 
# Official Reading Guide

## An introduction to the books of a crime writing mystic

## Peter Mulraney
Copyright © 2019 by Peter Mulraney

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.

ISBN: 978-0-6482661-2-9

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# Contents

Introduction

I. Fiction

Deadly Sands: Inspector West

Chapter 1

Free Copy of Deadly Sands

After: Inspector West

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Author Insight

The Holiday: Inspector West

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Author Insight

Holy Death: Inspector West

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Author Insight

Whistleblower: Inspector West

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Author Insight

Twisted Justice: Inspector West

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Author Insight

The East Park Syndicate

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Author Insight

Reading Stella Bruno Investigates

The Identity Thief

Chapter 1

A Gun of Many Parts

Chapter 1

Bones in the Forest

Chapter 1

A Deadly Game of Hangman

Chapter 1

Taken

Chapter 1

Fallout

Chapter 1

Ryan Parish PI: Rosie - Opening Scene

Ryan Parish PI: Framed - Opening Scene

Author Insight

The New Girlfriend

Chapter 1

Author Insight

II. Writing as a mystic

A Question of Perspective

Introduction

Superman

Free Copy of A Question of Perspective

Sharing the Journey: Reflections of a Reluctant Mystic

Introduction

The Journey

Start from where you are

I Am Affirmations: The Power of Words

Introduction

a miracle

Author Insight

Beyond the Words: Reflections on I Am Affirmations

Introduction

A miracle

Amazing

Author Insight

My Life is My Responsibility: Insights for Conscious Living

Introduction

My life Is my responsibility

Attend to your own business

Author Insight

Mystical Journey: A Handbook for Modern Mystics

Introduction

The Mystical Journey

Author Insight

III. Self-help

After She's Gone: A survival guide for men who find themselves living alone.

Introduction

Topics covered

Cooking 4 One: An introduction to cooking for men who find themselves living alone.

Introduction

Topics covered

Sanity Savers: 9 strategies for enjoying life for men living alone.

Introduction

Topics covered

Living Alone: Information for men who find themselves on their own.

Preface

Topics covered

Everyday Project Management

Forward

Project Overview

Author Insight

Everyday Productivity

Introduction

How to use this book

Overview

Author Insight

Everyday Money Management

Introduction

Topics covered

Author Insight

Field Notes for Writers

Introduction

Topics covered

IV. Coloring books and journals

Sharing the Journey Coloring Books

Mandalas

Mandala No 10

Mandala No 20

Sharing the Journey Coloring Journals

Journaling

Living Alone Journal

Introduction

Author Insight

Final Note

# Introduction

Hello, and welcome to the official reading guide for my books.

What makes this the official guide? Simple. It's written by me, the crime writing mystic who wrote the books, and not by someone else.

Many authors only write in one genre. I'm not one of those. Most of my fiction writing covers crime or murder mysteries but not all of it. I also write as a mystic and a self-help author.

In the following pages you'll find extracts, author insights, overviews of the topics covered in my non-fiction books, and details of how to find the books.

The guide is divided into parts:

  * Part 1: Fiction
  * Part 2: Writing as a mystic
  * Part 3: Self-help
  * Part 4: Coloring books and journals

I hope you'll take the time to explore them all.

I enjoy telling stories and sharing. I hope that comes across in the stories, insights, and information you're about to discover.

Let's get started.
I

# Fiction

## Crime Fiction

## Novels

Inspector West series

  * Deadly Sands (prequel)
  * After
  * The Holiday
  * Holy Death
  * Whistleblower
  * Twisted Justice
  * The East Park Syndicate

## Novellas

Stella Bruno Investigates

  * The Identity Thief
  * A Gun of Many Parts
  * Bones in the Forest
  * A Deadly Game of Hangman
  * Taken
  * Fallout

## Short Stories

Ryan Parish PI

  * Rosie
  * Framed

## Other Fiction

The New Girlfriend

# Deadly Sands: Inspector West

# Chapter 1

Detective Inspector Carl West stood under a tree, in the entrance courtyard of University Hospital, filling his lungs with smoke. He could have been inside, sitting in the air-conditioned lobby, with Detective Constable Peter James and Wally Baker's distraught wife, but he needed a cigarette.

Detective Sergeant Wally Baker had collapsed outside Carl's office, after a coughing fit that had left his shirt covered in blood.

With fifteen years in the force, Carl had seen his fair share of dead bodies and initially thought he was looking at another when Wally hit the floor. Instinctively, he'd checked for vital signs, and been relieved to detect a pulse and discover that Wally was still breathing, even though he was unconscious. Peter had called an ambulance and they had followed it to the hospital, calling Debra, Wally's wife, on the way.

They had been waiting at the hospital with Debra for over an hour, while the emergency staff worked to stabilise Wally's condition.

Carl finished his cigarette and headed in to rejoin the others in the lobby, where it was definitely a lot cooler.

'Is this summer ever going to end?'

'You'll be complaining about the cold soon enough, Inspector,' said Debra, 'and you should be giving those bloody cigarettes away. Look what smoking has done to Wally. Silly bugger won't listen to me. I've been begging him to stop smoking for years.'

Nearly everyone in the force had been a smoker when Carl had joined but that was no longer the case. Only the die-hards, like Carl and Wally, were still refusing to heed the health warnings. They'd been smoking partners for the last five years.

Carl heard a voice inside his head that sounded a lot like his grandfather, who had died of lung cancer after a lifetime of smoking, telling him Debra was right.

The smirk on Peter James' face told him that his constable agreed with Debra. There's nothing worse than a converted non-smoker, thought Carl, remembering the day Peter had announced his engagement to Janice, and that he had quit smoking.

'Mrs Baker?'

Carl's reverie was interrupted by the nurse, dressed in a light pink uniform, addressing Debra.

'Yes,' said Debra.

'Your husband is awake. If you'd like to come with me, I'll take you to see him now.'

'Is he going to be alright?'

'You'll need to ask Dr Wentworth about that. He's waiting to speak with you.' The nurse turned to Carl and Peter. 'I'm sorry, gentlemen, but the doctor said no visitors.'

Noticing the apprehension in Debra's eyes, Carl said, 'It's okay, Debra, we'll wait.'

'Thanks, Inspector.'

They watched as Debra walked away with the nurse.

'Let's get a coffee,' said Carl. 'I doubt they'll let her stay too long.'

'What do you think are his chances?'

'I don't think we'll be seeing him back at work. Last time I saw somebody look like that was when my grandfather was dying, and he didn't last long after they'd diagnosed it.'

'You reckon he's got lung cancer?'

'You don't cough up that much blood and pass out with bronchitis, Pete.'

In the beachside suburb of Morton Sands, eighteen-year old Melissa Keating slipped a white tee-shirt over her sky-blue bikini, which revealed considerably more of her tanned body than it concealed, and pulled on a pair of white shorts as she prepared to join her friends on the beach, for the last party of the summer before classes started at City University.

If her father hadn't been home, Melissa would have put the tee-shirt into her sling bag, for when it cooled down later in the evening, but having no desire for another fight with him over her dress sense, or lack of it as he saw it, she'd settled on wearing the tee-shirt and shorts as the better option.

'How do I look?' Melissa asked, as she walked into the kitchen, where Gayle Keating was preparing the evening meal.

'Irresistible!' said her mother. 'I bet young Darren won't be able to keep his eyes off you.'

'It's not his eyes I have to worry about these days, Mum.'

'Men! They're all the bloody same. Even your father, when he was younger. I had to fight him off with a stick.'

'God, I hope all boys don't turn into grumpy old men when they get older.'

Mrs Keating glanced in the direction of the family room, where her husband was getting his nightly update on the state of the world, to ensure he wasn't listening to their conversation.

'He's not so grumpy when he wants a bit. Still can't keep his hands to himself.'

'What's all that giggling about?'

'Go back to your news, honey. Just a bit of girl talk.'

Mrs Keating ushered her daughter towards the back door, away from the family room where her husband sat in front of the TV.

'What time do you think you'll be home?'

'Darren has to work in the morning, so we shouldn't be too late. Around ten, I'd say.'

'Got your phone?'

Melissa held up her sling bag. 'And another top in case it gets cold.'

A dark shape appeared through the frosted glass pane in the back door as the sound of someone tapping on the glass attracted their attention. Punctuality was one of the many things Melissa liked about Darren.

'Evening, Mrs Keating,' said Darren, when Melissa opened the door.

'Ooh, don't you look spiffy. I thought it was a beach party?' said Mrs Keating.

'That doesn't mean a guy has to turn up half naked, does it?'

'What's this about being half naked?' said Mr Keating, walking up behind his wife.

'Hello, Mr Keating,' said Darren.

'Well, it's obviously not you.'

'Not yet, Mr Keating. My mother says a gentleman has to keep his clothes on until he gets to the beach.'

'Are you trying to convince me that you're a gentleman, Darren?'

'Keith, leave the boy alone.'

Mr Keating put his arm around his wife's waist and nuzzled the back of her neck. 'Have a good time, and don't be getting home too late, missy. I'd like to be asleep before midnight.'

'We should be back around ten, Mr Keating, I have to be at work at six.'

The Keatings watched their only child leave arm in arm with Darren, who had been her boyfriend since she had turned sixteen.

'He's a nice kid that Darren,' said Mr Keating, as his wife closed the back door to stop the cool air from the air conditioner spilling out of the house.

Keith and Gayle Keating loved living near the ocean.

They had put off having children, and saved like mad for the first five years of their marriage, to buy the house in Sheriff Street, only two streets back from the foreshore, which had been their home ever since. Melissa had spent eighteen summers on the beach. She loved the water.

As a twelve-year old, Melissa had joined the local surf life saving club, a beachside institution devoted to lifeguard services and competitive water sports, and spent her summer days competing in carnivals and patrolling the beach. The surf life saving club was where she had met Darren and his older brother, John. The club held Friday night beach parties over summer to raise funds for maintaining its equipment.

Most Friday nights during summer, Keith and Gayle attended the beach parties and socialised with their neighbours, like Mark and Helen Jackson, Darren's parents, who lived a couple of blocks inland from Sheriff Street. This week they had decided to spend a quiet Friday night at home, so the kids could relax one last time before the start of the academic year.

One of the pleasures of living on the coast, which they looked forward to nightly at this time of year, was the sea breeze that swept through the house on its way inland at the end of every hot summer's day.

At nine o'clock, Gayle shut off the air conditioner and opened up the house to allow in the sea breeze, and joined Keith on the front veranda to enjoy a glass or two of chilled chardonnay, while they waited for Melissa and Darren to come home.

Sitting in the shadows, they sipped wine and listened to the sound of breaking waves drifting over the houses between Sheriff Street and the beach. The only light, cast by the distant street lamp on the corner where Sheriff Street joined Marine Avenue, which ran down to the beach, didn't illuminate anything on the veranda.

As they chatted about their day, the soft rhythmic sound of the waves, breaking and rolling back into the sea, was drowned out by the wail of a siren approaching. The piercing sound built to a crescendo and abruptly stopped, and a pulsating glow of red and blue lights lit up the night sky in the direction of the surf life saving clubhouse.

'I wonder what's happened,' said Keith.

'Probably one of the oldies in the retirement village has had a turn,' said Gayle. 'Seems there's an ambulance there every second day. Connie told me this morning that Mrs Porter, you remember her don't you? Anyway, they had to call an ambulance for her last night; she had another heart attack.'

A few minutes later, the wail of the siren came to them again as the ambulance departed with its precious cargo.

As silence descended across the night, Keith pressed the button that illuminated the face of his watch.

'It's way after ten. I wonder what's keeping them. It's not like Darren to be late,' said Keith.

'Do you think I should call her? She took her phone.'

Before Keith could answer, a police car, with its red and blue emergency lights flashing, turned into their street from the direction of the beach and pulled up it front of the house. The front and rear doors of the car opened. A police officer got out of the front of the car. Darren's brother emerged from the rear, vaulted the front fence and ran up to the veranda.

'Is Melissa here?'

'What's going on?' said Keith, looking from John to the police officer running up the path behind him.

'Is Melissa here?' John repeated.

The desperation in his voice finally broke their trance.

'They haven't come back from the party yet,' said Gayle.

'Shit!' said John, turning to the police officer behind him. 'She's not here.'

Keith switched on the veranda light. 'Will somebody please tell me what's going on?'

'Mr and Mrs Keating?'

'Yes,' said Gayle.

'I'm Constable Head. There's been an incident near the surf lifesavers. We're looking for your daughter, Melissa.'

'She's with Darren,' said Keith, looking at John and opening his hands in question.

'Darren's been bashed. Didn't you hear the ambulance?' said John. 'She wasn't with him when we found him.'

'Did you try calling her?' said Gayle.

'She doesn't have her phone,' said Constable Head. 'It's in the bag we found with Darren.'

Keith walked over to Gayle and put his arm around her waist, as he finally understood that Melissa was in trouble, probably in danger. They stood in silence looking at each other. None of them knowing what to say.

'Charlie, have you located the girl?' said a voice, over the radio clipped to Constable Head's shirt.

'Negative, Sarge.'

A loud thudding sound erupted overhead and a bright searchlight pierced the darkness, illuminating everything in its path, as the police helicopter hovered above the dunes south of the surf life saving clubhouse, and then slowly made its way down the coast.

Carl sat in his reclining armchair, watching the late-night news and thinking about going to bed. He hated sleeping alone but, most nights, he had no other choice. For reasons he was not yet ready to face, Carl had not been able to establish a lasting, long-term relationship in the years since Virginia had left him.

Whenever a lover packed up and moved out, usually after several months of lust fuelled sex, Carl always told himself it wasn't about him. In his mind, it was always the same reason Virginia had given him - being married to a policeman sucked.

He turned off the TV and thought about Debra Baker. Her life was turning into a nightmare, not because her husband was a policeman but because he was a smoker. Wally had only just celebrated his fiftieth birthday but, according to Dr Wentworth, he wouldn't be around to celebrate any more birthdays. Wally was expected to be dead within a matter of months.

Carl had been relieved when Sally, Debra and Wally's twenty-six year old daughter, had arrived at the hospital. Comforting distraught women was not one of those things Carl ticked as a strength, whenever he was analysing his life performance to date.

He wondered how hard it would be to actually quit smoking. If Peter had pulled it off, almost overnight, he decided it couldn't be that hard.

Instead of having a final cigarette before going to bed, he decided to go online and look up what he could find on quitting smoking. As he was keying 'quit smoking' into Google, his mobile phone rang.

The ringtone told him it was not a social call.

Half an hour later, at close to midnight, Carl parked his car behind a gaggle of patrol cars clustered around the entrance to a path that led down to the beach through the dunes, about a hundred metres south of the Morton Sands Surf Life Saving Club. Glancing at the parked cars, he noted that Peter hadn't arrived yet. He took the opportunity to survey his surroundings and enjoy a cigarette while he waited.

There was a small group of onlookers on the footpath, under the street light opposite the entrance to the path, quietly talking and waiting. And, not surprisingly, every house along the esplanade was lit up, despite the late hour.

Five minutes after Carl had arrived, a silver Ford, identical to the car he had driven to the scene, pulled up and Peter James joined him in the warm summer night.

They walked past the parked police cars to where Constable Head stood at the head of the path, with three other officers, doing much the same as the onlookers.

'Evening, Charlie,' said Carl. 'Where's the body?'

Constable Head switched on his torch. 'This way, Inspector.'

They walked towards the sound of breaking waves. The path forked about ten metres down. Constable Head stopped and shone his torch on the crime scene tape stretched across the path that went in the direction of the surf life saving clubhouse.

'This is where the boy was bashed.'

'Any news on his condition?' said Carl.

'I was here when they put him in the ambulance, Inspector. The paramedics didn't give him much of a chance,' said Constable Head.

They walked down the other path to the beach, where another constable stood with a torch. Constable Head pointed to the lights further down the beach.

'You'll need to walk along the beach near the water. You might get your shoes wet but we can't search the area along the edge of the dunes 'til first light.'

'Thanks, Charlie.'

Fortunately, out on the expanse of the beach, there was sufficient moonlight to distinguish wet, firm sand from moving water, so they were able to avoid damaging their shoes. It took them almost five minutes to walk down the beach to where the pathologist, Mike Jonas, and three crime scene investigators stood in a huddle outside a blue tent. The area around the tent was lit up by a bank of lights, attached to a pole driven into the sand and powered by a noisy portable generator.

'Evening, gentlemen,' said Carl. 'What have we got?'

'Come and take a look,' said Mike.

Carl and Peter followed Mike into the tent. A high wattage globe, hanging from the frame, illuminated the interior. On the sandy floor of the tent, next to Mike's bag, lay the naked body of an athletic looking young woman, with short dark hair and an open-eyed stare. The girl so closely resembled Peter's wife that Carl thought she could have passed as her younger sister.

'You okay, mate?' said Carl, placing a hand on Peter's shoulder.

'Shit, she looks a lot like Janice, doesn't she?' said Peter.

'Fortunately for you, Pete,' said Mike, 'she's been identified as Melissa Keating, the girlfriend of the lad that was bashed back there in the dunes. She only lived a couple of streets from here.' Mike looked at the body at his feet. 'Her father identified the body for us, poor bastard.'

Carl took a couple of deep breaths and thought about that poor bastard, who he'd have to confront before he went home.

'What can you tell us?'

'She's been strangled and sexually assaulted.'

'Anything concrete to go on, Mike?'

'There's blood under her finger nails, so your killer's likely to be scratched, and it looks like he hasn't heard about safe sex. Left us a sample.'

'Let's hope he's in the database then. Any sign of her clothing?'

'Nothing with the body. The boys might find something when they search the dunes in the morning but, who knows, perhaps your killer collects souvenirs.'

'I don't like the sound of that, Mike,' said Carl. 'I don't like the sound of that one bit.'

Carl and Peter retraced their steps along the beach and made their way to the Morton Sands Surf Life Saving clubhouse, where the last of the beach party goers were still being interviewed by Uniform.

As he entered the brightly lit clubhouse, Carl glanced at his watch. It was almost one o'clock, Saturday morning.

Sergeant Kevin Ryan, the officer in charge of the first responders, relieved to see an Inspector from Major Crime, approached Carl as soon as he and Peter entered the clubhouse.

'Evening, Inspector.'

'Evening, Kev. What can you tell me?'

'Not much that will help you, I'm afraid, Inspector. Regular Friday night fundraiser. Mostly regulars. Nearly all locals. No-one saw anyone behaving suspiciously.'

'Did anyone see Melissa and her boyfriend leave?'

'The boy's brother. Said they left around nine forty-five. Apparently the lad had to be at work at six in the morning.'

That meant less than four hours had passed since Melissa Keating, and her boyfriend, had left the clubhouse to walk home along the beach and up the path through the dunes. Carl wondered how many times they had done that over the summer, and what had gone wrong this time.

'Who found the lad that was bashed?'

'His brother, on his way home. Said he left here at ten for the same reason. The boys work for their father.'

'Do we have an address for the girl's parents?'

'Sheriff Street; number seven. Community liaison is with them.'

'What about the brother? Where can I find him?'

'He's with his parents at the hospital. I gather the lad is not expected to make it, Inspector.'

'Not another of those fatal single punches?'

'I don't think so, Inspector. Charlie reckoned the boy's skull had been smashed in. Said he was covered in blood.'

'Thanks, Kev.

Carl turned to Peter. 'Your car is closest.'

'This doesn't sound like your normal run-of-the-mill rapist, does it?' said Peter, as they walked towards where they had parked their cars.

'What's a normal rapist, Pete? They're all sick bastards as far as I'm concerned. No young girl deserves to be killed simply because some dickhead wants to fuck her.'

'I've never wanted to kill any girl I've fucked,' said Peter, pressing the remote to open the car.

'Not every girl wants to be fucked, Pete. I guess you've been lucky, so far.'

They climbed into the car and shut the doors.

'I hear your luck has run out again.'

'When it comes to women, Pete, I think my luck might have run out years ago.'

It took them less than two minutes to drive to Sheriff Street. The police car parked in front of the house made it easy to find number seven.

When they knocked, the front door was opened by Constable Jane Priest. Carl knew she wasn't a community liaison officer. Jane smiled at Peter and acknowledged Carl with a nod.

'Who's with the Keatings, Constable?'

'Marg Jolly, Inspector. You'll find them in the family room, at the end of the corridor.'

Jane stood aside to let the detectives into the house but touched Carl's arm as he passed. 'I think they're still in shock. They haven't said much since we got here.'

Jane's touch reignited a suppressed desire that Carl thought he had placed in quarantine. Not game to look her in the eye, Carl said, 'Thanks,' and walked towards the light at the other end of the corridor, oblivious to Peter's diplomatic smile at Jane as he followed Carl into the house.

Despite fifteen years service, ten of them with Major Crime, Carl still dreaded initial interviews with the parents of a murder victim. And, seeing that Melissa Keating had been raped and murdered practically on her doorstep, he was expecting this one to be particularly traumatic.

Standing in the doorway, he looked into the family room. The Keatings were sitting together on the couch, holding hands, waiting. Three empty tea cups sat on the table in the middle of the room, where Marg Jolly sat with her notebook in front of her.

'Come in, Inspector, we've been expecting you,' said Marg.

Keith Keating stood and shook hands with the detectives, and then pulled two chairs out from under the table for them to sit on. Gayle Keating smiled wanly at them when she was introduced. Carl thought he'd seen more signs of life in some of the corpses he'd been forced to look at. He knew, from experiences that he'd prefer to forget, that it was particularly hard on a mother when her child was brutally murdered.

'I'm really sorry we have to be here,' said Carl. 'I know there is nothing I can say that will take away the hurt or bring your daughter back.' He looked at Peter and then back at the Keatings. 'Our job is to find the person that did this to her, and to put him away so he can't do it again. I promise you, I will not stop until we have done precisely that, even if it takes the rest of my life.'

'Thank you, Inspector,' said Keith Keating. 'I hope it doesn't take that long.'

Carl stood. 'We'll be back in the morning, when we've all had a chance to get some sleep. I'll need to ask you a lot of questions about Melissa, about her friends, if she had any enemies, what sort of things she did and about her relationship with Darren but, before we go, there is one thing I'd like to know now.'

'Yes?' said Keith.

'What was she wearing when she left for the party?'

'A white tee-shirt, white shorts and sandals,' said Keith, 'although, you would have had to look closely to see the shorts. They wear next to nothing these days.'

'What about underwear?' asked Carl.

Keith Keating shrugged his shoulder and looked at his wife. 'I'm not privy to that information, Inspector. Honey, do you know what she had on under her tee-shirt?'

Gayle Keating's eyes lit up. 'Her new bikini, one she hadn't shown you yet. It was sky-blue. She looked absolutely stunning in it. It really offset her tan.'

She was obviously very proud of her daughter, thought Carl.

Gayle stared at Carl. 'Why do you want to know that?'

'We will be searching the dunes at first light. We need to know what we're looking for. I'm sure there will be all sorts of clothing items in the sand, given the summer we've been having,' said Carl.

'Why do you need to search for her clothes?' asked Gayle.

'Because the animal that took her life also took her clothes,' said Keith, who had not been able to share the details of what he had seen, when he'd identified their daughter's body, until that moment.

# Free Copy of Deadly Sands

**_Deadly Sands_** , is a prequel to the Inspector West series. It introduces you to Carl West and tells the story that leads to the formation of the team you'll meet in the Inspector West series.

You can download a free ebook version of **_Deadly Sands_** by subscribing to my **Crime Readers Group** newsletter. You can unsubscribe after you download your free copy if you're not interested in subscribing to my mailing list.

If you'd prefer to buy the paperback, here's the link: **_Deadly Sands_**

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Note: If the links don't work in the reading app on your device, go to **www.petermulraney.org** using the web browsers on your device or computer.

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Read on for a couple of chapters from _**After** ,_ book one in the Inspector West series.

# After: Inspector West

# Chapter 1

'It says here that a bloke can expect to live until he's ninety, maybe even older if he's fit and healthy, and gets plenty of sex.'

'Paul, turn out the light and go to sleep. I'm too tired.'

