words echoed in Lionel’s head. Trust no-one. “Ah…None yet. Says she may have something later, and wants to stay anonymous.” He hesitated. “Might be nothing, but checked her location anyway.”

  Lionel listened as Klose clicked his tongue for five seconds. He swore under his breath, because no-one detected his lies better than Klose did.