'Relax. I wasn't chatting you up. I just hadn't thought about living that long. I thought I'd be dead way before ninety.'

'You'll be bloody dead before morning if you don't shut up and let me get some sleep.'

Paul switched off the light. He lay there thinking about living for another fifty years or so and wondering how he was going to pay for twenty five to thirty years of retirement living. He would just have to get serious about financial planning, once they had passed through the private school fees paying phase of middle class living. The last time he had seriously reviewed the family budget the most obvious fact was that their expenses matched their income. There was no surplus for contingencies.

His thoughts turned to Josie. It was always a challenge being next to her in the bed. He wanted sex every time he touched her naked body. Josie, however, had a different perspective. Obviously, as far as Paul could see, God had a twisted sense of humour. How else could you explain the different arousal rates between the sexes? He sees or thinks naked woman - instant arousal, with lumping great erection advertising the state of his interior monologue. She requires hours of talking, coupled with gentle, slow foreplay, before she even thinks about having sex and, even after all that, she is just as likely to roll over and go to sleep, and leave him there with his dripping erection. At least, that had been his experience.

'Paul, stop tossing and turning! Every time you move you pull the covers off my shoulders.'

'Sorry. I'll try to die as soon as possible.'

She ran her smooth hand over his belly. It felt good. His penis stirred from its frustrated slumber.

'I'm sorry, honey. I'm just really exhausted and I'm finding it hard to go to sleep.'

She snuggled up to him. Within three minutes she was asleep.

It was no wonder prostitution was a thriving business, he thought. It was married men who required the services of prostitutes and supposedly celibate men, in the guise of clergy, who were most strident in their opposition to the profession. He wondered what it would be like having sex with a prostitute. She certainly wouldn't engage with the client on a personal level. After all, the client was just another transaction and, to survive as a person, the prostitute would have to shut down her emotional self while she was on the job. He decided he'd stick with Josie.

He thought of those times when they did connect and the sex was indescribable. What was the point of sex anyway? It wasn't about the physical relief, even though that was good, it was about the sacredness of intimacy and that required connection on all three levels of being: physical, emotional and spiritual. He understood why communication failure led to relationship breakdown. The blokes were too much into the physical to notice that the girls were coming from the emotional looking for the spiritual. He knew it was when he came from the emotional, and they touched the spiritual, that they had great sex in the physical.

He looked at the clock: 11:55. He got up and went down the corridor to the toilet for a piss.

He got back into bed to wait for sleep. Josie was snoring softly. He knew he didn't snore softly because Josie always woke him up and told him to stop it.

Josie wasn't the only one snoring. He could hear Matthew trumpeting away in the next room. That boy was always making noise. He spoke with a sonic boom and whenever he blew his nose you thought of a ship lost somewhere in a mid-Atlantic fog.

He drifted back to thinking about money. They were spending a fortune on the boys' education and it looked like Matthew wanted to become a musician, while Luke was dreaming about becoming the next Michael Jordan. Well, they had no-one to blame but themselves. They had encouraged the boys to go after their dreams. What was the point of insisting they go into a profession or pursue a safe career?

The alarm clock displayed the time in big red numerals: 12:36. It looked like he wasn't going to get any sleep. At least Josie had rolled over and stopped snoring. If he could only go to sleep he could stop thinking about this stuff.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Paul's hand shot out and hit the switch to kill the electronic rooster. Josie was already out of bed. No wonder she's always tired, he thought. He looked at the clock. 6:00. Time to start the day.

He eased himself out of the bed and ambled down the corridor to the toilet for a morning piss. Then he went into the bathroom, where Josie was fixing her face in front of the mirror.

'Morning, sweetheart'.

He patted Josie's backside as he stepped into the shower to spend five minutes standing under a stream of hot water. After the shower, he rubbed himself dry with a towel and lathered up for his morning shave. By the time he had finished in the bathroom it was 6:30.

He went into the boys' rooms to play alarm clock and start the morning struggle to have them out of the house by ten to eight.

'Come on you lot, out of bed! It's already half past six. Get a move on!'

Then he went to the kitchen for breakfast: two slices of toasted multigrain bread and a cup of coffee.

'Did you sleep well, sweetheart?' he asked, as he sat down at the table.

Josie looked up and shook her head. 'I feel like I've run a marathon. Just can't get my head to switch off.'

'Why don't you call in sick and give yourself a mental health day?'

'You know what it's like at school. Taking a day off just makes more work. Besides, I've promised my year eights I'd listen to their speeches this morning.'

By seven Josie was ready to go. She searched through her handbag for her purse. Found it, opened it and revealed its emptiness.

'Can you give me twenty dollars? I'll pay you back tomorrow when I get paid.'

Paul opened his wallet. It held thirty dollars. He checked his bus ticket. It still had six trips on it. He extracted the twenty dollar note.

'Seems like we are always running out of money,' he said as he handed it over.

'Let's not go there. I've got to go.' She kissed him on the cheek, went up to the boys' rooms, said goodbye to them and left to catch the early bus, so she could enjoy a fifteen minute walk through City Park on the way to work.

After Josie had gone, Paul made another trip to the boys' rooms to make sure they were up and getting dressed. Then he went back to the kitchen to finish cleaning up the breakfast dishes.

'Morning, Dad.' Matthew arrived in the kitchen and started making himself a bowl of cereal for breakfast.

'Where's Luke?'

'He should be here in a minute.'

Before he knew it, it was ten to eight and wouldn't you know it, Luke was in the toilet.

'I'm ready, Dad,' said Matthew as he finalised the packing of his bag.

'Come on Luke, time to go!'

Luke appeared with his tie in one hand and his overstuffed school bag in the other. They were ready.

It took ten minutes to drive the boys to school, then another ten to drive to the interchange to catch the bus. If a bus arrived just after he got there he would make it to work on time. Every morning the boys were not ready to leave at ten to eight he was late for work.

Today he had to wait ten minutes for a bus. Fortunately, it was sunny. He hated waiting at the interchange on cold, wet and windy mornings. The flat roofed, no walls, structure had obviously been designed by someone who would never have to use it.

8:30. Five buses arrived at the same time. The first bus pulled into stop A. Several people rushed towards it, only to be disappointed as the driver shut the door and pulled out. He wondered if the idiot understood he was supposed to be driving people to and from the city according to a timetable and not just driving to a timetable.

He boarded the 578, which stopped at stop B, and got a seat at the back of the bus. He looked at the thirty or so passengers on the bus.

Couples and friends were obvious. Couples touched each other. They held hands or leaned together. Some hugged and kissed as if they had to fit in as much physical contact as possible before the separation of the working day. Friends talked, smiled and laughed. The strangers sat next to each other in the intimate space of the bus seat, often sharing more body heat through the enforced contact with the person alongside them than they shared with any other person in their day. Yet the strangers ignored each other. They stared blankly from glazed eyes, read papers, magazines or novels, blissed out plugged into their iPods or feigned sleep. It was a rare sight to see two apparent strangers strike up a conversation on a bus.

Paul wondered why he didn't speak to the person he was sitting next to. He looked at her as she gazed out the window. He was old enough to be her father but he couldn't help admiring the curves of her young body. Just as well most people couldn't read auras. His would betray his lust every time he looked at a gorgeous young woman.

He wondered if young women noticed. Or did age give older men a veil of invisibility? What chance did the average forty to fifty year old male have of scoring with a gorgeous twenty something year old? He wasn't even on her radar screen. That's why he didn't talk to her. He looked away.

If he couldn't have a gorgeous young woman in his waking life, why were all the women in his dreams gorgeous young women with bodies full of sensual desire? In the dreams they came to him. They beckoned him. They opened their secret parts for him and pulled him into deep penetration. He always awoke at the moment of climax. The subconscious had a lot to answer for.

Maybe his dreams of screwing gorgeous young women were simply expressions of his suppressed sexual desires. Maybe he wasn't getting enough sex at home. No maybe about it. He wasn't.

The bus arrived at his stop in the city. He got off and ambled towards the bank. No point in rushing in for another routine day in the world of banking.

Paul started his day, like he did most mornings, sharing a cup of coffee with Henry, his team leader for the last two years. It was an opportunity to sort out the day's priorities and discuss the state of the world before they got down to the serious stuff.

'I look at the people working here, Paul, especially the ones that have been here for twenty years or more, and wonder how anyone can work in a place like this for that long and be satisfied with a basic clerical position.'

'I think I might know why. It's called economic slavery.'

'Slavery?'

'Think about it. The first workers anywhere were slaves. I mean, who built the Pyramids or the Great Wall of China?'

'I thought it was the emperor.'

'Well, he got the credit but who actually did all the work? The slaves and all they got for it was food and lodging. The emperor lived in luxury while the ordinary working man slaved away building the great whatever.'

'But you can't be serious about slavery in today's world.'

'It's more subtle these days. In the past, the rich could buy and sell slaves on the open market. They can't do that anymore and they don't have to. We turn ourselves into slaves. Think about it. The rich still own the means of production. They make all the things we need and want. They advertise all their wonderful stuff, which we can buy in their shops with money they will lend us, provided we agree to sign a mortgage, a bill of sale or credit card and work for them for minimal wages to pay it all off.'

'Paul, you're having me on, aren't you?'

'Henry, what's stopping you from resigning this morning? It's such a neat system most people don't even realise they're slaves, until it's too late.'

'I see what you mean. Well, we'd better go and do the master's bidding.'

Paul walked from Henry's office to his work station and logged onto his computer to start on the day's problems.

The telephone rang.

'Good morning, lending administration. This is Paul, how can I help you?'

Paul enjoyed problem solving but he detested the constant stream of telephone interruptions. Everybody's problem was urgent and important. To make matters worse, his department was now fielding complaints from customers about the latest fee increase.

To the customers, who had no understanding of the links between the bank's profits, its credit rating and what it paid for funds, any fee increase was highway robbery. To prove their ignorance, they rang up in their hundreds to abuse the bank's staff. Naturally, the boss man on his million dollar salary, who made the decision to raise the fee, didn't take any calls. He wrote a memo to all staff and the wage slaves, like Paul, took all the flak. At least Paul understood the rationale behind the fee increase. Most of his workmates agreed with the customers but were left with the task of handling the angry customers so they could keep their jobs.

Paul waited for the end of the caller's opening rant.

'You're ripping me off! What service am I getting for this fee anyway?'

'Sir, the fee is a way for the bank to recover the cost of operating your account.'

'That can't cost eight dollars a month! You only send me one or two statements a year and my payments are made electronically by my pay office!'

'Sir, we still have to maintain your account on our computer system every day. Your account details take up space. We have to process the electronic payments your pay office makes. Computers cost money to run. In the past we were able to cover the cost in the amount we charged for interest. We can't do that anymore, so we have to increase our fees.'

'What a load of crap! I'll be taking this to Consumer Affairs. You can't do this!'

'Sir, if you read the terms and conditions of your loan contract, you'll see that we have every right to change this fee.'

'Other banks aren't charging eight dollars a month!'

'I suggest you phone around. You'll find this is a fairly standard fee.'

'This is bloody highway robbery!'

Paul knew it was robbery. The bank had the customers over a barrel but he couldn't actually tell the customer that. The bank was getting enough bad press as it was, without him adding to it.

'You bloody banks make such high profits as it is. Why can't you look after the customers for a change instead of screwing them?'

'Well, sir, perhaps you should buy shares in the bank.'

'What will it cost me to discharge?'

Typical, thought Paul. You give the guy some good advice and he doesn't even hear you. They were all intent on threatening to go elsewhere. Time for the customer retention spiel.

'Sir, the account keeping fee on your account has increased by sixty dollars per year. The interest rate on your account is the lowest it's been for twenty years. If you want to spend a thousand dollars discharging this loan and then spend another five or six hundred dollars setting up another one, with similar fees and charges, elsewhere, I'd be happy to give you an indicative payout figure.'

'Well, now that you put it like that, I see I'm probably in a no win situation.'

'Sir, I appreciate that you're angry about the fee increase but we're stuck with it. In the current competitive environment there's no way we can avoid it.' Unless the executives all took a massive pay cut and he couldn't see that happening. More than likely they'd lay off slaves if the bottom line didn't improve.

'I suppose you're right. Thanks for listening anyway.'

'No problem, sir.'

Paul and his workmates were handling the overflow calls from the fee hotline. The last time he had spoken to the team leader of the fee response team, he had discovered the few he had spoken to had been reasonably civil. Apparently, the bank's customer base contained a large number of abusive people, under the impression that a barrage of obscene language would persuade the bank to change its decision. Fat chance. The bank wasn't even listening.

Paul's mobile phone rang.

'Paul Ford.'

'Paul, it's Rosa. Where's Josie? She isn't here and she's not answering her phone. It just goes through to voice mail. Is everything OK?'

'What are you talking about? She left home to catch the bus at seven this morning.'

'Paul, she's not here.'

'Maybe she decided to take the day off after all. She wasn't exactly full of beans this morning. I suggested she take the day off but she said something about her year eights.'

'She'd have rung me if she was doing that and she's not answering her phone.'

'Maybe she left the bloody thing at home. You know what she's like. She's always leaving it somewhere. Let me call home and get back to you.'

He ended the call, scrolled through his contacts to 'home' and pushed the 'call' button. He waited as the phone rang six times and then listened to the message Luke had recorded on the answering machine.

'Josie, it's Paul. If you get this message, please call me.'

'Where the hell is she?' he mumbled to himself, as he found the school's number and hit the 'call' button. He listened while Rosa did her formal telephone greeting before saying, 'Rosa, it's Paul. There is no answer at home. I've left a message for her to call me. She might have gone back to sleep.'

'I'm worried Paul. This is not like her. She always calls in.'

'Yeah, you're right. Think maybe I'd better go home and check. Give me a call if she arrives at school. I'll talk to you later.'

'Thanks Paul. I'll wait for your call.'

After ending the call, he logged off his computer and went to speak to Henry, who was in his office staring at his computer screen.

'Henry, got a minute?'

'Sure, what's up?'

'Josie's work has just rung to say she hasn't turned up or called in sick and she's not answering her phone or the one at home.'

'Don't like the sound of that.'

'Think I'd better duck home and check if she's okay. She wasn't feeling all that flash this morning. I was surprised she went to work but you know what teachers are like. They reckon it creates more work if they stay at home. She might have had second thoughts and gone back to bed without calling in, which probably means she's as sick as.'

'Sounds like a good idea. Give me a call if you need to take the rest of the day off. Hope she's feeling better soon.'

'Thanks. I'll give you a call.'

Paul went back to his work station, picked up his bag and told his work mates he needed to go home and check on his wife. Then he headed for the door and started retracing his steps.

Riding the bus out of the city mid-morning was an enjoyable experience. No crowd on the bus and not much traffic on the streets. He was back at the interchange before ten o'clock and driving into his driveway ten minutes later.

He got out of the car. Before going in he checked the letter box. It contained no mail. When he opened the front door there was no sign of Josie's handbag on the hall table, its usual spot when she was home. He checked the bedroom. It was empty. He checked every room, including both toilets, and then the backyard. There was no sign of Josie or of her having returned to the house since leaving it earlier in the day.

He wasn't sure what to make of her absence. Where else would she be if she wasn't at school and she wasn't at home? He pulled out his phone and called her number. He listened to her voice mail message and left a message asking her to call him. Then he called Rosa to let her know she wasn't at home and to ask if she had turned up at school.

'I'm really getting worried now, Paul. What if something has happened to her? Maybe you should call the police.'

'Think I'll make a few more calls before I call the police. Let me know if you hear from her.'

He went into the kitchen to find Josie's address book, the one she used for the telephone numbers of her family and friends.

He started with his mother-in-law. 'Ma, it's Paul.'

'Oh hello darling, how are you?'

'Ma, I'm a bit worried. Have you spoken with Josie today?'

'No. What's wrong?'

'I don't know if anything is wrong but she hasn't turned up at work, she's not home and she's not answering her phone. I'm trying to find out where she is. I was just wondering whether you had heard from her.'

'You think something has happened to her?'

'I don't know, Ma. She wasn't feeling well this morning but she still left for school. I thought maybe she had changed her mind about going to work. If she rings can you get her to call me? I'm going to call some of her friends. I'll call you back.'

'I'm worried now, Paul. This is not like Josie. Maybe something bad has happened.'

'We don't know if anything has happened yet. I'm going to make a few more calls.'

'Call me as soon as you find out where she is.'

'Sure, Ma. Bye.' He hung up knowing she would be on the phone to the rest of the family.

Next he called his parent's number. Fortunately, his mother was home.

'Hi, Mum. How are things?'

'Fine thanks. What are you doing calling me at this hour on a working day? Is something wrong?'

'Mum, have you seen or heard from Josie today?'

'That's a strange question, Paul.'

'Mum, Josie seems to have disappeared. She's not at work. She's not at home and she's not answering her phone.'

'Well, she's not here. I haven't heard from her since Sunday. You two haven't finally had a fight have you?'

'Sorry to disappoint you, Mum. Every thing's fine apart from not knowing where she is at the moment. I'll call a few of her friends. She might just be playing truant.'

'That doesn't sound like Josie.'

'I know. That's why I'm worried. If I can't find out where she is, I'll be calling the police.'

'Are you sure you need to get the police involved?'

'Don't you watch TV, Mum? Things happen to people every day. Look, I'll call you back later. Say hello to Dad for me.'

'Are you going to be alright?'

'I'll call you back, Mum.' Paul ended the call.

He worked his way through Josie's address book. None of her close group of friends had heard from her or seen her. No doubt he had started a rumour mill among her friends. At least if any of them did hear from her he would soon find out. Some of them sounded as worried as he felt. Then he wondered whether she was sitting in that park she loved so much.

He called Henry to let him know he hadn't been able to find her and to tell him he was going to check City Park, and then call the police. Henry suggested he speak to the police first, so he called the number for police assistance on the fridge magnet stuck to the kitchen fridge and introduced himself to the female voice that answered.

'How can we help you, Mr Ford?'

'Look, I don't know whether I'm panicking or not but my wife hasn't turned up for work and she's not answering her phone. She's not home either and no-one has heard from her since she left home at seven this morning.'

'Do you have any reason to think anything may have happened to her?'

'She's a teacher. She always lets the school know if she's not coming in or if she is running late. They haven't heard from her and she's not there. This is not like her. I'm worried something might have happened to her.'

'I can understand that, Mr Ford. It's best to report it now so we can have someone look into it. Do you have a pen and paper handy?'

'Yes.'

'OK, you'll need to go to your local police station and file a Missing Persons report. Do you know where your local police station is?'

'Yes, it's about five minutes from here by car.'

'OK, you'll need to supply certain information, so write this down. We'll need a recent photograph, details of her height, weight, age, what she is wearing.' She paused to let him get the details down and then continued, 'we'll want to know if she has any distinguishing features, like scars for example, and the names and contact details of family and friends. If she has a credit card bring the card number.'

'Do you want a digital photo or a paper one?'

'Both if you have them. Does she take any medication?'

'No.'

'OK. Get those details together and go to your local police station. Once you have filed the report we'll be able look into it for you.'

'Thanks.'

He hung up and went to the study and booted up the computer. It took a few minutes to load. He opened the photo library and found three recent photographs of Josie, which he copied and saved to a CD. Then he printed the one of her that he had taken only last weekend on A4 photo paper. While it was printing he checked his email. No new messages. He shut down the computer and wrote down her vital statistics. What the hell was she wearing this morning? Then he remembered. White, sleeveless blouse and black skirt. She was carrying the black bag with shoulder strap she used for carrying students' work to and from school and, yes, those pink running shoes she used for walking, with her regular shoes in a black and white plastic bag.

He looked at the list he had written following the policewoman's instructions. Credit card. He found a statement in the file marked: accounts. Distinguishing features like scars? She had one scar, thanks to Luke's caesarean birth, but that was not visible while she had her clothes on. Having gathered together the CD, the print, the credit card statement and the piece of paper with his notes, he picked up his phone and car keys and headed for the front door.

Ten minutes later he was walking through the door of the local police station. The young officer behind the desk looked up as Paul entered and noted the photograph in his hand.

'Good morning, sir, how can I help you?'

'I need to make a Missing Persons report. My wife seems to have disappeared.' Paul put the photograph, CD, credit card statement and the piece of paper with his notes on the counter.

The officer looked at the photograph. 'When did she go missing?'

'This morning. She hasn't turned up at work. She's not answering her phone. No-one seems to know where she is. I'm worried. She always lets the school know when she's not going to be there.'

'What's your name, sir?'

'Paul, Paul Ford.'

He picked up the things Paul had placed on the counter. 'Mr Ford, come around to an interview room where you can give me all the details.' He opened the door at the end of the counter and led Paul down a short corridor into a small room with a table and four chairs.

'Bit more privacy here, Mr Ford. Just take a seat while I get the right form.'

After a couple of minutes, he came back into the room followed by an attractive woman in a police uniform that looked vaguely familiar, in Paul's assessment.

'Mr Ford, this is Sergeant Wood, she's in charge of our Missing Persons unit.'

Paul stood up and shook hands with Sergeant Wood. 'Paul Ford.'

'Marie Wood.'

They sat down on opposite sides of the table. She looked at the photograph and then looked up.

'OK Paul, what's your wife's name, and why do you think she's missing?'

'Her name's Josephine, but we all call her Josie. I don't know that she is missing. It's just that I don't know where she is and it's very unusual for her not to contact the school, she's a teacher, if she's not going to be at work.'

'Have you tried to contact her yourself?'

'Yes, I've called her mobile. She's not answering. I've been home. She's not there. I've called her mother and some of her friends. No-one has either seen her or heard from her. Look, I know it's less than four hours since I last saw her but something's just not right.'

'You're doing the right thing making this report now. Tell me about when you last saw Josie. You mentioned it was only four hours ago.'

Paul noticed that the younger officer was taking notes.

'She left home for work this morning around seven. That's the last time I saw her.'

'Where does she work and how does she usually get there?'

'She teaches at St Catherine's in the city. It's that girls' school on the southern side of City Park.'

'I know the one. I'm an old scholar.' She looked at Paul and smiled. 'How does Josie get there?'

'She walks to the interchange and catches a bus into the city. Usually, she gets off at the stop near the main gate to City Park on North Terrace and walks through the park to the school. She reckons that's the most peaceful part of her day.'

'If she leaves home at seven, how long does it take to get to the interchange from where you live?'

'It's about a fifteen minute walk. She would normally catch a bus around seven twenty and get off at City Park around seven thirty five and be at school by eight.'

'I take it the school rang you.'

'Yes, Rosa from the school office rang me around nine fifteen to ask me where she was. She had tried calling Josie before she rang me.'

'School starts before nine fifteen, doesn't it? Why didn't they call you earlier if she's normally there by eight?'

'Well, she doesn't have a home class this year. Maybe nobody noticed she wasn't there until she didn't turn up for the first lesson. Anyway, schools are pretty chaotic in the morning.'

'Paul, I'll need to ask you a few personal questions, is that OK?'

'Sure, fire away.'

'How long have you and Josie been married?'

'It'll be twenty years this year, in July.'

'Do you have any children?'

'Two sons, Matthew, he's sixteen, and Luke. He'll be fourteen in August. They go to St Jude's.'

'Oh, you're Matthew's father.' She looked at the photograph again. Now she knew where she had seen her before.

Paul raised an eyebrow.

'My daughter, Margaret, goes to St Jude's. She's in Matthew's home class. She talks about him all the time.'

'Seems Matthew might be keeping some things to himself.'

They smiled.

'How are things at home with you and Josie, Paul?'

'What do you mean?'

'Any tensions? How are things between you and Josie?'

'Nothing out of the ordinary. We're a happily married couple as far as I know. No domestic violence or anything like that, if that's what you mean?'

'Paul, I'm just trying to see if there are any reasons Josie might want to leave without telling you.'

'That's all right. I understand that you're just asking what needs to be asked.'

'Any money worries?'

'Just the usual middle class strain of sending two boys to a private school.'

'What's on the CD?'

'That photo and two others. I took that photo last weekend and the others earlier this year.'

'She looks pretty happy in this photo. What was the occasion?'

'We had a barbecue lunch for her mother's birthday at our place.'

'I'll get you to go through the Missing Persons report with John here, so that we will have your contact details and can start a file. You'll need to sign the report. While you're doing that I'll get these photos circulated to patrols in the city, then I'll be back with a map of the local area and you can show me the path she would take to the interchange from your place.'

The sergeant picked up the CD and left the room. With John's help, Paul spent the next ten minutes completing the Missing Persons report form. When Sergeant Wood returned she placed a map of the local area on the table and handed him a yellow highlighter pen.

'Paul, can you trace out the route that Josie takes to the interchange for me, please?'

Paul looked at the map and located his house. Then he traced the pathway both he and Josie took when they walked to the interchange: turn left at the front of the house, walk to the end of the street, turn right and walk to the interchange along the pathway through the park that ran along the river bank.

'Paul, did you actually see her go that way this morning?'

'No. I only heard her leave through the front door after she gave me a kiss and said goodbye.'

'There's probably nothing to worry about but we will keep a look out for her until she turns up. Most people who go missing, more than ninety five percent of them, turn up by themselves. I know it can't be easy not knowing where she is but she'll probably come home tonight and be all apologetic about not telling anyone where she was. Give me a call on this number when she either contacts you or turns up home. If you don't know where she is by nightfall call me.' She handed him a business card with her contact details. 'What do you intend to do now?'

'I'm going in to City Park just in case she decided to find a quiet spot and spend the day meditating.'

'I hope you find her there.'

'Thanks.'

They shook hands. Paul picked up his copy of the Missing Persons report and his notes. Sergeant Wood led him out to the front entrance of the police station.

Paul walked back to his car and drove into the city. He found a park near the gate on the southern side of City Park, close to St Catherine's. He entered the park and spent a couple of hours looking for Josie, in the parts of the park she had described to him as wonderfully quiet spots in the centre of the city. It certainly was quiet but there was no sign of Josie. He sat down on a bench in the shade of a large tree. He was hot and thirsty. It was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon. He called Rosa and then Josie's mother. Neither had heard anything or seen her since his earlier calls. He walked back to the car and just managed to evade the parking inspector waiting nearby to give him a ticket for overstaying the two hour parking limit. As he drove home, he wondered what he was going to say to the boys when they got home from school.

# Chapter 2

Marie took the Missing Persons report back to her office. In cases like this, once she had released the photograph to the patrols, she would usually file the report and wait for the person to turn up. It wasn't a crime to disappear for a day of peace and quiet, even if a few people got upset about it. Most women came home again without any help from the police if there was no domestic violence involved.

Today she made an exception. As she processed the details against her twenty years of experience, she was left with a nagging feeling that would not subside. She couldn't put her finger right on it but something said this one was not going to be like most of the others. She had met Josie Ford, worked with her at the last school fair. She didn't seem the type to up and disappear. Something was wrong here.

She called PSS, the public security service that monitored the CCTV cameras covering the bus interchange, and asked for a copy of this morning's footage for the period between seven and eight and for them to save the footage for the previous week. Hard experience had taught her that if you didn't get in early with your request for CCTV footage it wouldn't exist when you wanted it. With so much of it these days there was no way they could keep it all.

Then she ran a database search on the Fords. No records. So, she was dealing with law abiding citizens or, at most, with people who had not been caught doing anything illegal. There were plenty of criminals who were still outside the system, so to speak, simply because no-one had caught up with them yet. Still, she had nothing to suggest that the Fords were in that class.

Fifty minutes after placing her order, a DVD containing the CCTV footage arrived by courier. With the A4 photograph of Josie on her desk, she inserted it into the DVD drive of her computer and clicked on the play symbol once it had loaded. She watched it at normal speed until the counter informed her it was up to 07:35:00. Picking up the telephone on her desk, she put in a call to the front counter and asked John to come to her office. When he arrived, she turned the monitor so they could both see it.

'John, I'm going to show you the CCTV footage from the bus interchange for this morning. Mr Ford told us his wife left home at seven and that it would take her about fifteen minutes to walk to the interchange. He said she normally caught a bus around seven twenty.'

'I'd have to check my notes, Sarge. That interview was over an hour ago.'

'You're going to have to do better than that, John, if you ever want to get out from behind that counter.'

'Yes, Sarge.'

'Anyway, we can work on your long-term memory later. Let's work on your short-term memory for the moment. Take a good look at this photo of Mrs Ford.'

John studied the photo. He couldn't help thinking she was a stunner, even if she was forty something.

'Stop drooling and pay attention.' She smiled. He was such a boy.

'You asked me to take a good look.' He grinned back at her.

He put the photograph back on the desk.

'Now, watch this and see if you can spot her.' They watched an intermittent straggle of people wander into the bus interchange, gather in a rough line at the stop for the city buses, and then disappear into the five buses that arrived in the period between seven and seven thirty five.

'I didn't see her, Sarge.'

'I can't see her either. Wherever she went this morning, it didn't include the interchange at the time her husband thought she would be there. Let's just watch the rest up to eight.'

There was no sign of Josie in the footage up to eight. Marie wondered if Paul Ford had lied to her about his wife's movements.

'John, get yourself over to PSS. I've asked them to hold footage for the last week. I want to know if Mrs Ford caught a bus yesterday morning and on all the school days in the last week. Make sure they keep the footage. If she doesn't show up tonight, we may need to see if there are any signs of her meeting someone or being followed. Get them to hold footage of the bus stop outside the North Terrace gate to City Park, where she usually gets off, as well. We might need that too.'

John started to leave.

'John, don't you think you'd better take this photo with you?' She held out the A4 photograph of Josie Ford.

'Thanks, Sarge.' He took the photograph and set off to get a patrol car and drive to the PSS control room in the city.

Marie smiled and shook her head. That should keep him out of trouble for a few hours. He was keen but a little too green for her liking. No wonder they had assigned him to her. What was it the Chief Inspector had said? Something about the lad needing an experienced mentor. She wondered whether what he really meant was that the boy needed someone to keep him out of trouble, and what she had done to be lumbered with the responsibility.

She turned her thoughts to Josie. Why would an apparently happily married mother of two teenage boys disappear first thing in the morning? Well, she was a teacher. The things they had to put up with would be enough to push anybody over the edge. Teachers didn't get much respect these days and it was becoming fashionable to blame them for everything that was wrong with today's young people. So much for parental responsibility. Now it was all some teacher's fault for not disciplining little Johnny or not teaching him properly. Parents were even going into classrooms and threatening teachers when their little darling was called to account for his latest outburst of anti-social behaviour, and it wasn't just the boys mucking up in schools. Just last week she had attended the local high school when an angry parent had turned up and threatened to shoot the principal.

She took out her notepad and made a note. Josie Ford: teacher - check out any recent parent problems/threats at St C's.

She wondered if the Ford's relationship was all Paul Ford claimed it was. He wouldn't be the first man to lie to her about the state of his marriage when reporting his wife missing. You never really knew what went on behind closed doors until you got the opportunity to look. Unfortunately, she'd had that opportunity on a few too many occasions. Still, he didn't seem a bad type and he appeared to be genuinely concerned for his wife's welfare, and she hadn't heard any comments from her daughter, who spent a lot of school time with Matthew Ford, that suggested there were any relationship issues in the Ford household. Still, if Matthew kept secrets from his father maybe he kept secrets from his friends as well, but she doubted he'd be able to keep any secrets from Maggie. She'd have to watch those two, especially since Maggie had started going home from school with Matthew and his brother.

Maybe Josie was bored and just wanted a bit of excitement in her life or maybe she felt she needed some attention. She wouldn't be the first woman seeking relief from the mother martyr syndrome. But that didn't ring true either. From what she knew of Josie, she would do anything for her boys. She didn't strike Marie as someone who would decide to do something on impulse that would cause her family a lot of stress. Time would tell.

She looked at her watch: 13:23. Time for some lunch. She looked at the map Paul had highlighted. She picked up her handbag and went out to the car park, got into her car and drove to the shops opposite the bus interchange. After buying a ham and salad sandwich and a bottle of mineral water, she walked over to the interchange, eating the sandwich as she walked, and strolled down the sidewalk that led to the pathway along the river that Paul had described earlier as Josie's intended route to the bus stop. She continued until she reached Whitbread Avenue. Nothing out of the ordinary.

She looked around. Josie had several alternatives to walking to the bus interchange. She could have turned left and walked along the path that followed the river several kilometres up into the hills. There were plenty of secluded places up there where she could spend a quiet day. Or she could have turned right when she left the house and headed in that direction instead of coming down to the park. Marie could see a street sign not far down Whitbread, so it wouldn't have taken her long to disappear from view or to walk around the corner into the next street and meet a friend with a car.

Marie turned to walk back to the interchange, but instead of using the path she walked along the river bank until she was forced to move back up on to the path. No sign of any bodies floating in the river today, at least, not along this stretch.

When she got back to the car, she took out her note book and added to her notes:

•Early morning walkers/joggers on river pathway

•Neighbours both sides

•People in street joining park to interchange

•Two streets - possible vehicle interception points

When she arrived back in her office, she called Detective Inspector Carl West to discuss her uneasy feelings, and alert him to the possibility that she would be calling him later if Mrs Ford did not turn up. When she explained to Carl that she knew Josie Ford and that her disappearance was out of character, he asked her to send him a copy of her photograph and to call him before she went home.

Carl had been a colleague of her husband, Steve, before Steve had transferred to Special Operations and got himself killed. Talking to Carl always made her think of Steve. He had been dead for five years but sometimes it felt like only yesterday that he had been killed. She knew it was probably time she moved on and met someone else. It was lonely being on her own even if she had Maggie to distract her. At least she hadn't fallen for another policeman. There was no way she was going through that again.

She took a deep breath, said a silent prayer of thanks for the blessing Steve had been in her life, and prepared a quick action plan to follow in case Josie Ford did not turn up. Then she turned her attention to her inbox to see what else had happened since she had left her office to interview Paul Ford. The world didn't stop just because one woman was reported missing.

# Author Insight

**_After_** is not your typical police procedural.

Yes, it has a crime and a police investigation with complicating factors, and it's a murder mystery with all the twists and turns you might expect. But, the police investigation plays second fiddle to the main story, which is Paul's story.

While Inspector West and his team work on solving the mystery of Josie Ford's murder, you're taken into the world of Paul Ford to explore the impact an unexpected death has on the family of the victim.

If you're like me, you probably have a few secrets like Josie Ford. I think that's part of human nature.

Maybe you know couples who put on a front to keep their families happy. Nobody wants to admit their relationship might be on shaky ground when it's no-one else's business. Sometimes, it's easier to pretend everything is okay and not rock the boat.

This is where Paul Ford is when you meet him. His relationship with Josie has become routine. They're working well as a family unit raising two teenage boys, but he's not aware of their relationship breakdown or that she's having an affair right under his nose. And, thanks to their ability to put on a good front for the outside world, everyone thinks they make a great couple and that they're great parents.

Then, Josie gets murdered.

Unexpected events often fracture the facades we present to the world, and Josie's murder is one of those events for Paul. He's able to hold things together at first, but then Josie's secret life becomes public knowledge and he can no longer pretend. He even has to contend with her lover telling him the truth about their relationship.

I was kind to Paul. I gave him a supportive family, an understanding priest as a friend, and a new girlfriend from an unexpected quarter, so there's a bit of a love story in there as well. I'm not sure how anyone would cope with his situation without that level of support.

Paul's story is a journey of resilience and a new start. I hope you enjoy it.

The police investigation takes a few interesting turns but, in the end, you get to learn who killed Josie and why.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_After_ **either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_After_**

Read on for a couple of chapters from **_The Holiday_** , book two in the Inspector West series.

# The Holiday: Inspector West

# Chapter One

Helen woke with a start. She looked at the alarm clock. It was nearly ten o'clock. She had slept in. Terry would be arriving any minute to pick up Toby to take him to the game.

She slid out of bed and went to see if Toby was ready. He rarely slept in on Saturdays. It was the only day she let him watch TV in the morning. He was always excited whenever Terry took him to the football. They were football mad and their team was having a great season, so she fully expected to find him ready and waiting to go.

She wondered why Toby hadn't come in to wake her.

There was no sign of him in the TV room. There were no dirty breakfast dishes on the table or in the sink. There was nobody in his bed. She was the only one in the house.

She looked into the backyard through the laundry window. There was no sign of him. She checked the back door. It was locked from the inside. She checked the front door. It wasn't locked, but the security door was locked from the outside. Maybe Terry had come while she was asleep. She went into the kitchen, to see if they had left her a note on the white board attached to the side of the fridge - nothing.

Typical bloody Terry, she thought. She went back into her bedroom to fish her mobile phone out of her handbag.

Before she could call him, she heard Terry's truck pull up in the driveway. When she opened the front door, he was standing there, alone.

'Hi, Helen. Is Toby ready?'

'I thought he was with you.'

Terry looked at her. He hadn't expected that response.

'How could he be with me? I only just got here.'

The colour drained from Helen's face, as it dawned on her that she didn't know where Toby was.

'If he's not with you, where is he?'

Terry managed to catch her, before she hit the tiles on the front veranda, and carried her inside. When she came out of the faint, he checked the house. He opened all the wardrobes that Toby could be hiding in and looked under the beds. He went out into the backyard and checked the small shed where the garden implements were stored. Toby was nowhere to be found.

When he returned to the living room, Helen told him that Toby's backpack and red parka, which he had left next to the front door before he went to bed last night, were gone. It looked like he'd taken off on his own. They looked at each other in disbelief.

'God, what if he's run away?'

Helen felt warm tears running down her face.

Terry did something he hadn't done in a long time. He hugged her. It felt so good she was reluctant to move out of his embrace.

'We'll find him,' he said softly, as he stroked her back, like he used to do when she was upset over something. 'There has to be a logical explanation.'

They called their parents to see if Toby had turned up at either of their houses. Toby spent a lot of time with his grandparents in the after school hours. While Terry asked the neighbours if they'd seen him leaving, Helen called the mothers of Toby's group of school friends. No-one had seen him.

Terry called the police to report him missing and then they waited, not knowing what to expect. This was so unlike Toby. He was such a good kid. He had never given them any trouble.

'What have we done to him?' Helen asked.

'What do you mean?'

'Think about it, Terry. What do you think our separation, and all the fighting that went before it, has done to Toby?'

'Hadn't thought about that.'

'You not thinking about things is half the problem.'

Terry reached over and held her hands. 'Let's not get into a fight?'

Helen glared at him. 'What if they can't find him?'

'Don't go there. He can't have gone too far. He's a ten-year old on foot. The police should be able to track him. They said they'd bring a dog.'

The twenty minutes it took the police to arrive seemed a lot longer to Helen and Terry. They were relieved when a patrol car pulled up in front of their house. Five minutes later a second patrol car with a police dog and its handler arrived. The dog was introduced to Toby's scent and immediately appeared to pick up his trail at the front doorway of the house. The dog crossed the front lawn and stopped at the kerb in front of the house next door. The trail ended there.

The policeman handling the dog spoke to the sergeant interviewing Helen and Terry, and then returned the dog to the back of his patrol car.

'Looks like your son probably got into a car in front of the house next door,' said the sergeant.

'What does that mean?' asked Helen.

'Means we have a bit of a problem, Mrs Moore. It looks like either your son has been taken or he had help.'

'If he got into a car, he could be anywhere by now.'

'Do you have a recent photo of Toby, Mrs Moore?'

'The school photos came last week. I haven't even paid for them yet.'

'Where are they?' asked Terry.

'On the TV,' said Helen.

Terry got up and went into the TV room off the kitchen. He wanted to have a look at the photos before they handed them over to the police. One of the downsides of living at his parents' place, while he and Helen were sorting themselves out, was missing out on things like seeing Toby's school photos when they arrived. He pulled out the large portrait of Toby and handed it to the sergeant.

'Nice looking lad,' said the sergeant.

'What happens now?' asked Terry.

'Two things. First, we'll distribute a copy of this photo to every patrol car in the State.'

'How do you do that?' asked Terry, thinking that could take forever.

'We'll scan this photo into the system in the car. It will appear on the screen of every other patrol car within seconds.'

The sergeant handed the photograph to her constable, who went out to the patrol car.

'Okay, and the second thing?

'When I get back to the station, I'll release details to the media so we can get Toby's picture and description out to the public. They're our eyes and ears. Hopefully, they'll help us locate him as soon as possible,' said the sergeant.

'And, what do we do?' asked Helen.

'Stay here in case he comes home. Give me a call if he does. If you come up with any ideas as to who he might have gone off with, call this number.' The sergeant handed Terry a card and stood up to leave. 'If you hear from anyone who claims to have taken him, call me. I'm sorry I can't make it any easier for you. This is going to be tough until we find him or he comes home.'

As the police were leaving Helen's parents arrived.

Kevin and Mary Sloan waited for the police car to leave before alighting from their silver Mercedes. The police car had been parked in Kevin's favourite parking spot in front of the house. He liked to look out through the front window and see his Mercedes in the street.

Mary waited for him to check that the electronic locks had engaged, and then she followed him across the small patch of lawn to the front door. Terry opened the door before they could knock or ring the doorbell.

'Any news?' said Kevin.

'No. They've only just left to start looking for him.'

'Where's Helen?' asked Mary.

'In the living room,' said Terry, stepping back to allow them to enter.

Mary pushed past Terry. Kevin stood on the veranda. 'What did the police have to say?'

'They think he got into a car in front of next door.'

'How'd they work that out?'

'They used a dog. It followed Toby's trail across the lawn and stopped at the kerb just over there, about a car's length in front of where your car's parked.'

'Any sign of forced entry?'

'No. It appears he let himself out the front door. Took his backpack with him. Helen thought he'd packed a few things for the football. Looks like he had other plans.'

'So, he's run away from home.' Kevin took one last look at the car and entered the house.

Terry closed the door and followed Kevin into the living room. If Helen hadn't been distressed before her mother arrived, she was now.

'Hello, darling,' said Kevin.

'Hello, Dad,' said Helen. 'Thanks for coming.'

'Terry, have you called Sean and Louise?' said Mary.

'I've talked to Dad. They'll be here once Mum gets home from the hairdresser.'

Louise Moore visited her hairdresser and manicurist every Saturday morning. It was a treat she gave herself as a reward for surviving another week picking up after Sean. She'd given up trying to change his habits after thirty years of marriage, and now simply used his credit card to compensate herself. She reasoned that if Sean could throw good money away on the horses, he could afford to look after her in the style of her choice.

He'd only protested her credit card bill once. A month of no sex had been enough to persuade Sean it was better to pay the monthly account, regardless of the balance, without asking questions.

Mary glared at Terry. She blamed him for everything. He was so much like his father - irresponsible and self-centred. Mary regretted ever having supported Kevin, when he insisted Helen marry Terry, once they had discovered she was pregnant with Toby. Helen would have been better off as a single mother, in Mary's opinion.

'You realise this wouldn't have happened if you two hadn't separated,' said Mary.

'For God's sake woman! Our grandson, their son, has run away from home and you want to blame them. Where's your compassion woman?' Kevin didn't particularly like Terry either, but he didn't see any point in inflaming an already strained relationship.

'It's okay, Kevin,' said Terry. 'She's probably right. We love Toby. I'd do anything to have him walk back through that door.'

'Would you grow up and accept some bloody responsibility as the boy's father?'

Everyone in the room stopped as Mary's outraged shout washed through them.

Terry looked at the floor. He knew Mary didn't think much of him. She wasn't all that good at hiding her feelings, especially when she was attacking him for what she regarded as his immature behaviour. She'd taken him to task several times over the years for his gambling and drinking. He looked at Helen. She was waiting for him to answer.

'Yes, Mary, I'd be willing to do that.'

The fight had gone from Terry. The three weeks he had been apart from Helen had been the longest three weeks of his life. At first, it had been a relief to have a break from their constant quarrelling. Then it had turned into agony. He missed being with her so much it hurt.

He'd planned to ask Helen if they could get back together this weekend. He'd already admitted, to himself, that it was his fault they had been fighting, especially after his mother had opened up and shared what is was like living with his father.

Louise had even advised him to find another job. Spending all day with his father, she'd told him, would not help, if he wanted to change his habits. Terry didn't know if he could do that, he enjoyed working with his father. They were a good team, and they were making good money. But he did know that for things to work out with Helen, he'd have to give up going to the pub and betting on the horses, for starters.

Helen smiled. She'd seen Terry beaten before, but there was something about his energy this time that suggested his perspective might have shifted. There was no fire in his response. She hoped he'd stay with her until Toby came back. She didn't want to have to cope with this on her own.

'What say we call a truce and have a coffee?' said Kevin.

Before anyone could answer, the doorbell rang. Terry opened the door to his parents, Sean and Louise Moore.

The stink of cigarettes wafted in with them as they entered. Sean had obviously had a quick smoke between the car and the door. Louise did not allow smoking in her car. Sean could smoke in his work truck if he wanted to, but she drew the line at the front door of the house and inside the family car, the one she regarded as her own.

At the time of Toby's birth, Louise and Helen had invested a lot of energy into persuading Terry to stop smoking. That was one victory that still gave Louise joy, and it had helped cement her relationship with Helen.

'We think we might know who he's with,' said Louise, breezing into the room, looking radiant with shining hair, highly polished nails, and firm breasts bouncing under a tight pink sweater, thanks to her Berlei lift and shape bra.

That got everyone's attention. Except for Kevin, who was momentarily distracted by the movement of Louise's pink sweater.

'Who?' said Mary.

'Kieran.'

'What makes you think he's gone off with Grandpa?' said Terry, who was having a few problems believing Toby would go off with the grumpy old man he knew as his grandfather.

'The two of them have spent a lot of time talking on Skype over the last couple of weeks. Kieran even dropped in to see Toby after school on Tuesday. First time I'd seen him since Martha died,' said Louise. 'They took the dog for a walk down to the park.'

'Any way you can contact Kieran?' said Kevin, now that he had tuned into the conversation.

'I've been trying to get him on his mobile ever since Louise joined the dots,' said Sean. 'He's either got it turned off or he's out of range. I've left him a message to call me.'

'Can't you go around to his place?' asked Helen.

'We called by his place on the way here. He wasn't home,' said Sean.

'His next door neighbour said he'd heard Kieran leaving around five thirty this morning,' said Louise, who wasn't shy about asking people for help.

'Wouldn't he have said something if he was taking Toby somewhere?' asked Mary. 'Surely, he wouldn't kidnap his own great-grandson, would he?'

Kieran was a mystery to Kevin and Mary. They'd only met him briefly at a couple of family events, and he hadn't been all that friendly. Mary had been repulsed by his tattoos. He was simply too taciturn for Kevin, who liked to engage people in conversation to see if they offered anything he could take advantage of, even if it was only a connection to someone else who might be interested in what he was selling.

'I'm pretty sure Kieran wouldn't see it as kidnapping,' said Louise. 'He probably thinks he's helping these two get their act together, giving them something to think about apart from themselves. He's a man of action. He does stuff and thinks about the consequences later.'

'We'd better call the police, Terry. The sergeant said to call if we thought of anything,' said Helen. 'Where'd you put that card she gave you?'

Terry took out his wallet, extracted the card the police sergeant had given him, and went into the kitchen to use the telephone attached to the wall above the sink. After a couple of minutes, he came back into the lounge and asked his father to come and talk to the sergeant. They all listened as Sean told the police Kieran's mobile phone number, described his van and told them where he lived.

'He's semi-retired. He's got a little courier business, does runs between here and the Riverland, two or three times a week. Okay, I'll ring as soon as I hear from him.'

Sean put the handset back into its cradle.

'She said they'd look up the registration number and send out an alert,' said Sean, as he rejoined the others in the living room.

'I hope you're right about him being with Grandpa,' said Terry.

'Let's hold on to that thought until we hear otherwise,' said Louise.

'What do we do now?' asked Helen.

'Well, we can sit around and starve or we can do something about lunch,' said Mary. 'Louise, why don't you and I go down to the shops and get some fresh rolls and cold meat?'

'Sounds good to me,' said Louise. 'Do you have any cheese, Helen?'

'You'd better get some of that, too,' said Helen.

'I'll put the kettle on,' said Kevin, who was dying for a coffee.

After an hour of polite conversation over lunch, Sean and Louise went home. Sean wanted to place some bets and Louise needed to have a lie down.

Shortly after, Kevin and Mary decided to go home as well, so that Kevin could prepare for the open inspections he had booked for Sunday.

'Are you two going to be alright here together, or do you want me to stay?' said Mary, as they were preparing to leave.

'We've been together for eleven years without killing each other, Mum. I think you can go,' said Helen, with a forced smile.

After her parents had gone, Helen turned to Terry. 'What are you planning on doing?'

'When today started, I was planning on asking if I could move back in with you and Toby. Now, I'm planning on staying.'

'I'd hoped you'd say that. I don't think I can do this on my own.'

They sat looking at each other across the kitchen table.

'I'm sorry, Helen. I'd like to start over.'

'Do you think we can?'

'I had a really long talk with Mum last night, when Dad was at the trots,' said Terry.

'You mean you didn't go with him?'

'No. Mum asked me to stay home and talk things over with her. She pointed out a few home truths. Some stuff, in fact a lot of stuff, I didn't want to hear.'

'What sort of stuff?'

Helen was starting to understand where the change in Terry's energy had come from. He'd been enlightened by his mother.

'For starters, she told me I was an idiot for the way I've been treating you. Then she told me that Toby needed a father, not a big brother.'

'How come it seems to mean something when she tells you? Isn't that what I've been telling you?'

'I don't know. I couldn't or didn't want to hear it before. She made me look, really look, at the way my Dad treats her.'

'And how is that?'

'He treats her like a slave. He doesn't even put his dirty undies in the washing. He just leaves them on the bathroom floor for her to pick up. He expects her to meet his needs, but he's not interested in knowing what her needs are. She said I was the only reason she stayed with him when I was growing up.'

'Why does she stay now?'

'Now she stays for the money and what it lets her do. It's become a game for her and Dad doesn't know the half of it.'

Helen wondered whether Louise had found herself a lover. That might explain why she spent so much money on clothes and beauty products, and the way she flaunted her body. Must be nice not to have to work, even if your husband is a jerk.

'So what does that mean for us?'

'I don't want to treat you the way he treats her.'

'Do you have any idea what that might mean?'

Terry looked her in the eyes. 'It means doing what your mother said - accepting my responsibilities as a husband and a father. It means being here for you, and not being in the pub. It means putting you and Toby first.'

'Do you want to do that? Do you think you can do that?'

'The other side of that coin is life without you. After the last few weeks, I don't want to do that.'

'Do you know how hard it is to break habits? We're talking some seriously addictive habits here. Do you think you can give up the horses and the pub, and your mates?'

'Ask Mum. I haven't had a drink or placed a bet for a week.'

'A week! I read somewhere the other day that it takes forty-two days to change a habit. You've got some way to go yet.'

Terry noticed she was smiling. 'At least I've started.'

Helen reached across the table and held his hands. 'I love you, Terry. Let's start again. I don't want to end up living like your parents, or mine.'

They were wrapped in the afterglow of their reconciliation when the telephone rang.

# Chapter Two

Carl sat in his reading chair, soaking up the winter sunlight streaming through the floor-to -ceiling windows of the sitting room of his two bedroom apartment, enjoying a quiet read of the weekend paper with a glass of red.

He put the paper down and let his thoughts drift to wondering how he was going to resolve his Nina problem. She had gotten closer to him than any other woman since the end of his failed marriage. He'd had a series of short relationships to get over Virginia, who had divorced him and married an accountant, someone who kept more respectable hours than a policeman. The last time he'd seen her, a couple of years back, she had presented herself as a happily married woman with three children, and a big house in the eastern suburbs. He let Virginia fade into the background. She wasn't his problem.

The previous afternoon, Chief Inspector Rankin, commander of the Major Crime Unit, had summoned Carl to his office to discuss, what the chief had referred to as, his 'Nina problem'. The chief inspector had been supportive. He'd told Carl he was relieved to see that he had settled into a stable relationship, which was a good thing, according to the chief. The chief inspector was a man who believed in stable relationships. He'd been married to Evelyn for thirty years.

The chief had also pointed out to Carl the potential conflict of interest between his professional and personal relationships.

Carl had been a little taken aback. He'd thought that he and Nina had been discrete. However, it seemed the chief had his sources. Carl hoped they didn't include Harry.

The upshot of the meeting was that, as of Monday, Detective Sergeant Nina Strong would be a member of DI Reid's team. The chief had wished him well with his relationship with Nina, and added that he thought they suited each other.

When he broke the news to Nina, she requested a week's leave and went to visit her parents, who had moved onto a small riverside property in the Riverland following her father's retirement. She wanted time to process being found out. The chief inspector's intervention meant a lot more people knew about them than they had believed. Their relationship being public knowledge within the force created a whole new dynamic she would have to live with.

Having heard the stories of his exploits in the years after his divorce, Nina wanted to know how committed Carl was to their relationship. She'd already had one bastard of a husband, a lawyer she had discovered screwing his secretary, in their matrimonial bed, after coming home early from an aborted night shift stake out. This time, she wanted someone she could trust, so she'd asked Carl to think about where he wanted the relationship to go.

In her mid-thirties, Nina also wanted to consider having children before it was too late, and she'd asked him if he was prepared for that, and given him until she returned to make up his mind.

Carl hadn't thought about children since his divorce. What sort of father would he be? Could he be a father? Did he want to be a father? His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his mobile phone.

'DI West.'

'Sorry to trouble you, Carl. I hope you haven't had too many reds,' the voice of Chief Inspector Rankin sounded in his ear.

'Only the one, so far, Chief.' If the Chief Inspector was calling him on a Saturday, when he was rostered off, something serious had happened. 'I guess this isn't a social call.'

'Get your travel bag, Carl, and make sure you pack a toothbrush. I'm sending you on a little holiday up the river. Harry should be there to pick you up in about half an hour,' said the Chief Inspector. 'We have a body and what looks like a kidnapping.'

That sounded like standard fare to Carl. There had to be more to it than that.

'Why can't the local boys handle it?'

'The body is Kieran Moore.'

'Oh. And the kidnapping?'

'Been listening to the radio or watching the TV today, Carl?'

'No, I've been reading the paper.'

'Yesterday's news, Carl. We've been looking for Kieran's great grandson since eleven o'clock this morning. Turns out he was with Kieran.'

'And now he's not.'

'Good to see your head is clearing. Give me a call when you've spoken to the local boys.' The Chief Inspector hung up.

Carl pulled the travel bag he kept prepared for these situations out of the closet in the hallway, collected his toiletries from the bathroom, and a suit from the wardrobe in his bedroom. By the time he was ready to leave, Detective Constable Harry Fuller was ringing his doorbell.

Carl settled in for the three hour drive from the city to the Riverland, a narrow zone of agricultural land and townships stretching along the river for three hundred kilometres, devoted to irrigation farming, mostly grapes and fruit trees, and tourism. He knew the place was dotted with riverfront shacks, hamlets, farmhouses and houseboats, because last winter he'd been one of the thousands of tourists attracted by the wild beauty of the region's national parks and abundant wildlife.

The arid, sparsely populated area outside the irrigation zone was a place he'd had cause to visit in the line of duty on several, less enjoyable, occasions. All sorts of things and people had disappeared into that vast empty space, and its network of roads provided a place for people to meet and transact all sorts of business, unobserved. The Riverland itself was also a place where interested parties grew illicit crops in among the legal ones, far from the prying eyes of the police. The force was thin on the ground outside the city, which was precisely why he and Harry were heading into the interior.

'Know anything about this Kieran Moore the Chief Inspector was so worked up about, Boss?'

'The thing to keep in mind, Harry, is that the Chief and Kieran Moore go back a long way. I'm fairly sure that Kieran Moore was the Chief's first big conviction, about thirty years ago, before I joined the force.'

'So why is his death such a big deal?'

'I guess we'll find out in due course. What I do know is that the Chief and Kieran Moore came to some sort of understanding while Kieran was doing his time. The Chief used to visit him in prison. I know they had meetings over the years after Kieran had done his time. In fact, the Chief introduced me to Kieran in a pub not long after I made sergeant. Big bloke, arms covered in tattoos. Intimidating, even though he was probably in his fifties at the time.'

'What was he done for?'

'Something to do with drugs. He'd be well into his seventies by now, so I guess he would have lost some of the intimidating physique. Let me have a look at the file.'

Harry concentrated on driving through the afternoon traffic, while Carl logged onto the on-board computer to see what information they had been provided with to introduce them to the case. Not much as it turned out.

'A conviction for dealing, the heavy stuff, back in the eighties. The leader of a local ring, and a Hells Angel to boot. Only the one conviction.' Carl scrolled through several screens. 'Going by his date of birth, he would have turned seventy-five this year.'

'Old enough to be well and truly retired. Wonder what he's been up to recently.'

'No details on that in here. Do you know anything about his great grandson being missing? Must admit I hadn't heard anything about it until the Chief mentioned it. Too busy with yesterday's news.'

Harry smiled, as he recalled Nina telling him how Carl got his weekend relaxation - with his head in a newspaper and a red in his hand.

'I heard the media briefing on the midday news. The boy's name is Toby, a ten-year old. Was gone when his mother woke up this morning. The Chief told me it wasn't until a couple of hours after he was reported missing that someone in the family realised he was probably with Kieran.'

Carl located the report on the computer and read the details, including the note stating that the boy's parents were separated.

'Tough being a kid these days, Harry. You ever thought about having any?'

'Haven't got to that part yet. Still working on finding someone willing to play the game.'

'Don't rush it, Harry. Being a policeman's wife is a big ask.'

'So my mother keeps reminding me. I think she's looking forward to the day my dad retires.'

'Your father's got it easy. Nice, cushy desk job down in the dungeon supervising all those girls in the call centre. Regular shift. What's your mother got to complain about?'

'I think my mum remembers the days when he was with the highway patrol, away for days, when I was a kid.'

'That why you became a detective, Harry?'

'Not really. I'm not into car chases or sitting around with radar guns. Too boring, if you ask me. I became a detective because I like to find out how things happen, and why people do them.'

'Yes. All that patrol work is not much fun. A lot more routine than some of the cases we get to work on.'

Winter days consume their daylight quota quickly. Harry was obliged to turn on the headlights an hour before they reached their destination.

Riverland Police Station had been a regional headquarters before the last restructure had seen its status downgraded. The Commissioner's new design for the region had moved the headquarters two hundred kilometres down river, to where the crime statistics told him he needed the resources.

Inspector Bill Norris, the officer in charge of Riverland, wasn't happy that Major Crime's Chief Inspector Rankin had seen fit to interfere in his investigation. He didn't score many murders but that didn't mean he lacked the resources or the skills required to solve one.

Carl and Harry entered the station and introduced themselves to the duty constable. He informed them that Inspector Norris was still at the crime scene with Forensics, who had arrived earlier in the afternoon. Carl called Bill Norris and arranged to meet with him later in the evening, as he couldn't see any point in blundering around in the dark and getting in the way of Forensics' examination of the crime scene. There would be plenty of opportunities to look at the crime scene in broad daylight.

'We're staying at the Resort Hotel. We'll go and check-in and get something to eat while we're waiting for Inspector Norris.'

'Okay, Inspector. I'll tell the inspector where to find you when he gets back.'

Carl and Harry drove the short distance from the police station to the Resort Hotel. It took around ten minutes to complete the check-in process and locate their rooms. They were in the dining room, eating dinner, when Inspector Norris entered looking for them.

'Hello, Carl. Been a while,' said Inspector Norris, extending his hand.

Carl stood and shook hands with him.

Carl did the introductions. 'Inspector Norris, Detective Harry Fuller, my right-hand man.'

Harry stood and shook hands with the inspector.

'Why don't you join us, Bill? You look like you've had a long day,' said Carl.

As Inspector Norris took his seat, the waitress arrived with the chicken schnitzel and salad he had ordered on the way in.

They exchanged small talk about the weather, the state of the world and the recent federal elections while they ate, and waited for the tables around them to empty as people moved off to their Saturday night activities.

'What's so important about this one that Rankin thinks I need help from you, Carl?' Inspector Norris asked while they contemplated the dessert menu.

'What do you know about the victim, apart from his name?'

'Not much.'

'What about the missing boy? Any sign of him?'

'A backpack, full of clothes, with his name on it under the seat of the old man's van. And if that's not enough, the old man's girlfriend has disappeared as well. No luck with the dogs either.'

Harry was volunteered to place the dessert and coffee orders.

'How smart's your right-hand man, Carl? Is he a good apprentice?'

'One of the better ones I've had in a while. He actually thinks for himself.'

'What's your team like?'

'Decimated. I lost most of the good ones in the reshuffle.'

Harry came back to the table. He was followed by a waitress with their desserts and coffees. They waited for her to serve.

'I suspect the chief thinks this is not a local crime, and the boy is a complication that might not end well. That's why we're here, Bill,' said Carl.

'How do you want to play it?'

'I was going to suggest that your people focus on finding the boy. You have the local knowledge and contacts. Harry and I will work with Forensics on the murder. What do you think? It's your kingdom.'

'Might have been a kingdom once, Carl. I think it's more of a duchy these days,' said Inspector Norris with a wry smile. 'Anyway, that sounds like a plan. I have a meeting scheduled with the Forensics people at eight in the morning. Guess you had better be at that. There's not much point wandering around in the dark looking for the boy. We'll have to wait for first light for that. In fact, my sergeant is organising a search party for first thing in the morning in case he's gone to ground locally, if you want to join in.'

'We'd only get in the way, Bill. Besides, if the dogs couldn't pick up his trail, he probably didn't leave the scene on foot.'

'You're probably right, but we need to cover all bases, just in case.'

'Who's the girlfriend you mentioned?'

'Sally Arthur. She has a shack on the river about three kilometres out of town. Seems our Mr Moore stayed with her whenever he was in these parts. The body was found in the yard outside her place. She's in her mid-fifties, so maybe girlfriend isn't the right word.'

'What makes you think she has disappeared as well? Maybe she just isn't home.'

'Her car is still there.'

'Does she own a boat, Inspector?'

'That's something we have to find out, Harry. We know she doesn't have a registered boat but that doesn't mean she doesn't have a boat.'

'Any near neighbours?'

'Her shack is in a group of three but the other two are holiday homes. It was one of the other shack owners coming up for the weekend that found the body.' Inspector Norris stood up from the table. 'It's been a long day. I need some sleep. I'll see you boys in the morning.'

'Okay, Bill. We'll see you at eight.'

They watched in silence as Inspector Norris made his way out of the dining room.

'What do you think, Boss?'

'Just as well you like a puzzle, Harry.'

'Just off the top of my head, I'd say we have a few possibilities around the disappearance of the boy. The woman and the boy could be hiding. If the woman has access to a boat, say a canoe or a row boat, she and the boy could have escaped on the river. That sort of boat doesn't make any noise. Or maybe the woman had a role in both the murder and the kidnapping. Or maybe the boy didn't arrive with Kieran. He could have left the boy someplace between here and the city. And I haven't started on the murder yet.'

'Might be best to leave that until after tomorrow's meeting with Forensics.'

'Yes, we don't want my wild speculations to distort our thinking.' Harry laughed.

'I'm calling it a night. I'll see you in the morning for breakfast.'

When Carl got to his room he noticed there was a text message on his phone from Nina, telling him that she was thinking of him. He dialled her number.

'Where are you?' she asked, when she answered the call.

'I'm in the Riverland Resort Hotel.'

'If you miss me that much you could have come and stayed here. I'm only half an hour upriver from there.'

'I miss you but that's not why I'm here.'

'I thought Inspector Norris was handling the case. In fact, I saw him talking about it on the TV. I didn't see you.'

'The victim has a long history that involves our chief inspector.'

'What about the boy?'

'I'll know more about that in the morning. If he doesn't turn up, I'll have to make him my priority. The locals are conducting a ground search in the morning.'

'That might not suit Rankin.'

'The media will crucify him, if he makes solving the murder of a veteran Hells Angel the number one priority. Besides, solving one will probably solve the other, unless Harry is right about the old man dropping the boy off somewhere on the way here.'

'Better keep that in mind, sweetheart. Harry's hunches have been right before.'

'Anyway, I just wanted to hear your voice before I go to sleep. I love you.'

'I love you too, Carl. Have a good sleep. Call me if you need to talk anything over. Better still, come and see me. My parents are dying to meet you.'

'I'll call you tomorrow once I have a better picture of what's going on. Sweet dreams.'

Carl ended the call. He wished he was with her and not here in a hotel, with Harry in the next room.

# Author Insight

**_The Holiday_** came from me wondering what would happen if an old man and a young boy took off for the weekend without telling anyone, in the hope that their action would bring the boy's parents back together, and then everything goes wrong.

To help things go wrong, I gave the old man, Kieran Moore, a dark history that puts his great-grandson, Toby, in danger through being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Kieran gets killed. Toby gets kidnapped because he's a kid and Kieran's killers can't bring themselves to kill a ten-year-old boy. This storyline ultimately leads to Clare's story, which we will come back to in a minute.

Carl West and his team are called in to investigate Kieran's murder while the local police search for the missing Toby. You get to know a lot more about Carl West and his relationship with Nina Strong in **_The Holiday_** , and go along for the ride as he faces a major crisis when he nearly loses Nina. You also get to know more about DC Harry Fuller, who has a bigger role in this story.

The police investigation gets complicated when Kieran's son, Sean, also turns up dead but that's what makes a police procedural intriguing. At least, that's how I see it.

To keep things interesting, the story has several interconnected threads. You experience how Toby's extended family copes with his disappearance and apparent kidnapping, you discover what's happening to Toby, and you get to follow along with Inspector West's investigation and witness the developments in his relationship with Nina.

Then, there's Clare's story.

Clare is one of the bad guys but she falls in love with Toby and her story changes to one of redemption, although you may not agree with the way she decides to redeem herself. At least she does something good for Toby.

The action Clare takes puts the bad guy, who is responsible for the murders of Kieran and Sean, under the spotlight and allows Carl and his team to pull all of the threads together, after an apparently unrelated death gives them the last bit of evidence that connects the bad guy to Kieran.

I like the ending but it's not what most people expect.

Be great to hear what you think about the way _**The Holiday** _ends.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_The Holiday_ **either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_The Holiday_**

Read on for a couple of chapters from **_Holy Death_** , book three in the Inspector West series.

# Holy Death: Inspector West

# Chapter 1

Fr Maurice Skinner opened the door at the back of the old church. A stream of pale yellow light escaped into the night and bathed the solitary vehicle standing in the car park behind the building. Darkness reclaimed St Frank's minibus when he closed the door behind him.

Fr Skinner had no need for a light to guide him on his way. The pale moonlight penetrating through the low cloud was more than sufficient to illuminate his path. Besides, Fr Skinner knew all there was to know about walking in darkness.

Dressed in priestly black, the old priest stepped into the night and merged with the darkness. He walked across the expanse of the yard separating his residence from the old church on autopilot. His head was still locked in the discussion he had been having with Robert Sturm, the supervisor of the men's shelter located in the old church.

He was still ruminating on his impending enforced retirement when he reached the side door of his house. He was not happy that Bishop Kerry had turned down his plea to stay on as the chaplain of St Frank's. He'd devoted the last ten years of his life to the men who used the shelter, and couldn't see why he had to stop just because of some stupid rule.

Even though he was turning seventy-five, the Church's compulsory retirement age, he'd argued that at least he was available to do the job. The bishop had insisted that there was no way he could allow him to stay on, as their insurance didn't cover priests beyond seventy-five.

He was furious, but what could he do? The bishop held all the power. After his meeting with the bishop, he'd sulked all the way home and spent the evening complaining to Robert.

As far as he could tell, the bishop had no-one else to look after the needs of the poor souls that called St Frank's home. It wasn't as if the seminary was bursting with new recruits to the priesthood. God, if things don't improve Robert will be right, he thought, and we really will be importing more priests from Africa and India.

On the threshold of his residence, Fr Skinner rummaged in his pockets for his keys. Standing in the dark, he silently rebuked himself for not having replaced the spent bulb in the security light that usually illuminated his approach to the door. He'd meant to replace it earlier in the day but had forgotten all about it, thanks to his meeting with the bishop. Too late now, he thought, as he felt for the keyhole.

After a couple of fumbled attempts, he managed to slip the key into the lock and turn the handle. As he opened the door, he felt a firm push in the middle of his back, and stumbled into the dark interior of the house.

He crashed onto the floor, hitting his head on the leg of the hat-rack standing in the hallway. He heard the door close behind him, and blinked as the light came on. A pair of firm hands grabbed him by the collar and roughly dragged him up into a kneeling position. With his head locked between two strong hands smelling of cigarettes, he couldn't turn to see his assailant.

A cold fear rose up from deep within his gut. He thought he was going to wet himself.

'What do you want?'

The silence was broken by a voice that Fr Skinner did not recognise.

'I hope you've said your prayers, Father.'

# Chapter 2

Detective Inspector Carl West sat at his desk with his hands wrapped around a cup of hot coffee. His head hurt. He wished he'd exercised a little more restraint during the previous night's celebration of Harry Fuller's promotion to detective sergeant, and hoped he'd only have to manage a quiet day of paperwork in the office. Detective Constable Lisa Templar was due to join them tomorrow to replenish the ranks of his diminished team and, despite his headache, he was determined to have things ready for her.

He took a sip of his coffee and started work. He'd only managed to log on to his computer when the telephone on his desk rang. He listened as Operations gave him the details, and then went out into the squad room where, like Carl, DS Harry Fuller was nursing both a cup of coffee and a hangover.

'You look like death warmed up, Harry.'

'You don't look much better, Boss. Hope we're having a quiet one.'

Carl shook his head and immediately regretted it.

'Our luck's just expired. That was Operations. That fire at Gladesview House last night is looking like arson, and they've discovered a body in the ashes. Mike Jonas is already there. Grab your coat, we need to go take a look. I'll drive. You don't look like you're up to it.'

'Thanks, Boss.'

The front entrance of Gladesview House was sealed with crime scene tape, the handiwork of the uniformed patrol that had responded to the fire alarm along with the fire brigade. After negotiating their way through the cordon, Carl parked their silver Ford in the car park located just inside the gate, and they walked over to what was left of the old mansion.

Gladesview House, which had housed an aged-care facility for retired Catholic priests, was little more than a blackened ruin. The roof had collapsed on the eastern side of the building and one of the exterior walls had fallen into the garden. The house and gardens, which had given their name to the suburb surrounding them, had been gifted to the Church from the estate of an elderly Catholic dowager in the early nineteen-fifties, twenty years before Carl had been born.

Carl spotted Dr Mike Jonas, the police pathologist, standing with a fireman wearing a fire investigator's jacket next to a window of the ruined building.

Carl walked over to join Dr Jonas and the fireman, while Harry went to speak with the uniformed officer in charge of the crime scene.

'Hi, Mike. Wasn't expecting to see you today.'

'Morning, Carl. This is Tim Ryan.'

'Detective Inspector Carl West.' Carl extended his hand. 'What have we got?'

'One incinerated body, and a broken window that Tim reckons doesn't look right,' said Mike.

'How do you see it, Tim?'

'Looks like the fire started in this part of the building, Inspector. We had one of the sniffer dogs here earlier, and she pointed to a spot in the corridor outside this room. And, there's a burnt petrol can on the floor there as well.'

'That's usually pretty convincing evidence,' said Carl.

The fire investigator smiled and pointed at the broken window in front of them. 'See that glass over there on the floor. It's too far in from the window. I'd expect to see broken glass just below the sill, either inside or outside, unless there'd been a gas explosion. Then it would be all outside. See there, the rest of this window isn't even cracked. Looks like your arsonist may have broken in through this window, Inspector.'

Or that's what he wanted us to think, thought Carl, as he looked in through the broken window at the charred remains in the far corner. 'Didn't anyone notice this guy was missing during the evacuation?'

'It was chaos when the brigade got here, Inspector. The fire ripped through the place pretty fast, which is why the roof in this part of the house collapsed. In a building this old the roof timbers would be as dry as kindling. I gather it wasn't until they got to the hospital that the night nurse realised Bishop Knight was missing.'

'Is everybody else accounted for?' asked Carl.

'They're all in University. Most are suffering from smoke inhalation, but the couple we pulled out of this part of the building before the roof collapsed are pretty seriously burnt. I'm no doctor, Inspector, but I suspect you could have more than one death on your hands,' said the fire investigator.

'Where's this night nurse?' asked Carl.

'In the hospital with the others. She's pretty badly burnt herself. The fire chief reckons she deserves a medal. Apparently, the crew had to restrain her in the end for her own safety.'

Carl turned to Mike Jonas.

'Guess it will be a while before you can tell me anything about Bishop Knight's demise.'

'I'll let you know if the cause of death is other than smoke inhalation after the post-mortem. Not much I can do here given the state of the body. I'll have the crime scene boys do what they can once the site is secure,' said Mike. 'I doubt we'll get much but you never know. By the way, how's Harry?'

'He'll survive.'

Dr Jonas smiled. Carl knew Mike was one of the lucky ones that didn't suffer any ill effects from imbibing more alcohol than he should. Maybe it was simply because in his line of work he had consumed a lot more than most.

Carl went in search of Harry, and found him leaning up against a patrol car talking to Senior Constable Charlie Head.

'Morning, Inspector,' said Charlie. 'I guess I can hand over jurisdiction if you're here.'

'Eventually, Charlie, but I'm leaving you in charge of the crime scene until we get the forensics. Have you had a chance to interview the neighbours?'

'We've done the rounds, not that it's done us any good. No-one saw or heard anything until the fire brigade arrived with their sirens blaring. They're lucky the place had a monitored fire alarm, otherwise it would have burnt down without anyone noticing. Besides, the call came through at two in the morning, according to the patrol we relieved a couple of hours ago.'

'Given the location, I guess the neighbours were all safely tucked up in bed at that hour. I know I was.'

'What did you find out from the fire inspector, Boss?' asked Harry.

'He thinks the place was torched, and that the arsonist broke in through the window of the room where the body is, which I understand we think is Bishop Knight.'

'Do you remember him, Inspector?' said Charlie.

'Can't say I do, Charlie. What can you tell us about him.'

As a member of the St Vincent de Paul Society, with a nun for a sister, and a wife that worked as a social worker for the diocese, SC Charlie Head was Carl's usual source of information on all things Catholic.

'Bishop Knight,' said Charlie, removing his cap and scratching his bald head, 'was the bishop forced to retire when that child abuse scandal broke about ten years ago. They reckoned he was protecting some of those pedophile priests.'

'Can't say that I remember,' said Carl.

'It was in all the papers,' said Charlie.

Carl looked at Harry, who shrugged his shoulders and then pulled out his iPad mini and made a note to research Bishop Knight.

'Guess we'll be doing some reading,' said Carl. 'Thanks, Charlie.'

'What did Dr Jonas say about the body?' asked Harry.

'Too early to tell. He'll have to do a post-mortem to determine if there is anything more to the bishop's demise other than smoke inhalation. Either way, we're dealing with a homicide and a crime scene that has been flooded with water and trampled over by firemen in big boots. I'm not confident we'll get many clues as to who was playing with the matches.'

They watched as a white Ford Transit van negotiated its way through the crime scene cordon and parked next to the patrol car. Forensics had arrived.

'Good morning, Inspector. Where's Dr Jonas?' asked the sergeant from Forensics, as the crime scene investigators climbed out of their van.

'He's around the back of the house, Sergeant. I'll leave you with Charlie. Give me a call when you're through and let me know if you agree with the fire investigator.'

'Okay, Inspector.'

'There's not much we can do here for the moment, Charlie, and it sounds like we might have to wait a while before we can talk with the survivors. Come and see me when you get back to the office.'

They had almost reached the car when Carl's smartphone rang. He threw the car keys to Harry while he listened to the caller.

'Not a good day for the Catholic Church, Harry. Looks like they've lost another priest. Take us to St Frank's Shelter in Mortlock Street.'

# Author Insight

The initial thought behind the writing of **_Holy Death_** was imagining a victim of child sex abuse taking the law into his own hands and dealing out retribution, and wondering what would happen after that.

One complicating factor I decided to include was having two victims of the same perpetrator take action independently on the same night, using very different methodologies.

One takes direct action and murders the abuser priest. The other takes a more indirect approach and kills the abuser's closest friend, another priest, hoping to inflict a sense of the loss he has suffered.

You can imagine the frustration of that indirect actor when he learns that his intended victim has been murdered, and his torment when he realizes he's murdered someone for no good reason – but you'll have to read to the end to see how he handles that.

DI West and his team, including new member DC Lisa Templar, tasked with solving the murders, tangle with the bureaucracy of the Catholic Church as they delve into the past of each victim – one regarded as a living saint and the other a retired bishop.

We are all parts of intersecting stories, and the villains in a murder mystery are no different. If you've read any of the other books in this series, you'll know nothing is a simple as it seems at the start.

The complications and intrigue in **_Holy Death_** come from a second story of revenge that ensnares the priest killer and involves another ongoing investigation led by DI Reid. And, of course, some of the bad guys do bad things to each other, which in this case leads to a massacre behind the Merlin Nightclub and a lonely death in a warehouse.

There's also a nice little story that puts a real twist on the concept of 'being screwed' that I'm sure you'll enjoy.

Computer technology, a wonder tool for both police and criminals, gets a starring role in **_Holy Death_**. It enables one lot of bad guys to steal the hard earned cash of another set, and it allows DI West and his team to work out who did it.

This story has an international flavour, with the villains behind the Merlin Massacre being arrested at St Pancras International Station in London. And, computer technology has a part in facilitating their capture as well.

And, there are plenty of details for those who want to know what the team are up to after hours.

_**Holy Death** _has a depth of story that will keep you entertained for hours. I certainly enjoyed writing it.

Love to hear what you think about it.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Holy Death_ **either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_Holy Death_**

Read on for a couple of chapters from **_Whistleblower_** , book four in the Inspector West series.

# Whistleblower: Inspector West

# Chapter 1

On the Tuesday before Christmas, the board members of the Walker Group gathered for their final meeting of the year. As chairman, Peter Walker sat at the head of the table in the boardroom on the top floor of the group's head office on East Terrace.

Seventy-year old Peter Walker, with thirty percent of the group's shares, was the majority shareholder. He'd started the company in his early twenties, building sheds and warehouses, and had grown it into one of the most successful property developers in the country.

The board usually followed his advice on which projects to pursue, given his track record, and the fact that his connections still held enough shares to represent the majority in any vote, especially when his ex-wives followed their usual practice and voted with him.

To Peter's right sat Mario Imbroglio. Mario had a twenty percent holding in the group, acquired as part of the finance package he had brought to the table when the group was facing insolvency at the height of the global financial crisis, when the banks had stopped lending.

Next to Mario sat Warren Hunter, who owned a fifteen percent interest. Warren had been with the company from the start as its accountant. He'd found ways to finance Peter's dreams and had been rewarded with a significant stake in the company.

Opposite Mario, with his back to the window that opened on to a vista of the hills that stood on the eastern rim of the city, sat Dustin Walker, Peter's grandson. Twenty-five year old Dustin had inherited a ten percent interest in the group following his father's death in a skiing accident the previous year. Dustin did what his grandfather told him to do when they met for lunch before each board meeting started.

Next to Dustin sat Monica Webb and Rachel Foley, Peter's first two wives, who held twenty-five percent of the group's shares between them, thanks to their divorce settlements.

Peter shuffled the papers in front of him and took off his glasses, before placing them on the table. He looked across the table at his ex-wives. 'I've decided to retire.'

'As chairman?' said Monica.

'No, Monica. I mean retire as in stop work. I've been doing this for almost fifty years. I want to enjoy myself for a bit before it's too late.'

'You're not thinking of asking Dustin to take over the business, are you? He's only a boy,' said Rachel.

'Dustin and I have had a long chat. He's not ready to take on that sort of responsibility.' Peter looked down at his hands. 'Things would be different if James was still alive. I'd planned on handing things over to him when I was ready to retire but, well, you know why that won't be happening. So, I've had to make other arrangements.'

'What other arrangements?' said Rachel.

'I'm selling to Mario.'

Peter watched the color drain from the faces of Monica and Rachel as they realised the impact of what he had said. He enjoyed witnessing their consternation bubble to the surface and repaint their faces with the red of anger. He hoped Mario would screw them like the bastard had screwed him. 'We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Mario's intervention when the banks wouldn't help us. I've given him first option, and he's made an offer I'm prepared to accept.'

'That would give Mario fifty percent,' said Monica.

'Sixty, actually,' said Dustin.

His grandmother and her successor turned to face him.

'You don't have to sell just because your grandfather tells you to,' said Monica. 'I don't think your father would be pleased with that decision.'

'My father's not here, Grandma, and there are other things I can do with the money.'

'When is this happening?' said Monica.

'As we speak. The papers were signed yesterday. I'd like to congratulate Mario on becoming the chairman of the Walker Group.' Peter stood and offered his seat to Mario.

'No need to be that formal, Peter, but thank you anyway.' Mario faced Monica and Rachel. 'I'd be happy to make you the same offer I made Peter and Dustin.'

'What about you, Warren?' said Monica.

'I've accepted Mario's offer,' said Warren, without looking up.

'And, what is your offer, Mario?' said Rachel.

Mario opened the folder on the table in front of him and slid a sheet of paper across the table to her, and then slid one to Monica. 'I think it would be best if you signed before you leave. That offer will not be on the table after today.'

Mario Imbroglio moved into what had been Peter Walker's office during the first week of January. He'd been a board member of the Walker Group for six years, ever since the opportunity to insert himself into the business had presented itself during the global financial crisis, when he'd introduced himself to James Walker after receiving a tip-off that the group was in financial trouble.

The big banks had withdrawn from the financial facility backing one of Walker's multi-million dollar projects when the group's cash flow had suffered a sharp downturn. Mario had also been aware that James' father, who controlled the group, had been living beyond his means for several years. The man's ego was insufferable but Mario had been trained to manipulate the egos of powerful men.

After constructing a financial package with his backers, who were keen to find legitimate businesses for their money laundering purposes, Mario had persuaded James Walker to introduce him to his father as the group's saviour, as the one who could pull them back from the brink of bankruptcy. His price had been a twenty percent stake in the business.

The old man had called him every name under the sun. He'd even threatened to disinherit James for bringing someone like Mario into the boardroom. But, in the end, he'd signed. His ego couldn't face the prospect of bankruptcy and the exposure of his personal failings as a businessman.

Mario had joined the board and studied the way Peter Walker did things. He didn't like the old man but he admired his way of doing business. Walker seemed to be able to create money out of thin air, provided he had the backing of someone's money to finance his dreams. Mario was particularly amused when he learnt that one strategy the Walker Group used was to build office towers for gold-plated government tenants, sign contracts with the tenants to clean their offices, and then sell the buildings to superannuation funds, who liked the regular income government tenants provided. The group would then build another office tower in another city and repeat the process.

Over the years, Mario had developed a successful working relationship with James Walker, who had been slated to take over the business when Peter retired. But the Walker world had changed when James met with an accident during a skiing trip to Austria. The old man hadn't been the same after his son's death. He'd lost interest and within a year had offered the business to Mario and his backers.

He'd told Mario he didn't have the time or patience to school Dustin, so that he could take over the business, and confided that it was probably just as well, since it was always the third generation, the grandchildren, that squandered a family's fortune. Mario had reflected on that comment in light of what he knew, and concluded that Peter Walker was blind to his own failings and the cost of his extravagant lifestyle.

Mario's backers were delighted. They liked the diversity of the group's interests, which included ownership of two shopping malls, that would provide them with numerous opportunities for laundering their black market money.

By the time Mario had taken control of the group, several of his lieutenants, including Trevor Hunter, were already holding positions of influence within the group. He knew he'd have to keep the core group of executives in the property development division in place, the people who knew how to turn Peter Walker's dreams into reality, but there was plenty of scope for expanding into operations that Peter Walker would never have considered, not even in his wildest dreams.

Peter Walker's last useful role, prior to his retirement, had been to introduce Mario to his friend Richard Nelson, the Minister for Recreation and Sport. Nelson was another man with a big ego, which Mario planned to massage during negotiations to build and operate the city's second casino.

Mario looked at the final plans for Long Street on the desk in front of him, and decided it was time to start working on the Minister.

# Chapter 2

On the last Friday in April, John Drake sat at his desk in The Office of State Supply reading the agency's whistleblowing guidelines, for what must have been the fifteenth time, waiting for four o'clock. John was convinced he was doing the right thing but he was also aware of what often happened to whistleblowers, despite all the words in the Act.

He also knew it was too late to regret looking at things he hadn't been asked to investigate, even though he wished he hadn't let his curiosity get the better of him during the slow period around Easter, when he'd started opening folders on the share drive and reading the contracts behind the payments he administered.

Initially, he'd thought it would be interesting to know the specific terms and conditions in the individual contracts. Then he'd decided it would be useful to understand the agency's procurement policies and guidelines, since the agency was charged with getting the best value for the government's dollars when buying products and services.

When he'd noticed that some of the more expensive cleaning contracts hadn't been awarded to the companies that had submitted the most competitive tenders during the last round of contract reviews, he'd looked into the companies those contracts had gone to, and found a pattern of common ownership.

Aware that contract reviews were conducted by a three person committee of senior officers, that included Sonya Curtis, the head of the agency, he knew there was no way he would be confronting any of them directly. He was intimidated by every one of them, especially Sonya Curtis, who was known among officers at John's level as 'The Bitch'.

John knew he had to tell someone or he wouldn't be living up to his obligations as a public servant. After a week of anxious deliberation, he'd decided to escalate his concerns to the Auditor General, which was one of the options available to him in the whistleblowing guidelines. But, because he would be reporting senior officers, he'd decided it would be prudent to discuss his concerns with Pam Watson, his immediate supervisor, just to be sure he hadn't misunderstood something.

At four o'clock, he put two copies of the document he'd compiled into his bag, picked up the third copy he'd printed for Pam, and walked over to her office.

Pam smiled as he sat down with the document in his lap. 'So, what's on your mind, John?'

'I'm not sure how to say this, but it looks like we might not have done the right thing when awarding some of the big dollar cleaning contracts.'

'Oh? What makes you think that?'

John shifted in his seat. 'Well, I thought I'd read some of the contracts I administer, so I had a look on the share drive. I ended up reading some of the tender documents, you know, to see how the whole process works.' John could feel beads of perspiration forming on his brow. 'Anyway, I reviewed the documents associated with the cleaning contracts I administer, and it looks like several of those contracts went to companies belonging to the Walker Group, even when they weren't the most competitive tender.' John looked up. 'We're supposed to accept the most competitive tender, aren't we?'

Pam leant back into her chair. 'Do you realise what you're suggesting?'

'Yeah, that's the scary bit. If I'm right, it looks like we have a problem at the top. You know who's on the contracts committee, don't you?'

'That's a pretty serious allegation to make, John. And, it's not like you're experienced in these matters, is it? You've only been here a few months.'

Those words hit John like a backhander across the face. He stared at Pam. She didn't intimidate him like the others.

'I've been working in contracts administration for at least ten years, Pam. It's what I was doing at Transport before I came here. I think I know what the rules are and I've studied the guidelines we're supposed to be following, so I think I know what I'm talking about.' John paused to regain his composure. He didn't want to start an argument. 'Sometimes a fresh set of eyes sees things that others have missed, but,' he held his hands up in front of him, 'I could be wrong. That's why I thought I'd better discuss it with you before taking my concerns any further.'

'Wise decision, John. So, what have you got there?'

'It's all in here.' John passed her his document and watched the color drain from her face as she scanned its contents.

'I don't have time to study this now but I'll read it and get back to you as soon as I can. In the meantime, I want you to keep this to yourself. If you've read the whistleblower guidelines, which I hope you have, you'll know they offer you no protection if you leak anything to the media, even if you're right.'

'I intend to stick with the guidelines. Wouldn't look too good if I didn't, would it?'

'If I agree with your findings, this will have to be escalated to the Auditor General. On the other hand, though, John,' Pam flashed him a smile, 'if I don't agree with your interpretation of the data, I'll be advising you to drop this. I'd hate to see you make a career ending mistake simply because you misinterpreted something outside your area of responsibility.'

John felt the wind being sucked from his sails. The tone in her words, along with her body language, told him he wouldn't be getting any support from her.

'Look, you've done the right thing bringing this to my attention.' She looked at her watch. 'I'll catch up with you on Monday, after I've had a chance to study this.'

John returned to his desk and decided that talking to Pam hadn't been the mistake he'd thought it might be. She obviously didn't want him to take his concerns any further, despite her words of support, but the look on her face when she'd scanned the report had told him what he'd wanted to know.

While he packed up his workstation, he decided to post a copy of his report to the Auditor General on the way home, and live with the consequences.

Pam slipped John's document into her briefcase and watched him pack up his workstation and leave for the weekend. She admired him for wanting to know about the contracts he was administering. That was more than any of his predecessors had done. But, she wished he hadn't been so inquisitive. Now they had a problem they would have to deal with before he did anything. She hoped to God he'd do as she'd asked him and wait for her to get back to him.

As John walked past her office on his way to the elevator lobby, Pam picked up her personal smartphone.

'Sonya, we have a problem.'

# Author Insight

**Whistleblower** : _someone who informs on a person or organisation engaging in unlawful or immoral acts._

We hear about the more sensational whistleblowers, like Edward Snowden, who take their stories to the media. Most public service whistleblowing is nothing like that. It's routine and done behind closed doors far away from the media spotlight.

**_Whistleblower_** starts with the routine reporting of a suspicion that something is not quite right in the Office of State Supply. However, the whistleblower makes a mistake that alerts those involved and puts him in harm's way.

The story explores a simple premise: the whistleblower has his own secret that leads to his death after he lifts the lid on the secret dealings of the Office of State Supply.

But, as anyone who's read the other books in this series will know, it won't be that simple. You will find several stories wrapped together in this tale of murder and intrigue.

In addition to DI West's investigation of the murder of the whistleblower, there's the ongoing investigation into the killing of homeless men in and around a building in the city that started before the action kicked off by the whistleblower, and another into the brutal murder of a young woman working as an upmarket escort, whose body is found in an apartment rented by the whistleblower.

There's also the story of a father seeking revenge against those who have drawn his daughter into the world of sex work – an angry man doing rash things. And, there are the stories of those involved in the secret the whistleblower set out to expose, including the story of the man who started the company the whistleblower believed was colluding with his corrupt colleagues. He ends up dead on the beach at Carrick, the victim of another murder for DI West and the team to investigate.

Read **_Whistleblower_ **to experience these threads coming together to weave a tale of unexpected connections and outcomes.

**_Whistleblower_**. Simple premise. Intricate story.

And, for those following the life of Carl West, he will be a father by the time you finish reading this one.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Whistleblower_ **either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_Whistleblower_**

Read on for a couple of chapters from **_Twisted Justice_** , book five in the Inspector West series.

# Twisted Justice: Inspector West

# Chapter 1

Several new admissions and a death had kept Kelly Palmer busy since she'd signed on as the intensive care duty sister at midnight, which was the way Kelly preferred her shifts to go.

With the end of her shift in sight, she was looking forward to a good sleep before coming back to do it all again. And, being Friday, she knew she'd need all the sleep she could get before returning to face the rush of patients Fridays always seemed to deliver.

Kelly looked across the city skyline to the hills through the third-floor windows of City Hospital. The morning sky was heavy with grey rain clouds. She hoped it wouldn't start raining until she'd reached her car, parked a two-minute walk away from the hospital in the West End of the city. She glanced at her watch. It was almost time for the morning shift to arrive.

Kelly walked back to the nurse station from the bedside of the patient she had gone to check to start preparing for the shift change.

As she gathered her notes, the elevator doors opened and the sound of bright voices drifted across to her. The nurses of the morning shift stepped onto the floor and walked towards the nurse station across from the elevators. Kelly greeted her replacement and went through the handover routine required to bring her up to speed on the status of the patients in their care.

When she'd completed the handover, Kelly went into the staffroom. She slipped on her coat, took her handbag out of her locker, and checked her face in the mirror of her compact. Satisfied with her appearance, she headed for the elevator.

Kelly stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the ground floor. While she waited for the doors to close, she pulled her mobile phone out of her handbag and switched it on. There were two missed calls. Both from Ian. She dropped the phone back into her handbag.

She had no intention of returning Ian's calls. She'd told him it was over and she'd told herself that, this time, she wasn't giving into his puppy dog pleas.

It had taken another fight with her sister, but she'd finally come to terms with the fact that Ian was never going to change, no matter how many promises he'd make. Besides, her sister had gone to great lengths to remind her that she'd heard them all before and that every time she'd forgiven him and let him back into her life, they'd ended up in the same place.

In the end, she'd agreed with her sister that five years of living with Ian's idea of how relationships worked was more than enough and decided there was no way she could put up with any more of his abuse. Now, having mustered up the courage to kick him out, she knew living on her own was better than living with him, even if he hadn't yet come to terms with their new arrangement. She hoped he'd get the message soon and leave her alone, otherwise, she'd have no choice but to take her sister's advice and get a restraining order.

When she reached the foyer, she looked around to make sure Ian wasn't waiting for her. There was no sign of him. She crossed the open expanse between the elevators and the main doors of the hospital and headed towards the parking station where she'd left her car.

She wrapped her arms around herself and looked up into the sky. The clouds were black. A couple of raindrops splashed onto her face. She hurried across the intersection in front of the hospital, rebuking herself for leaving her umbrella in the car, and made her way to the laneway that led to the car park.

At eight o'clock on a Friday morning, the city was coming to life but the West End, away from the commercial heart of the city, was still all but deserted. Businesses in the West End didn't open until nine, and the little shops that serviced visitors to the hospital remained closed until just before ten, when visiting hours started.

Kelly hurried down Grant Lane, hoping she'd get to the car park before it started raining in earnest. A man dressed in black swept past her on a bicycle. Kelly jumped; startled. She hadn't heard him coming. She thought it had to be Ian.

She took a couple of deep breaths and told herself to calm down.

Once she'd recovered from her initial fright, she realized there was no way Ian would be riding around the city on his bike at eight o'clock in the morning. He started work at seven-thirty and, besides, he hated riding in the rain. She shook her head. It was just a man on his way to work.

Kelly turned into the entrance of the car park and climbed the stairs to level one, where her car was waiting for her in bay 1-B, the spot outside the stairwell door she'd managed to secure when she'd first started working at City Hospital.

# Chapter 2

Trent had agonised about what he was planning to do for a long time but it hadn't helped. It had only made thinking about what had happened to Helen all the more painful.

It wasn't his fault that it had happened to her, but it had happened, and nobody had been held accountable. In his mind, that wasn't right. The powers that be hadn't listened to him when he had raised his concerns. They had dismissed his accusations as unfounded, and advised him to seek help with managing his grief. He'd stuffed it all down into the dungeons of his mind and tried to get on with his life.

But she wouldn't leave him alone.

Helen wanted justice and, after another night of haunted dreams, he understood she had chosen him to administer it and that she would not leave him in peace until he did. Seven years of nightly torment had worn down his resistance. He wanted peace more than anything else, and she'd told him how he could get it.

He sat at the kitchen table and wrote each of the five names he'd memorised onto a small square of paper, using the biro he used for making his weekly shopping list. He folded each square after he'd written a name on it and dropped the folded piece of paper into Helen's coffee mug.

Trent couldn't remember why he'd kept Helen's mug. He'd discarded everything else that had belonged to her years ago. Now, as he dropped the name bearing pieces of paper into the mug, he understood why he'd kept it. She wanted to determine the order of his executions.

He picked up the mug in his left hand and held it above his head.

'You choose, sweetheart,' he said to the empty room, before blindly pushing the fingers of his right hand into the mug and pulling out a piece of paper.

He lowered the mug onto the table and opened the folded square. He read the name: Kelly Palmer.

Trent put Helen's coffee mug with the remaining names in it back into the cupboard above the refrigerator, opened his laptop, and started researching Kelly Palmer.

The number of entries for Kelly Palmer surprised him but what he knew about her helped him narrow down the field of possibilities.

He signed-in to LinkedIn and read the profile of the Kelly Palmer working at City Hospital. She was still working in intensive care.

He signed-in to Facebook. There was a profile for a Kelly Palmer living in Morton Sands. The profile picture matched his memory of her face.

He opened White Pages and searched for K Palmer in Morton Sands. The search result listed two entries. He wrote down the addresses.

Trent made himself a thermos of hot coffee and two ham, cheese, and tomato sandwiches. Then he drove his van to Morton Sands.

The first address was a house in Whale Street. There were two cars in the driveway. He parked across the street from the house and waited.

He'd almost finished the coffee in his thermos when the front door of the house opened and a woman with grey hair stepped out onto the veranda with a dog on a leash. As he watched them walk towards the beach at the end of the street, he decided Kelly had to be living at the other address.

He drove around to Dune Avenue and parked outside the apartment block at number fifteen. He got out of the van, walked across the street and looked at the cars parked in the numbered parking bays. There was no car in the bay for apartment three. He returned to the van and waited.

Trent went home after watching the sun slide into the ocean and take its light from the sky in a spectacular display of oranges and pinks that slowly faded to black.

He came back to number fifteen Dune Avenue at two o'clock the next morning. There was a car parked in the bay for apartment three. He wrote down the details and figured she must be working the four to midnight shift.

He returned at three o'clock in the afternoon and watched Kelly Palmer get into her car. He followed her into the city. At three forty-six, he watched her turn into Grant Lane, opposite the main entrance to City Hospital, and enter the car park halfway down the lane.

He followed her to and from work for a week. At the end of that week, she started leaving for work at eleven pm and going home at eight the next morning. He decided on the car park, as there were always too many people around at her apartment building and there were no security cameras in the car park.

Trent spent several mornings observing the comings and goings in the car park around the time Kelly retrieved her car before driving home. She arrived at five minutes after eight most mornings and was the only person on level one for the next ten to fifteen minutes, which was more than enough time for what he had in mind.

On the Friday morning of the week Kelly had started on the midnight shift, Trent rode his bicycle into the city and waited opposite the hospital until he saw her leave the building. When she crossed the street and started down the lane, he followed her on his bicycle and rode past her before she'd reached the entrance into the car park.

He rode up the ramp to level one, dismounted, and leant his bicycle on the wall next to parking bay 1-B, and waited for Kelly to come through the door from the stairwell.

# Author Insight

There are times when it feels like taking the law into your own hands is the only option you have for obtaining justice. Fortunately, most of us resist the temptation to act on that impulse and put our trust in the justice system. Sometimes, though, people take the other option.

The opening story in **_Twisted Justice_** explores what happens when Trent Mitchell takes that option and administers the justice the system refused to give him.

I'm sure very few people take that option lightly, and Trent is no different. He's agonised over his decision for years but there are only so many sleepless nights and tormented dreams a man can endure.

If you keep going over the same story in your head, it's like reliving the story every time you tell it. If you blame someone else for what happened, you can come to believe you must take action so they pay for your loss. This is where Trent Mitchell is when we meet him. He's planning his first execution.

If you've read the earlier books in this series, you'll know there will be more than one crime story and the stories will somehow be connected. The second story involves car thief, Ian Holden. I think you'll like the way I introduce him into the story.

Ian's a man with a different problem. He's part of a car-stealing gang and he's just been caught with the goods. There may be honour among thieves but that doesn't always translate into trust, and this is where Ian Holden's real problem lies.

When **_Twisted Justice_** opens, DI West's team is investigating a car-stealing racket that seems to be doing the impossible. Then, Trent Mitchell strikes, and Carl has to divide his attention and resources to solve both cases.

This is a bit of a different read, where you know who the killer is right at the start and get to ride along with the team as it works out who he is.

You also get a look into how the team uses incremental steps to build the case against the mastermind of the car-stealing gang. Wayne seems a little obsessed with this one.

And, of course, there are a few twists and turns. Let's face it, logical people often make irrational decisions - and that's what makes crime so interesting.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Twisted Justice_ **either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_Twisted Justice_**

# The East Park Syndicate

# Chapter 1

Joanna Clarke looked at her watch, and then across the table at her older son, Justin, who was on his phone.

'He's still not answering, Mum,' said Justin. 'I hope he's on his way.'

It was ten minutes to two. Joanna didn't know what to think. It wasn't like Doug to be late, especially when it came to being in the spotlight, and today he was supposed to be introducing the Premier to launch Justin's election campaign.

She looked across the restaurant. People were eating and drinking at every table. The air vibrated with the sounds of clinking cutlery and excited voices. She felt an inner glow of pride. Justin had certainly attracted a large crowd of supporters to launch his campaign to become their local member.

She looked at her watch again, and then towards the foyer, expecting to see Doug striding across it to make a grand entrance. But there was no sign of him, and the Premier was due to arrive in less than ten minutes.

Not wanting to show her concern, Joanna took a deep breath and set her smile, although she knew something had to be wrong. This launch meant as much to Doug as it did to Justin. He'd worked for years to get Justin selected as the party's candidate, and she knew there was no way he'd be missing the launch of his campaign if he could help it. What worried her was she hadn't heard from him since he'd left the house that morning to keep some appointment before joining them at the restaurant, and Doug was a stickler for letting her know when he was running late.

She looked at her watch again and turned to her younger son, Richard, sitting on her left with his wife, Kathy. 'You'd better think of a few words to introduce the Premier. It doesn't look like your father is going to make it in time.'

Richard, who was president of the local branch of the Liberal Party, smiled at her. 'He's sure cutting it fine.'

'Something unexpected must have come up,' said Joanna, 'but I'm surprised he hasn't called.'

Richard placed his hand on his mother's. 'I've got it covered, Mum. I've got a copy of Dad's speech in my pocket. I wrote this one.'

Joanna cocked an eyebrow. She'd always believed Doug wrote his own speeches.

'He didn't have time,' said Richard, 'besides, the Premier's office sent us the text, so it's not as if he could have ad-libbed much in any case.'

A white car with a state flag fluttering from a short staff at its front end pulled up outside the restaurant and all heads turned to watch the Premier and his minders make their way inside.

Richard stood, walked out to the foyer to greet the Premier, and then escorted him to the microphone set up in front of the bar.

The noise level abated as the serious part of the campaign launch got under way. Richard introduced the Premier using the glowing words of the text the Premier's office had sent him. The Premier spoke for ten minutes outlining the party's policy platform and then introduced Justin Clarke as their local candidate.

Justin spoke to loud applause and answered several questions from the floor.

The Premier shook hands and posed for photographs with the party faithful who had come out to support their candidate. Then, he waved to the crowd and left with his minders to return to the never-ending list of duties that came with his office.

Joanna allowed herself to be swept up in the euphoria of the moment but, when it was over, she reached into her handbag and pulled out her phone. There was still no message from Doug.

Richard sat down beside her. 'Dad's going to be disappointed he missed this.'

'I can't believe he didn't turn up,' said Joanna.

'Why don't you try calling him again, Mum?' said Kathy.

Joanna picked up her phone and pressed the button to call Doug's number. She listened until his voicemail message came on.

'He's still not answering.'

'Something must have happened to him,' said Kathy.

'I'm going home,' said Joanna, gathering her things. 'If something's happened to him, that's where people will come looking for me.'

'Do you want me to come with you?' said Kathy.

'I should be okay,' said Joanna.

'Might be a good idea,' said Richard, 'especially if something has happened to Dad.'

Joanna didn't want to go there but the sinking feeling in her stomach told her Richard was probably right. 'Thank you.'

'I'll drop round when we finish up here,' said Richard.

# Chapter 2

Detective Inspector Carl West gazed at the mansions, set in extensive gardens and shielded from prying eyes by high fences and hedges, as Detective Sergeant Harry Fuller drove them deeper into East Park. The ambience of the suburb, created by galleries of overhanging street trees and the foliage of the urban forest growing in the park that gave the area its name, did nothing to lift Carl's sense of unease. He'd never enjoyed dealing with the self-important people that lived in East Park and wasn't looking forward to having to do it again.

Harry turned their silver Ford onto the roadway leading into the park and drove between the trees. After a few minutes, they came to a parking area next to one of the playing fields hidden within the forest, where several police vehicles and the coroner's grey van were parked.

'Ever been in here before, Boss?' said Harry, as he parked next to the patrol cars.

'Not for a long time,' said Carl. 'Not since I played football for the academy.'

'That sounds like ancient history,' said Harry.

'I'm not that old,' said Carl, 'but, to be honest, I don't remember the trees being this big.'

Harry laughed as they got out and walked around to the rear of the car to slip on their protective clothing.

'Sure is quiet in here,' said Carl.

'Hard to believe the city's just out there,' said Harry, pointing back towards the road they'd followed into the depth of the forest.

They walked over to the constable controlling access to the crime scene and signed themselves in.

'Who's in charge?' said Carl.

'Senior Constable Head, Inspector,' said the constable, lifting the crime scene tape for them.

They walked across the vacant parking area beyond the tape to where the scene of crime team had erected their blue tent.

Carl looked through the open side of the tent pitched in the grass on the edge of the parking area. The lifeless blue eyes of a white-haired man, dressed in a dark grey suit, soft pink tie, and a torn white bloodstained shirt, stared back at him. He wondered what a man dressed in a suit and expensive looking black shoes was doing in the middle of the East Park forest on a Saturday morning.

Harry squatted and studied the wound in the man's chest.

'Not much blood here, Boss,' said Harry, pointing to the ground next to the body.

Carl turned to SC Head, who was standing near the entrance of the tent.

'What do we know, Charlie?'

'Body was found about an hour ago by a couple of boys walking their dog.'

'How old?' said Carl.

'The older one is thirteen,' said Charlie. 'His little brother's a ten-year old.'

'They okay?' said Carl.

'Seemed okay. Their father was here when we arrived,' said Charlie. 'The boys had a mobile phone and called their father. He's the one who called us.'

'Get a statement?' said Carl.

SC Head nodded. 'Yeah, but nothing useful from the boys. They didn't see anyone or hear anything but we know who the victim is, Inspector. The father recognized him as the local mayor. A man named Doug Clarke.'

The name didn't mean anything to Carl. 'Have you been able to confirm that?'

'Did a quick check on the council website. Looks like him.'

At least that would give them somewhere to start, thought Carl. 'Get an address, Harry.' He turned back to SC Head. 'Anything found on the body?'

'Nothing in his pockets, Inspector,' said Charlie.

Carl wondered why someone would remove the victim's ID and then dump his body in the middle of the suburb where he was the mayor.

'Anybody else in the vicinity?'

'We haven't seen anyone,' said Charlie, 'not even any spectators.'

'Thanks, Charlie.' Carl walked over to where Dr Mike Jonas, the police pathologist, was packing up his equipment.

'Nice place for a picnic,' said Mike.

'Or for boys to walk their dog,' said Carl.

'Yeah, but I guess stumbling across this might have ruined their day,' said Mike.

'Be something to tell their mates at school on Monday,' said Carl. 'What can you tell me about our friend here?'

'Someone stuck a knife into him, right up under his ribcage.'

'Doesn't seem to be much blood on the ground here,' said Carl.

'Can't argue with that,' said Mike.

'How long do you think he's been dead?' said Carl.

'Not long, Carl. Probably only a matter of hours.'

Sgt Lang from the scene of crime team came over to join them.

'What do you think, Dean?'

'I'd say the body was dumped here, Inspector.'

'What makes you think that?'

'There's bugger all blood on the ground where the body is or anywhere else in the immediate vicinity and, if you look there,' said Dean, pointing at the ground between the shoes of the victim and the edge of the parking area, 'you can see the body was dragged into the grass from the car park.'

Carl looked where Dean was pointing. There were two faint lines of depressed grass that ended at the heels of the victim's shoes. 'Any other footprints?'

'Only impressions in the grass,' said Dean. 'Nothing conclusive.'

'Anything in the car park?' said Carl.

'Nothing we can use,' said Dean. 'I guess it's fair to assume whoever left him here drove in and out in a vehicle but this uneven surface makes it difficult to pick up any tread marks.'

'Any sign of a murder weapon?'

'We're still searching the area, Inspector, but it might take a while. Could be anywhere along the length of the road into here, if it's here at all.'

'Let me know if you find it,' said Carl.

The house at 14 Orange Drive was set well back from the street behind a high stone wall but, to Carl's surprise, the gate giving access to the driveway was open. They drove in and parked behind the Mercedes sedan at the top of the driveway.

'Nice house,' said Harry, as they got out of the car.

'Must cost a fortune to maintain a place like this,' said Carl, admiring the stonework adorning the front of the two-storey dwelling.

'You'd definitely want someone to cut the grass,' said Harry, pointing towards the sweep of lawn in front of the house.

'Even I have someone come in and mow the lawns,' said Carl. 'Can't see the point of wasting my free time walking around behind a lawnmower.'

Harry pushed the doorbell and they waited on the veranda until the door was opened by a woman Carl decided was too young to be the victim's wife.

'Detective Inspector West, City Police,' said Carl, showing her his ID. 'We're looking for Mrs Clarke.'

'I'm Kathy Clarke. I'm married to Richard, but I guess you're looking for my mother-in-law if you're here.'

'Is she home?' said Carl. 'I need to speak to her.'

'Something's happened to Dad, hasn't it?'

'Why would you think that?' said Carl.

'He didn't show up for the launch and we can't get him to answer his phone.'

'Who is it?' said Joanna, walking up behind Kathy.

'The police, Mum. They're here about Dad,' said Kathy.

Carl wondered if she'd read his body language or knew more than she was letting on.

'Has he been in an accident?'

'Might be best if we come in, Mrs Clarke,' said Carl. 'I'm afraid it's a bit more serious than that.'

The color faded in the older Mrs Clarke's face and Carl thought that she, at least, appeared surprised.

'He's dead, isn't he?'

'We need to make a positive identification before I can confirm that, Mrs Clarke, but we have a body that's been tentatively identified as being your husband. I'm sorry.'

'What was your name again?' said Joanna.

'Detective Inspector West.'

'You'd better come in and give us the details, Inspector' said Joanna, 'in case it is him. We can go into the library.'

Joanna led them into the first room on the left off the entrance hall. The walls were lined with shelves holding the Clarke's extensive collection of books. She invited them to sit in the comfortable looking armchairs occupying the space between the bookcases.

'Where was this body found, Inspector?' said Joanna.

'Near the playing fields in East Park.'

'What would Doug be doing in the park?' said Joanna. 'He never goes in there.' She looked at Carl. 'What makes you think it's Doug?'

'The father of the boys that found the body told us he recognized him,' said Carl. 'Do you have a recent photograph of your husband, Mrs Clarke?'

'I've got one on my phone,' said Kathy. 'I took one of him with Dougie the other day.'

They waited while she scrolled through her photos. 'Here, this was taken last weekend.'

Carl took her phone and looked at the image of a smiling Doug Clarke holding his grandson. The man in the photograph had the same blue eyes that had stared back at him in the park.

'Show them the photo, Sergeant.'

Harry opened his tablet and showed Joanna the head and shoulders shot the police photographer had sent him.

'That's Doug,' said Joanna, sinking back into her armchair.

Harry turned the tablet so Kathy could see the image. She took one look and raised her hands to her face.

Carl waited. Mrs Clarke did not appear to be going to pieces on him.

'What happens now?' said Joanna.

'I'll need to ask you some questions,' said Carl, 'and we'll need to arrange for a family member to formally identify the body.'

'One of the boys can do that,' said Joanna.

'How many sons do you have?' said Carl.

'Just the two. Justin and Richard.'

'Richard should be here soon,' said Kathy. 'I'm sure he'll do that for you.'

Carl waited for Harry to take out his notebook.

'When was the last time you saw your husband, Mrs Clarke?'

'This morning. He left around ten. He was supposed to meet up with us at the restaurant.'

'A special occasion?' said Carl, taking in the attire of the women he was interviewing and thinking of the grey suit and pink tie the victim had been wearing.

'The launch of our son's election campaign, Inspector. Justin's standing to be the local member. Doug was meant to be introducing the Premier but Richard had to do it.'

Carl glanced at Kathy. She was sitting with her arms wrapped around each other. For the moment, now that he understood the context of her earlier statement, he was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt.

'Where was your husband going when he left this morning?' said Carl, wondering how extensive Doug Clarke's network was if he knew the Premier and his son was running for parliament.

'Said he had a meeting.'

'Did he say who he was meeting?'

'Doug was the mayor, Inspector. He was always going to meetings.' Joanna shrugged her shoulders. 'I have no idea who he was meeting this morning.'

'Did he keep a diary?'

'Be on his phone.'

'Do you have the code for opening his phone?'

'It will be in his little black book in the study,' said Joanna, making no move to retrieve it.

'Did he have his phone with him when he left this morning?' said Carl.

'He didn't go anywhere without it. Wasn't it in his car?'

'What was he driving?'

'A Mercedes like the one outside,' said Joanna, looking from Carl to Harry and back again. 'Wasn't it where you found the body?'

'No,' said Carl. 'Did Doug normally carry a wallet?'

'Is that missing as well?' said Joanna.

'Yes,' said Carl. 'You'll need to contact your bank to get a stop on his accounts.'

The sound of the front door closing, followed by the tapping of footsteps in the hallway outside the library, interrupted Carl's train of thought.

'In here, Richard,' said Kathy.

A man Carl immediately recognized as a son of the victim appeared in the library doorway.

'Who are you?' said Richard.

'They're the police, honey. Dad's dead.'

Richard stepped into the room and stood behind his mother's armchair. 'What happened?'

'We're treating it as a homicide,' said Carl.

'And, you are?'

'Detective Inspector West,' said Carl, showing Richard his ID, 'and this is Detective Sergeant Fuller.'

'Homicide? You mean you think somebody killed him?' said Richard.

'Yes.'

'How?'

'I'd prefer not to go into details at this stage, Mr Clarke,' said Carl. 'Perhaps you could each tell me where you were this morning between say ten and noon. Mr Clarke?'

'Are we suspects now, Inspector?'

'Everybody who knew your father in any way is a suspect, Mr Clarke, until we can eliminate them from the list.'

'I was at home with Kathy until eleven,' said Richard, 'then we took our son to Kathy's parents' place. We were at the restaurant by twelve. I had to help set up.' He looked at his wife.

'That sounds about right,' said Kathy.

'And you, Mrs Clarke?'

'I was here on my own after Doug left,' said Joanna. 'I left for the restaurant just before twelve thirty.'

'Thank you,' said Carl.

'When can we see the body?' said Richard.

'We'll need someone to make a formal identification,' said Carl. 'Could you do that when we finish here?'

'Can I bring my brother?' said Richard.

'By all means,' said Carl, passing him a card. 'The address you'll need to come to is on here.'

'I can't believe this is happening,' said Richard.

'I'm sorry,' said Carl. 'Believe me, I wish it wasn't either but it's a reality you're going to have to deal with.'

'Where do you start?' said Joanna. 'How do you find his killer?'

'Did your husband mention anything about being threatened by anyone?'

'Doug was everybody's friend, Inspector. That's why he'd been elected mayor three times. He didn't have enemies.'

Carl doubted that was true. He turned to Richard. 'Did he say anything to you?'

'Nothing,' said Richard.

Carl pushed himself up from the armchair. 'Can you give me your husband's mobile phone number, Mrs Clarke? It might help us trace his last movements.'

'I'll give you one of his business cards.'

Carl waited while Mrs Clarke retrieved a business card from her husband's study.

'When you contact the bank, Mrs Clarke, ask them if anyone has used your husband's accounts today?' said Carl. 'It may help us identify the killer.'

'And how will I tell you about that?' said Joanna.

Carl handed her one of his business cards. 'My contact details are on here if you need them.' He turned to leave and then stopped. 'By the way, is your husband's car registered in his name?'

'No. It's registered in the name of Doug Clarke Real Estate,' said Richard. 'All our cars are, but Mum and Dad's are the only Mercedes we have on the books.'

Carl kept his eyes on Richard and Kathy Clarke standing on the veranda as Harry reversed their car out of the driveway into Orange Drive.

'What did you make of that, Harry?'

'They didn't seem all that shocked when you told them he was dead. It was almost as if they'd been expecting it.'

'They must have known, at least suspected, something had happened to him,' said Carl. 'After all, he hadn't turned up for what sounds like an important event or answered his phone.'

'But they hadn't reported him as missing either, Boss.'

'Maybe they were hoping he'd turn up,' said Carl.

'Wonder how connected these Clarkes are to the Premier, Boss. That could be a problem.'

'I'll let the chief deal with that. Let's see if we can trace his movements through this phone number and get an APB out on his vehicle. We might get lucky if we find his car.'

'Or if the killer uses his credit cards,' said Harry.

# Author Insight

**_The East Park Syndicate,_** like any good murder mystery, starts with the discovery of a body. In this case, the body of the mayor of East Park - businessman and political insider - Doug Clarke.

The story is driven by several questions:

  * Who killed Doug Clarke?
  * Why was he killed?
  * Will Inspector West and his team solve the mystery and arrest the killer?

As you'd expect, I've also thrown in a few curveballs to make solving the crime just that little bit more of a challenge for Carl West and his team.

No story exists in a vacuum. There are always social problems within a story's context that will influence people's behaviour, so it's not surprising that a few of the social issues currently playing out in Australia found their way into the tapestry of Doug Clarke's story as it unfolded.

And, let me confess, the story of this mystery did unfold, even though I tried to plan it and write an outline so I'd know where the story was going before I started. It turns out, I don't write stories that way. I write using a method known as writing into the unknown.

So, when I started writing, I knew who the victim was and how he had been killed, and I'd drawn up his family tree so Inspector West would have someone to interview after he'd identified the body. The only other thing I knew was some of the action would be taking place in a remote location.

The details of the story emerged as I tried to find out why Doug Clarke had been killed and who killed him. At least in my investigation of the murder, I had an advantage over Inspector West. I could get into the stories of the other characters without telling the inspector what they knew.

I think giving you some insights into the backstory of the criminals adds to the suspense - especially when the storylines will intersect, as they inevitably do. If you've read any of the other Inspector West stories, you'll know there is always more than one crime story inside the main story and that, somehow, I'll pull them all together and surprise you.

It's always fun constructing that web and watching how the storylines come together. Of course, a lot of thought goes into making sure you don't get to guess who the killer is too early and laying down the breadcrumbs that allow you to see how it all comes in the end.

For those interested in the personal life of the main characters of the series, The East Park Syndicate also explores the life of Carl West outside the confines of the investigation and touches on some of the relationship stresses and strains his detectives live with. I like to expose the human side of my main characters to remind you that police officers are people with ordinary lives like the rest of us, even if their professional lives sound a little more exciting than ours.

One of the challenges of writing crime fiction is keeping things believable, so it was reassuring to read a news report describing a police raid on a farmhouse in a remote part of the country that aligned with the scene I had written about such a raid a few days earlier. They even found the same thing I had raided the place to find. One happy writer reading the news that day.

And, for those who wonder how the police track down criminals using mobile phone data, I've recently discovered that police in Australia are now using an app that gives them instant access to a mobile phone's location data. It works much like that app that lets you find your phone. Something to think about the next time you leave the house with your mobile phone in your pocket.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_The East Park Syndicate_ **either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_The East Park Syndicate_**

Read on to discover the Stella Bruno Investigates series.

# Reading Stella Bruno Investigates

Stella Bruno Investigates is a series of six books telling seven stories.

Each title in the series is dedicated to a particular crime, but the seventh story, Stella's story, is interwoven through the six stories that make up the series.

To fully appreciate the gradual unfolding of Stella's story, you'll need to read the series in book order.

Set in and around Adelaide, South Australia, the stories open a window into Australian life and policing that allows you to explore life down under, without making the long-haul flight required to get there. That has to be a bonus.

All of the places mentioned in the stories exist – you can look them up using your search engine of choice. And, you can enjoy a meal at any of the restaurants where Stella and Shaun eat – if you ever make that long-haul flight and come to Adelaide. You might even spot me at one of the tables.

Australians are fairly informal in their working relationships, even within the confines of the rigid hierarchy of a police force. Working relationships are built on trust, and it's not uncommon for officers of differing ranks to treat each other as equals – as Stella and Brian do. Of course, there is also a place for respecting rank, which is why Stella has a different relationship with DI Frank Williams, who is still coming to terms with the reality of his most competent detective sergeant being a woman. He gets better as the series progresses.

The other man of interest across the series is Shaun Porter. He works for the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions but that is secondary to his role as Stella's new love interest. Yes, police officers have a life outside of investigating crime, and one of the joys of writing the series was witnessing the development of the relationship between Stella and Shaun. I hope you enjoy their story.

If you're wondering what makes Australian crime stories different, Stella Bruno Investigates gives you the opportunity to find out in six quick reads.

Let's start over the page with **_The Identity Thief_**.

# The Identity Thief

# Chapter 1

Stella observed the blue plastic tent and its ring of crime scene tape as Brian parked alongside the patrol car in the rear car park of the Old Spot Hotel in Salisbury Heights. There were two other vehicles parked near the patrol car. One was marked as a police vehicle. The other she recognised as the Coroner's van.

Brian killed the engine. Stella stepped out of their air-conditioned cocoon into a north wind pushing dry air from the overheated interior of the continent towards the coast. It ruffled her short dark hair and stung her face. She walked around to Brian's side of the car, out of the wind, to slip into her scene-of-crime suit.

Stella thought it was hot enough for her to melt in her skirt and blouse without the extra layer of required protective clothing. She'd only been out of the car for a couple of minutes but it felt like she'd been standing in a sauna for hours by the time she'd donned the suit.

She watched as Brian struggled into his disposable suit, sitting on the driver's seat to pull on his blue plastic bag shoes, and wondered if he was about to keel over on her.

'You need to lose some weight, Brian.'

'Think I've lost three kilos since I got out of the car, Sarge.'

'Couple of beers will take care of that.'

'If I live long enough to get into the bar.'

Stella noted the lack of onlookers standing around. With the mercury pushing towards forty degrees Celsius, she assumed anybody with any sense would be inside, standing in the eighteen-degree air-conditioned interior of the hotel, and planned on joining them as soon as she could.

They walked over to the constable standing in the shade of the blue tent. Stella flashed her ID and they entered the crime scene.

The tent covered a new looking white Mitsubishi Lancer. While the tent provided shade and protection from the wind, it was suffocatingly hot under its flapping blue plastic. Stella looked into the car. The body of a grey-haired man with matching beard occupied the driver's seat of the Lancer, held in place by the seat belt. The inside of the windscreen was splattered with blood and brains, thanks to the bullet that had entered his head from behind his right ear and exited above his left eye.

'How long's he been here, Steve?' Stella asked the pathologist with the crime scene investigators.

Steve Wright looked up from his task. 'Hello, Stella. Nice to see you, too.'

'Steve, it's too bloody hot to stand around making small talk.'

Steve smiled. 'I'd say we were lucky someone spotted him this morning. He'd be a right old stinker if he'd spent a few days like today locked in here.'

'So, you reckon he was killed last night, then?'

'Probably.'

'Any sign of the round?'

'Nine mill. Got it bagged.'

Stella glanced at the body. 'Any ID on him?'

'Driver's licence and a couple of credit cards.'

Stella waited while Brian snapped a copy of the driver's licence and credit cards with his iPhone and wondered why the killer hadn't bothered taking the victim's ID.

'I've got people to talk to, Steve. Send me your report.' She didn't wait for him to respond. She knew he'd be thorough.

Once they were back by the car, Stella stripped off her scene-of-crime suit and waited for Brian to do the same. When Brian had stowed their discarded suits in the boot of the car, they headed towards the constable standing at the back door of the hotel.

Stella showed him her ID. 'Who's inside?'

'Sergeant Murray. He's got the bloke who found the body and the hotel manager in the back bar, Sergeant.'

'Thanks.'

Stella could feel her perspiration freezing across her shoulders as soon as she walked into the back bar where three men sat at a table talking. The man in the uniform stood as Stella and Brian approached them.

Stella thought he looked too young to be a sergeant. She held up her ID. 'DS Bruno. This is DC Rhodes.'

'Simon Murray.'

Stella shook his hand. 'Who found the body?'

Simon introduced Matt Brewer, the day manager of the drive-through bottle shop.

'Spotted him when I came in. Thought he was asleep.' Matt looked at the older man sitting at the table. 'Didn't think anybody in his right mind would want to sit out there in this heat, so I went to see if he was okay. That's when I saw the mess on the windscreen and realised he was dead.'

'Did you touch anything?' said Stella.

'No. I didn't even need to open the door to see he'd been shot.'

Stella wondered if Matt had been working the previous night. 'When do you knock off?'

'Around six. Andrew does the night shift.'

'Who are you?' said Stella, turning her attention to the other man at the table.

'Michael James. I manage the hotel.'

'We'll need to talk to whoever was working last night.'

'I've given their details to Sergeant Murray.'

'I've got people out taking statements,' said Sergeant Murray.

Stella nodded to let him know she'd heard him. She liked it when Uniform used their initiative and updated her appraisal of Simon Murray. He seemed to know what was expected of him.

'Did either of you know the victim?'

'He's been coming in for a meal every Thursday night for the last few years. Usually eats in here and then spends a couple of hours on the pokies,' said Michael. 'Said his name was Bob, but I don't really know anything else about him.'

'I've never seen him before,' said Matt.

Stella turned to Brian. 'What's the name on the driver's licence?'

'Robert Cunningham.'

'Doesn't ring any bells,' said Michael.

'Did he meet people here that you noticed?'

'No-one that I noticed. We get a lot of single older people in here for a meal and a play on the pokies. They seem more interested in the pokies than each other.'

Stella didn't want to imagine what that sort of life would be like.

'Do you have CCTV?'

'In the gaming areas and at the entrances but nothing outside in the back car park.'

'Can we take a look at last night's recording?'

Michael escorted them to his office and switched on the bank of monitors on the wall.

'He usually played in the small room. That monitor there.' He pointed to the screen in the top right-hand corner. 'Just let me find last night's file.'

'What time did he generally come in?' said Stella.

'He was pretty regular. Arrived around seven and was usually gone by ten. Here it is.'

They watched the victim walk into the small gaming room and sit at one of the machines at nineteen forty-eight, according to the time stamp, and play until twenty-one fifteen when his mobile phone rang. He left the room immediately after taking the call at twenty-one eighteen.

'We have a camera over the back entrance,' said Michael. 'It will come up on the screen under that one.' They waited while he located the file and then watched the victim leave the hotel by the door that led out into the rear car park at twenty-one twenty-three.

'That's a five minute gap,' said Stella.

'Probably went for a piss on the way out,' said Brian.

'Would you have last Thursday's file by any chance?' said Stella.

They watched the victim do a repeat performance and leave after receiving a phone call at twenty-one thirty-six.

According to his driver's licence, Robert Cunningham lived in the Vineyard Retirement Village in South Gawler, a twenty-minute drive up Main North Road from the Old Spot Hotel.

Brian parked the car in front of the Community Centre, located alongside a bowling green, in the middle of the gated community of one hundred and forty residential units that made up the retirement village.

Stella surveyed the streets of landscaped gardens and neat lawns.

'This is May's idea of retirement,' said Brian.

'You sure you want to move into a retirement village?'

'She's already looking. There's a waiting list for most of them, unless you go to Mt Gambier.'

'Mt Gambier?'

'Yeah. They're advertising vacancies.'

'Seriously, Brian, Mt Gambier?'

'Her sisters live there.'

'But aren't all your friends here?'

'I don't think she's thinking about my friends.'

'How long before you retire?'

'Another five years, I hope.'

'Mt Gambier.' Stella shook her head as she opened the car door. 'You need to work on her, Brian. You'll die of boredom down there.'

They entered the Community Centre and approached the woman sitting behind the counter at reception.

'Can I help you?'

Stella held up her ID. 'Police. We'd like to speak to the manager.'

'Just a moment, I'll see if Mrs Hill is available.'

The place appeared deserted and Stella guessed everyone was sitting inside with their air-conditioners on. She knew that's what she'd be doing if she wasn't working.

'How long's this heat wave supposed to last?'

'Supposed to be a big thunder storm later tonight. Think I heard them say it would be thirty something with high humidity tomorrow.'

'As if that's any better than this.'

'At least this place is air-conditioned,' said Brian.

'Mrs Hill can see you now,' said the receptionist, who directed them to an office two doors down the corridor behind her.

'How can I help you, Sergeant?'

'I'm investigating a murder at the Old Spot Hotel.'

'Oh, yes, saw something about that on the morning news. What does that have to do with us?'

'Appears the victim lived here,' said Stella. 'We'd like access to his unit.'

'Who are we talking about?' said Mrs Hill.

'Robert Cunningham. According to his driver's licence he lived in unit 65.'

'Bob,' said Mrs Hill. 'Are you sure it's him?'

'Show her the driver's licence, Brian.'

Mrs Hill examined the image on Brian's iPhone. 'That's him, alright.' She looked at Stella. 'This is dreadful.'

'Murder is never pleasant, I'm afraid,' said Stella. 'Do you have any next of kin details, Mrs Hill? We'll need to notify them.'

Mrs Hill sat down behind her desk. 'Let me check.'

They waited while she searched through the files on her computer.

'I'm afraid not, Sergeant. From what's on file it looks like he never married and he hasn't listed any next of kin.'

Stella looked at Brian, who was writing in his notebook.

'When did he move in?'

'He's been with us for just under five years. Model resident as far as I'm aware. Never late with his service payments, no complaints from his neighbours.'

'Is that unusual?' said Stella.

Mrs Hill smiled. 'Not everyone ages gracefully, Sergeant.'

'Does your file have his previous address listed? We may need to talk to his neighbours.'

'He told us he lived at 28 Gladstone Terrace, Prospect, before moving here.'

Stella waited while Brian wrote that down. 'Can you let us into his unit?'

'You don't have his key?'

'His personal belongings from the scene are still with Forensics. I assumed you'd have a master key.'

'Let me call security. They have the master keys in case of emergencies.'

Stella pulled on a pair of latex gloves as she stepped into the living room of unit 65.

'Turn on the bloody air conditioner, Brian. We'll die in here.'

Brian spotted the remote on the kitchen bench and activated the air conditioner. The apartment was compact, so it didn't take long for the split unit mounted on the back wall of the kitchen to fill the space with cold air.

There was a bedroom and a study off the living area, a separate kitchen and a combined bathroom and laundry. Stella peered out of the kitchen window into the small paved courtyard. Brian opened the door in the wall of the living room and inspected the empty single car garage.

'You check the bedroom. I'll have a look at what's in the study,' said Stella, when Brian returned from the garage.

Stella opened the drawers of the desk under the small window that looked out onto the street. The top drawer held an assortment of pens and paper clips. The bottom drawer, more like a small filing cabinet, held a collection of personal papers, including several copies of Robert Cunningham's birth certificate, a copy of the contract of sale for 28 Gladstone Terrace, a signed copy of his agreement with Vineyard Retirement Village, and the details of his Commonwealth Superannuation payments.

Stella boxed up the contents of the bottom drawer. The only other item of interest in the study was a laptop computer. Stella added it to the box, along with its associated cord and charger.

'Find anything, Brian?'

'Only this, Sarge.' Brian walked into the study with a small wooden box in his hands. 'Our boy had a loaded 9mm Luger on the top shelf of his wardrobe.'

'I didn't see a gun licence in his papers,' said Stella.

'Maybe it's in his wallet,' said Brian, 'but these things are supposed to be stored in a locked cabinet.'

'Make it safe and put it in the box.'

While Brian secured the box of items they had taken from the apartment in the boot of the car, Stella rang the doorbell of unit 64 and waited in the shade at the front of the building. Brian had rejoined her by the time the door was opened by an elderly woman.

'Hello.'

'Hi, I'm Detective Sergeant Bruno.' Stella held out her ID. 'I'd like to ask you a few questions about your neighbour.'

'Well, you'd better come in, then.' She opened the screen door and let them in.

Stella noted that the apartment was the mirror image of number 65.

'Would you like a cold drink?'

'That would be wonderful,' said Stella.

'Thank you,' said Brian.

Their hostess opened her fridge and a few moments later they were sitting around her table sipping glasses of ice-cold water.

'How long have you lived here, in the village?' said Stella.

'We moved in when Clem retired. That was twenty years ago. We lived in a double unit then. Number 24. I moved in here after Clem died. That would be ten years ago next month.'

'Can you tell me your name, please?'

'Doris Appleby, but, please, call me Doris.'

'Thank you, Doris.' Stella took another sip of her water.

'Who do you want to know about, love?'

'The man that lives in number 65. Robert Cunningham.'

'Bob? Everyone calls him Bob. He's usually home on Fridays but I haven't seen him today.'

'I'm afraid I have some bad news about that, Doris. The reason we're here is we're investigating his murder.'

Stella thought Doris was going to spill her glass of water and reached across the table and steadied her shaking hands. 'I'm sorry. That's probably come as a bit of a shock.'

Doris took a couple of deep breaths and shook her head. 'Who would want to kill Bob? He was such a nice man. A real gentleman.'

'What can you tell us about him?'

'I was surprised he'd never married. If I were twenty years younger, I would have chased him myself.' She smiled at Stella. 'It gets lonely being on your own. I've got everything I want and the young ones come to see me, but it's not the same now that Clem's gone.'

Stella nodded her agreement. She knew what it was like to be the one left behind after a visit from the grim reaper.

'Do you know who he mixed with in the village?'

'He was very friendly. He was always talking to someone. But you should probably talk to Sheila McGregor in number 44. He spent a lot of time with her. I thought they'd get together after her Henry died.'

'Did he tell you anything about himself?'

'Told me he'd been a public servant, but he always joked that he'd have to kill me if he told me anything about what he'd actually done.'

Stella looked at Brian, who shrugged his shoulders and made a note.

'What about visitors? Did Bob have many visitors?'

Doris looked at her hands. 'You know, now that you mention it, I don't think he did. He went out a bit but I don't recall seeing anyone come to visit. Not anyone from outside the village, in any case. I usually have the blinds up and the door open when it's not hot like this.' She looked up. 'When I'm just sitting here reading I can see the front of his place.'

They walked over to number 44 and rang the doorbell.

'Be with you in a minute!'

They waited in the shade on the porch.

The door opened. 'Oh, hello. Can I help you?'

'Mrs McGregor?'

'Yes.'

'Detective Sergeant Bruno.' Stella held up her ID. 'Mind if we come in?'

Stella guessed Sheila McGregor was in her late sixties. She certainly moved with a lot more energy than the elderly Doris Appleby as she ushered them into her apartment.

'What brings you here?' said Sheila, as they stood inside her living room enjoying the cool air blowing across them from the air conditioner mounted above her kitchen window.

'Robert Cunningham.'

'Bob. What's he been up to? I didn't think he was the type to get in trouble with the police.'

Stella smiled. 'I understand you're close friends. Is that right?'

Stella noticed a blush rise and fade in Sheila's neck.

'I suppose you could say that. He's been good to me since my husband died.'

'I think you'd better sit down, Mrs McGregor, I'm afraid I have some bad news.'

'What sort of bad news?' said Sheila, sinking into the couch and looking from Stella to Brian.

'I'm sorry, but Bob's dead. He's been murdered.'

Sheila sank back into the couch. 'Murdered? When did this happen?'

Stella sat down beside her on the couch.

'We're not sure yet but probably sometime last night.'

'Where?'

'At the Old Spot Hotel.'

Sheila reached for a tissue and blew her nose. 'What was he doing there?'

'Apparently, he went there for a meal every Thursday night.'

'Oh, I knew he went to the city every Thursday, but I had no idea he was stopping off there on the way home.'

'Do you know why he went to the city on Thursdays?'

'Told me he met up with some of his mates from work but I've never met any of them.'

'Do you know where he used to work?'

'He only ever said he'd worked for the government.' She chuckled. 'He always said he'd have to kill us if he told us anything about what he'd done for them. He was such a wag.'

'I take it you didn't know him before he moved into the village?'

Sheila shook her head. 'We moved in around the same time. Bob hit it off with my husband before he died. They spent a lot of time playing lawn bowls and flirting with the older ladies. But that all came to an end when Henry had his heart attack. Bob seemed to lose interest in the bowls after that.'

'Do you know if he had any enemies?'

'Not that he mentioned.'

'What about here in the village? Anyone he'd upset?'

Sheila looked down at the floor. 'I suppose he might have upset James over in 46. He fancies me but Bob was a lot more fun. I hardly think James would have been jealous enough to kill him though. Besides, he's a retired minister.'

'Do you know if Bob had any next of kin we need to talk to?'

'He didn't have any family. Said he'd never married.' She paused and looked up to the right. 'Told me his parents were dead, and that his brother died when they were still young. Some kind of boating accident.'

Stella stood. She was ready to leave.

'We'll need someone to identify the body. Would you be prepared to do that?'

Sheila nodded. 'At least I've had some practice at that. We ran the funeral home in Clare before we retired.'

'I'll let you know when you need to come in.'

They rang the bell at number 46 but James Murphy wasn't home.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_The Identity Thief_ **as an ebook, here's the link: **_The Identity Thief_**

Read on for the first chapter from **_A Gun of Many Parts_** , book two in the Stella Bruno Investigates series.

# A Gun of Many Parts

# Chapter 1

Stella read the incident report on the shooting written by the officers who had responded to the call. She thought it looked like this was going to be an open and shut case. They had listed the name of the perpetrator under the details of the victim. She suspected it would only be a matter of time before he was in custody.

Brian parked behind the patrol car outside the victim's house in Brunswick Street, Kilburn, a suburb still waiting for the arrival of the urban renewal movement transforming the city's public housing estates.

'Not my favourite suburb, Sarge,' said Brian, pressing the lock icon on the remote.

Stella looked up the street towards Prospect Road. 'There are worse places to live.'

They walked up to the tiny porch. Stella flashed her ID to the constable taking up most of the space outside the front door.

In the front room, immediately inside the door, a policewoman was sitting on a well-worn couch with a grey-haired woman clutching a box of tissues.

'I'm Detective Sergeant Bruno,' said Stella, 'and, this is Detective Constable Rhodes. We'd like to ask you a few questions, Mrs Barnes.'

The grey-haired woman looked up from her tissues.

'Were you here when it happened?' said Stella.

'Sitting right here, love. I told him not to get involved but he never listens to me, does he?'

'What didn't you want your husband to get involved in, Mrs Barnes?'

'That silly bitch next door was fighting with her boyfriend again. They were making such a racket we couldn't hear the telly. Jeff wanted to tell them to keep it down. I told him to leave it alone, it wouldn't go on for long. It never did. But he couldn't wait. Went out and told them to shut up.'

Stella waited. She didn't think Mrs Barnes would need much prompting now that she was off on her story.

'Next thing I know there's a bang and an almighty scream. I rushed out the front. Jeff was lying on the lawn. She was screaming her head off. The boyfriend got into his car and drove off.'

'Who called the ambulance?'

'She did. I didn't want to leave him.' Mrs Barnes stopped talking and wiped away her tears. 'I'm sorry, but he was all I had.'

'I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs Barnes,' said Stella.

Stella thought of her own loss every time she spoke to a person left behind after a senseless killing. She knew the pain of that loss never went away completely, no matter what you did. Stella didn't believe that time healed all hurts. She knew it only dulled the pain into something you could live with, but only if you didn't give it too much attention.

The door of the house next door was opened by a woman in her mid-thirties with bloodshot eyes. Stella wondered if she'd slept a wink since the shooting.

'Carol Jacobs?' said Stella.

The woman nodded. 'Who are you?'

'Detective Sergeant Bruno. I'd like to ask you a few questions.'

'Why? Didn't she tell you what happened?'

Stella wondered why she was so defensive.

'If you mean Mrs Barnes, she didn't see what happened, but I understand you did.'

'Yeah, well there's not much to tell, is there? Stupid bastard shot the old geezer, didn't he?'

'This would be Greg Allen?'

'Yeah. Wish I'd never met him. He's such a loser.'

'What was the fight about last night?'

Carol looked down at her bare feet. 'I told the prick to piss off. I was sick of him turning up half-tanked and expecting me to open my legs for him. Told him to piss off and not come back.'

'I take it he didn't go quietly,' said Stella.

Carol looked Stella in the eyes. 'Silly bastard pulled out a gun and waved it at me, threatened to blow my head off. That's when Mr Barnes came out and told us to shut the fuck up. Greg just turned and shot him. Then the idiot left.'

'Do you know where we can find him?'

'No. I don't know where he lives.'

On the drive back to the office, Stella and Brian listened to a radio call directing patrols to seal off an area surrounding Torrens Road, Kilkenny, where Allen's vehicle had been spotted.

'Let's hope he doesn't do anything stupid,' said Brian.

'Bit late for that, isn't it?' said Stella.

'You know what I mean. I hope he has the sense to turn himself in.'

'Who knows what he'll do, especially when he realizes he's cornered?

They listened to the radio chatter as the patrols coordinated their positions and the police helicopter arrived over the area.

'256. I see him. He's heading North on Torrens Road. I'm in pursuit.'

'Target vehicle turning left into Aroona Road,' said a voice from the police helicopter. 'Shit! He's lost it.'

Stella held her breath.

'He's hit the Stobie pole!' said the voice from the helicopter.

'Bloody hell!' said Brian. 'I hope he hasn't killed himself.'

They waited for the next update.

'No sign of the driver. 256 has arrived.'

They listened as the officer from patrol car 256 called for an ambulance and the fire service's jaws of life.

'Must have hit that Stobie pole pretty hard if they need the jaws of life,' said Stella.

'What was he driving again?' said Brian.

'A Toyota Corolla,' said Stella.

'Not enough steel in those things when you hit a Stobie pole at speed. He's probably wrapped it around the pole if he hit it side on.'

Stella thought about the impact. 'He was turning left, wasn't he?'

'Yeah. That's what he said.'

'He would have hit it on the driver's side,' said Stella. 'Don't like his chances.'

By the time they arrived back at the office, news had come through that Allen had been killed on impact when his vehicle slid across the intersection and collided with the Stobie pole on the corner of Aroona Road.

'This must be one of the shortest investigations we've been involved in, Sarge,' said Brian, as they waited in line to buy coffee.

'Let's hope they find his gun and match it with the bullet that killed Barnes,' said Stella. 'I'd hate to find out his girlfriend set him up, seeing she's the only witness to the shooting.'

'Hadn't thought of that.'

Stella didn't have to wait long to learn that the gun found in the wreckage of Allen's car had fired the shot that killed Jeff Barnes. The report from Ballistics was the first thing she read when she logged on the following morning.

As she studied the report, she realized it raised more questions than it answered.

'What are you reading?' said Brian, placing a coffee on her desk.

'Ballistics' report on the gun found in Allen's car.'

'What does it say?'

'He had a brand new Glock 19.'

'Did they match it with the round taken from the victim?'

'Yes.'

'So, case closed, then.' Brian took the lid off his coffee and sat down.

'I'm not so sure, Brian. We might have solved the murder but I think this opens another can of worms.'

'What do you mean?'

'Think about it. How did he get a Glock? They're on the prohibited list.'

'Maybe he managed to buy one on the internet. You know, a private sale from someone in the States. Anyone can buy a gun over there.' Brian sipped his coffee.

'I guess that's possible but it says here that the frame, barrel and slide have different serial numbers and, according to Ballistics, those numbers are the same on a new Glock when it's sold. And, this is a new Glock we're talking about.'

Brian scratched his head and took another sip of his coffee. 'Sounds like someone must have put it together from parts. Who would do that?'

'Somebody who has more than one of them, Brian.'

'So, maybe somebody is buying these things on the internet and selling them to idiots like Allen?'

'Maybe.' Stella leant back in her chair. 'See what we have on Allen. We'll need to find out who he was hanging around with. Think I'd better go speak with DI Williams.'

Stella drank her coffee, picked up the copy of the report she had printed, and headed for DI Williams' office.

The inspector was reading the morning paper when she knocked on his door.

'Got a minute, sir? Think we might have a problem.'

DI Williams looked up from his newspaper. 'What's on your mind, Bruno?'

'This report from Ballistics.'

'Is that on the gun from Allen's car?'

'Yes, and that's the problem. It's a Glock 19.'

'Aren't they prohibited?'

'They are,' said Stella.

'How the hell did he get one then?'

'Good question, sir. As a guess, I'd say someone is importing them as parts and putting them together for people like Allen.'

'What makes you think that?'

'Ballistics reckon Allen's Glock was put together using parts from at least three different weapons.'

'How did they work that out?'

'Different serial numbers on the main parts.'

'You'd think they'd erase the serial numbers, wouldn't you, Bruno? We must be dealing with amateurs,' said DI Williams.

'I gather that when Glock sells them the main parts have the same serial number. Certainly looks like our smuggler hasn't given much attention to the details.'

DI Williams closed his newspaper. 'If someone's managed to get three of these things into the country, I wonder how many more they've imported and where they are now.'

'Where do you think we should start?'

The inspector put out his hand for the report. 'See if you can find out where Allen got his Glock. That might lead us to whoever's smuggling these things into the country from this end. I'll see if we can find out who Glock sold the guns with these serial numbers to. That might help us track them from the other end.'

Brian was scrolling through pages on the database when Stella returned to her desk.

'Find anything?'

'Suspended driver's licence, twelve speeding fines, a couple of DUIs. Nothing to suggest he'd be running around with a gun.'

'Next of kin details?'

'Got his mother's address here. It's the same as the address on his driver's licence.'

'Guess we'd better go pay her a visit, and I'd like to interview his girlfriend again. She might be a bit more forthcoming now that he's no longer a threat.'

Forty minutes later, they were standing outside the house listed as the home of Teresa Allen in Andrews Road, Elizabeth Downs. The front lawn looked like it could use a cut and the garden beds were infested with weeds. There was a small red car parked in the driveway, so they assumed she was home.

Brian pushed the button for the doorbell. There was no sound. He banged on the door.

'Hold your horses!'

A couple of minutes later, a small woman with jet black hair opened the door and glared at them.

'Who are you?'

Stella held out her ID. 'Detective Sergeant Bruno.'

'What do you want?'

Stella could smell the venom in her words.

'I'd like to talk to you about Greg.'

'Bit fucking late for that, isn't it?'

Stella thought she was going to shut the door on them.

'I know it's painful, Mrs Allen. I know what it's like to lose a loved one so unexpectedly, but you might be able to help me stop it happening to someone else.'

'How the fuck would you know what it's like?'

Stella looked her in the eye. 'My husband was killed by someone driving under the influence. Knocked him off his motorbike.' She paused and placed her hand over her heart. 'Believe me, Mrs Allen. I know how you feel.'

Mrs Allen looked at Stella and then at Brian. 'I suppose you'd better come in then.'

She led them into the front room where they sat on facing floral patterned couches. Stella glanced around and noticed the array of coloured-glass owls adorning every flat surface.

'What do you want to know?' said Mrs Allen.

'I'm trying to work out where Greg got the gun we found in his car. It's a prohibited import.'

'I didn't even know he had a gun until they came to tell me he was dead and that he'd shot that man.'

'I guess that must have come as a bit of a shock,' said Stella.

Mrs Allen shook her head. 'I knew he drank a bit and I didn't like some of his friends. But I never thought he'd shoot someone. It's not like he was some sort of gangster. Not like those idiots he was hanging out with.'

'Oh, who was he hanging out with?'

'Bikies! I told him not to have anything to do with them but he thought they were some sort of Robin Hood type heroes. You know, tough guys doing good deeds. Guess that's why he left home in the end. Didn't want to listen to me complaining about his mates.'

'Do you know the names of any of his mates?'

'No. They weren't the boys he went to school with. He met them at the pub and went out with them on weekends. I wouldn't let him bring them here with their bloody noisy motorbikes.'

'Which pub would that be?' said Stella.

'Some pub in Elizabeth. Don't know which one he went to. I only go to The Lodge.'

'Did Greg ride a motorbike?'

'That was another fight we had. Didn't stop him buying one though.'

'His driver's licence lists this address, so where was he living if he'd moved out?'

'He was sharing a house with a mate over in Paralowie. I've never been there.'

'Do you know this mate's name?'

'Doug something. Someone Greg met at work.'

'And, where was that?'

'Salisbury Council. He worked there as a gardener. Been there since he left school. At least that was one thing he did right.'

Half an hour after leaving Mrs Allen, they walked into the Municipal Offices of the City of Salisbury and asked to speak to someone in Human Resources.

After a short wait, the Human Resources Manager, a middle-aged man wearing a suit, came out to speak with them. 'How can I help you, Sergeant?'

Stella handed him a copy of Greg Allen's driver's licence. 'I'd like to confirm that this man worked here and talk to his workmates. His mother told us he was a gardener here.'

'That's right, but he was terminated just over six months ago.'

Stella wondered why his mother didn't know that. 'Can you tell me why?' said Stella.

'Turned up drunk for work, despite several warnings. Shame really. He was a nice kid when he started.'

'His mother said he worked with someone called Doug. Any idea who that might be?'

'That would be Doug Watson.'

'I'd like to talk to him. Do you have his contact details?'

'Give me a minute. I'll find out where he is.'

Ten minutes later, they got out of the car and walked towards two men in dark blue and yellow clothing working in the park alongside the Little Para River.

The younger of the men stopped working and walked over to join them.

'You the police?'

Stella held out her ID. 'Detective Sergeant Bruno. This is Detective Constable Rhodes. I take it you're Doug Watson?'

'Yeah. Boss said you wanted to talk about Greg.'

'You're aware of the situation?'

'Yeah. Heard he was dead and that he's supposed to have shot some bloke.'

'You don't sound all that surprised.'

'I don't know what happened. He was a good bloke but then he started getting into fights at the pub and coming home pissed. I told him to get his act together but then he went and got himself sacked. I haven't seen him for six months.'

'Wasn't he living with you?' said Stella.

'Who told you that?'

'His mother.'

Doug smiled. 'He was for a while, but he's been living somewhere in the city since he lost his job here. I think he had a girlfriend down there some place.'

'Any idea who he was hanging around with after work?'

'Bunch of losers on motorbikes. You might find some of them drinking at the Salisbury.'

'Did you know he owned a gun?'

Doug shook his head. 'I never saw him with one, and he never talked about wanting one either. Just goes to show, doesn't it?'

'What do you mean?' said Stella.

'Thought I knew him. Obviously, I didn't.'

Carol Jacobs opened the door and invited them in when they knocked. Stella thought she looked as if she'd had a decent sleep since the last time they'd seen her.

'Thought you lot would be back.'

They sat around the table in Carol's small kitchen.

'Carol, we're trying to find out where Greg got his gun. Did you know he had one before the other night?' said Stella.

'I knew he had one. Reckoned he needed it for work.'

'What sort of work did he say he was doing?'

'Security.'

'Do you know where or which company he worked for?' said Stella.

Carol shook her head. 'Not really. He just said he was in security. I wasn't interested really. We weren't going anywhere.'

Stella wondered why women like Carol got themselves involved with men like Greg Allen. She couldn't imagine herself being in a casual relationship based solely on sex.

'When did you meet him?'

'About a year ago. Seemed like a nice guy at first, but then he started showing up pissed and wanting sex. I told him I didn't do sex with drunks.'

'Where did you meet him?'

'At HQ. I worked behind the bar before it closed. He was a regular.'

'Do you know where he was living?'

Carol shook her head. 'He always came here and I never asked. It's not like it was gonna last.'

'Did he talk about his friends with you?'

'The only thing he ever talked about with me was sex.' Carol leant back in her chair and laughed. 'He was sex mad.'

Stella looked at Carol and thought she could understand why a young man would be interested in her for sex. She was tall, had curves in all the right places and a disarming smile.

'Were you aware he was hanging around with some bikies out at Salisbury?'

'Bikies? Aren't they tough blokes with lots of tats?' Carol looked at Stella. 'Greg wasn't anything like that. He didn't even ride a motorbike as far as I know. He always came around in that red Toyota.'

After leaving Carol Jacobs, they headed back into the city.

'What do you think, Brian?'

'There was nothing about him having a security licence in the database, so whatever security work he was doing it had to be some private arrangement.'

'Seems to me those bikies must be the missing link.' Stella gazed out the window at the passing suburb. 'I wonder how we're going to find out where he was living.'

'I wonder if he was on the dole,' said Brian. 'Six months is a long time without a pay cheque coming in.'

'That gets paid into your bank account,' said Stella.

'Yeah, but he might have given Centrelink his current address given that he would have to report in regularly.'

'Give them a call. You might strike it lucky. I think I need to speak to someone on the Bikie Taskforce.'

Stella took out her mobile phone and scrolled through her contacts and then pressed the call button.

'Hi, Tim. Stella.'

'Hello, gorgeous. What can I do for you?'

Stella smiled. Tim Wilde, who had been Rick's best man at their wedding, was the only member of the force that flirted with her.

'You don't by any chance know which bikies would be hanging out at the Salisbury pub, do you?'

'They'd be Mongrels, Stella. That's their territory. Why do you want to know that?'

'I'm trying to find out where my killer got his gun.'

'What sort of gun?'

'A Glock 19, and a new one at that.'

'What's the name of your killer?'

'Allen. Greg Allen.'

'Give me a minute.'

Stella could hear the sound of keyboard clicks.

'He's not a member, but we've got him listed as someone to watch.'

'You wouldn't have an address, would you?'

'We have a place in Paralowie.'

'I've spoken to the guy that lives there. Told me Allen had moved out six months ago. I guess it wouldn't be a good idea for me to speak to any of these Mongrels, would it, Tim?'

'Leave that to me. I'll get back to you if we find out anything. I take it this Allen guy is the one that wiped himself out the other day.'

'That's him. You might want to update your spreadsheet, Tim, and thanks.'

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_A Gun of Many Parts_ **as an ebook, here's the link: **_A Gun of Many Parts_**

Read on for the first chapter from **_Bones in the Forest_** , book three in the Stella Bruno Investigates series.

# Bones in the Forest

# Chapter 1

It had taken Stella and Brian three hours to drive from Adelaide to Wirrabara in the mid-north of the state, where the local constable was waiting for them at the Wirrabara Police Station. After a comfort stop, they followed his patrol car out to the Wirrabara Forest Reserve, several kilometres west of the town, and then along narrow dirt tracks through a burnt-out pine forest to where a group of vehicles was parked.

The overpowering smell of burnt pine trees hit Stella when she stepped out of the car. As she looked around, she could see wisps of smoke snaking their way towards the clear blue sky. Stella thought she'd stepped into an alien landscape.

They walked over to where Forensics' crime scene investigators had cordoned off the area around the skeleton, which had been discovered by a local Country Fire Service crew conducting mopping up operations after the bushfire that had ripped the life out of the pine plantation.

Stella felt unnerved by the deathly silence of the place. It was the first time she'd been in a forest immediately after a fire where there were none of the usual sounds of nature. The only sound she could hear as they walked was the crunching of burnt pine needles under their boots.

'This place is giving me the creeps,' said Brian.

'Know what you mean.'

They stopped at the line of crime scene tape and waited for Dr Steve Wright, the forensic pathologist, to walk over and join them.

'Hello, Steve,' said Stella.

'Nice day for a drive, Stella.' He smiled. 'How are you, Brian?'

'I'm good, Doc,' said Brian.

Stella pointed to the skeleton lying on the ground less than three metres from where they stood. 'What's his story? What makes you think he's not a camper that forgot to wake up?'

'The holes in his skull. There's one above the eyes and a larger one at the back. Whoever this guy was, Stella, he didn't die in his sleep,' said Steve.

'Any sign he was camping here?'

'We've looked for tent pegs and metal utensils but haven't found anything. To be honest, I'm more inclined to think he was probably shot somewhere else and dumped here.'

'What makes you think that?'

'See those burnt sticks on top of the skeleton? I'd say they're what's left of whatever was used to hide the body from view.'

Stella pictured a body under a pile of fallen branches some twenty metres from the nearest track. Steve's hypothesis sounded plausible.

'Any idea how long he's been here, Steve?' said Stella.

'We'll have to wait until we can get one of the guys from the museum to analyse the bones back in the lab. I'm afraid the fire has made it impossible to guess with any degree of certainty.'

Stella nodded. 'Have you found anything that might suggest this is at least from our lifetime?'

'Not yet.'

They walked back to their car where the local constable was waiting.

'Any likelihood he's a local?' said Stella.

'Pretty tight knit community here, Sergeant. Whoever he is, he's not from around here.'

'This might take a while,' said Brian, as they got back into the car and followed the local constable back into Wirrabara.

They ate lunch at the Wirrabara Hotel and listened to the buzz of conversation among the locals discussing the find in the forest. After lunch they returned to Adelaide, as there was little they could do until they had some idea who the skeleton belonged to and some expert had confirmed it was not from the ancient past.

Steve Wright asked Dr Malcolm Edwards, a forensic anthropologist attached to the South Australian Museum, to analyse the bones recovered from the floor of Wirrabara Forest to determine their age and how long they'd been in the forest.

After examining the bones and conducting a series of tests to determine how long they had been exposed to the elements, Dr Edwards advised that the skeleton belonged to a young adult male who had died somewhere between five and ten years ago.

After studying the holes in the skull in his laboratory, Steve Wright confirmed his original opinion that, whoever he was, the young man had died as a result of a gunshot wound to the head, and that the dimensions of the entry wound were consistent with a round fired from a twenty-two calibre rifle. He also advised Stella that access to the victim's dental records would give them a good chance of identifying him, as the skull contained a complete set of teeth and its lower jaw appeared to have been fractured at some point.

Stella reviewed the list of long-term missing persons in the database. There were six potential candidates in the South Australian list and considerably more in the national list.

She looked at the names on her list of missing South Australians and imagined each of the six families waiting to find out what had happened to their son. If the bones belonged to one of them, she realized that family would be devastated and the others would be traumatised by the experience of reliving their loss. Stella wondered how she could minimize the amount of trauma those families would have to endure as she read through the summary of each case.

Five of the young men on her list had gone missing from Adelaide or one of its suburbs. One person on the list, however, nineteen-year-old Mark Semmler from Spalding, had gone missing five years ago after a football game in Clare, which was a little over a hundred kilometres from Wirrabara.

Stella read the Semmler case notes. Mark Semmler's disappearance was described as suspicious and unresolved. According to the file, his abandoned car had been found in the car park of the Clare Hotel, the day after he'd failed to return home from playing football in Clare on the afternoon of Saturday the twenty-fifth of June, 2011. Although his wallet and mobile phone had been found in the car, it appeared he'd taken his keys with him.

The file detailed the extensive public appeal conducted at the time. Stella noted that it had failed to elicit any sightings of Semmler after he'd left the dining room of the Clare Hotel, around eight pm on the night he'd disappeared, to drive home to Spalding.

After reading the file, Stella decided she'd contact Pam Ross, Mark Semmler's mother, who had reported him missing, and wondered how much of the media's reporting of the finding of bones in Wirrabara Forest had reached her. She looked through the file again and located Pam Ross' mobile phone number.

'Mrs Ross, Detective Sergeant Bruno from Major Crimes in Adelaide. Are you somewhere we can talk in private?'

'This is about those bones from Wirrabara, isn't it? I wondered when I'd hear from you. Is it Mark?'

Stella noted that her voice was matter of fact, without any obvious emotion.

'We don't know who the bones belong to yet, Mrs Ross, which is why I'm calling. Do you remember who your son's dentist was?' said Stella.

'He went to the clinic in Burra. There's only the one.'

'I'll give them a call.'

'Will you let me know?'

Stella thought she could hear a note of desperation in her voice.

'Yes, Mrs Ross I'll let you know as soon as I find out, one way or the other.'

Pam Ross had been dreading the call ever since she'd seen the item about the bones in Wirrabara Forest on the TV news. She'd been tempted to call the police herself and ask but hadn't been able to muster the courage. She'd wanted to hold on to the hope that Mark was still alive out there, somewhere, and would come home to her.

The supermarket was empty. Pam went outside for a smoke and wondered whether she should call Grant and let him know the police had called. But, after thinking about it, decided she'd rather not speak to him. She didn't want to hear him blaming her again for being a bad mother to their son.

Grant blamed her for Mark's disappearance and, on the few times they had spoken since Mark had gone missing, had taunted her with his claim that if she'd been a better mother Mark wouldn't have run away from her. In fact, when she thought about it, she realized Grant had blamed her for everything that had upset him during the twenty years they'd spent together.

She wrapped her arms around her thin body and remembered the beatings. She could almost feel the pain of his fists hitting her, and had to remind herself that she'd finally had enough of being his punching bag and had found the courage to leave when Mark was fifteen. Four years before he went missing.

It had been Mark's choice to come with her when she'd returned to her home town. He'd been afraid of the violent man his father had become. In fact, he'd only started speaking to his father again in the year before he went missing. By then, he'd left school, started work as an apprentice motor mechanic in Spalding, and become part of the local football team.

Pam blew a stream of smoke into the air. Mark had been football mad ever since he'd discovered the game in primary school, and she'd been all over the mid-north as a football mum in his teenage years.

It was only when Mark had started playing senior football that Grant had shown any interest, loudly boasting of his son's prowess on the field. Pam had stopped going to the games when Mark had bought his car. She couldn't stand being in the same space as Grant and his new woman.

A picture of a jeering Grant appeared in her mind.

'Fuck you, Grant!'

Pam turned her thoughts to Peter, whom she'd married the year after Mark had gone missing. He was nothing like Grant. He was kind and considerate, and had never once hit her in anger.

She flicked the end of her dead cigarette into the dust at her feet and went back into the supermarket to tell Peter about the call. She found him in his office.

'I've just had a call from the police about that skeleton they found at Wirrabara.'

Peter looked up from the inventory report on his desk. 'Do they think it could be Mark?'

'They don't know. They wanted to know who his dentist was.'

Peter stood and walked around to where Pam was standing and put his arms around her. 'You okay?'

Pam had no idea where the tears were coming from but she couldn't stop them and let them flow.

'Do you want to go home?' said Peter. 'I can look after the shop.'

Pam found a tissue in her apron pocket and dabbed at her eyes. 'I just want it to be over, Pete. I don't know that I can take much more of this not knowing.'

Shortly after his thirteenth birthday, Mark Semmler had received a kick to the face during a game of football that had broken his lower jaw and resulted in extensive work being done on his teeth at the dental clinic attached to the Burra Hospital.

The records of that dental work enabled Dr Wright to identify the skeleton found in Wirrabara Forest, and he called Stella as soon as he'd confirmed the skeleton was Mark Semmler's.

Stella, relieved she had made the right call, contacted Pam Ross and advised her that they had identified the skeleton from Mark's dental records.

'What happens now?' said Pam.

'Now we work out what happened to him,' said Stella.

'What do you mean?'

'It's a murder investigation now, Mrs Ross. Your son was shot in the head.'

Stella heard Mrs Ross suck in a deep breath.

'I guess that explains why he didn't come home. I knew he wouldn't stay away by choice.'

'I'm sorry, Mrs Ross,' said Stella.

'Well, at least I can stop waiting for him to call now. When will I be able to bury him?'

'Ask your funeral director to call the Coroner's Office, Mrs Ross. They'll tell them when they're ready to release Mark's remains and where to collect them.'

Pam ended the call and slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor of the kitchen. Her whole body felt numb. She'd thought she was going to cry when she heard they had identified the bones as being Mark's but no tears had come. She was surprised at how calmly she'd taken the news.

In one way it was a huge relief. She'd felt a weight lift from her heart when she heard he was dead and not hiding from her. She'd never believed he'd run away from her, despite what Grant had said. Now, as she sat on the floor, icy fingers gripped her heart and her tears began to flow and tumble into sobs of grief.

Her mobile phone trilled beside her on the floor. Pam looked around. She wasn't sure why she was sitting on the floor or how long she'd been there. She picked up her mobile and answered it.

'Are you alright, honey. You sound dreadful,' said Peter Ross.

'The police called.' She sniffed as she fought to control her voice. 'It's Mark.'

'Oh, I'm so sorry, honey,' said Peter.

'They're saying he was murdered. Shot in the head.'

'Shit! Who'd do that?'

'I don't know.'

'Do you want me to come home?' said Peter. 'I can get Beryl to watch the shop.'

'I think I'd like to have some time alone,' said Pam.

'I understand. I'll call you later.'

Pam went into the living room and pulled Mark's photograph album from the bookcase and flipped through its pages. She couldn't believe she'd never see him again. She stared at the last photograph in the album, a picture of Mark in his football gear, which she'd taken the day he'd first played in the A Grade team.

Seeing all the photographs of Mark with his father made her think of the good times they'd had together as a family, before Grant's dark demons had surfaced. She thought of Grant and wondered if the police had called him.

She picked up her mobile and called his number. He answered on the third ring.

'Hello, Pam.'

Pam thought he sounded flat and wondered how she'd sound to him.

'Have the police called you, Grant?'

'Yeah. Just now, before you called.'

'Did they tell you they think he was murdered?'

'Yeah. They said they'd be coming to interview me again.'

'Me, too.'

'I don't know what to say, Pam. I never expected this.'

'Will you come to his funeral service?'

'Of course. When is it?'

'I'll let you know.'

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Bones in the Forest_ **as an ebook, here's the link: **_Bones in the Forest_**

Read on for the first chapter from **_A Deadly Game of Hangman_** , book four in the Stella Bruno Investigates series.

# A Deadly Game of Hangman

# Chapter 1

The door opened and an oversized man, dressed in a light grey suit and open-necked blue shirt, stepped into the room where John and the others were waiting to learn their fate. Simon Wells, the driving force behind Shakespeare in Prospect, smiled at his audience of expectant faces, and held up the envelope in his right hand for all to see.

This was the moment in the auditioning process John didn't enjoy. He didn't mind doing whatever it was that Simon asked him to do when he was trying out for a role, but he hated missing out on parts he'd set his heart on performing. And, this year, John had set his heart on playing Hamlet, having endured a minor role in the previous year's performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream.

Simon opened the envelope with a flourish, as he did every time, and read out the names of the actors he'd selected for roles in this year's Shakespeare. The room filled with gasps of delight and excited sounds of congratulation.

John stood in shock. He hadn't even been selected for a minor role, let alone the one he'd coveted. He looked around the room. Several faces told him he was not alone in his disappointment. Charlie, Jeremy, and Catherine, who'd all had parts in A Midsummer Night's Dream, had missed out as well. The four of them had been the mainstays of the company over the last few years and John wondered what Simon was up to, but he knew now wasn't the time to ask him.

The actors gathered in the rehearsal room spontaneously split into two groups. The happy players with parts to learn clustered around Simon to listen to his instructions concerning the rehearsal schedule. The disappointed, like John, drifted to the far corner of the room, collected their things and made their way to the bar next door to the theatre to commiserate and complain about being overlooked.

It wasn't as if any of them depended on acting for a living. After all, Simon's venture, Shakespeare in Prospect, relied on amateur performers and they'd drifted into it in order to pursue their love of the theatre. The only person that made any money out of it was Simon, and even he didn't get to pocket much after production costs.

John listened as the others discussed their disappointment and knew their pain, like his, was more about ego damage than anything else. He also knew, that after the initial disappointment had faded, they'd be pitching in and doing things behind the scenes, like they always did, to make the production a success so that there would be a play to act in next year.

But that knowledge did little to soothe his bruised ego, and he wondered what other opportunities might come his way while he waited for next year's auditions, because a year was a long time to wait for his next acting fix.

After several rounds of drinks, the unhappy players went their separate ways, promising each other that they'd catch up again in several weeks when Simon called them in to work on the sets.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_A Deadly Game of Hangman_ **as an ebook, here's the link: **_A Deadly Game of Hangman_**

Read on for the first chapter from **_Taken_** , book five in the Stella Bruno Investigates series.

# Taken

# Chapter 1

Surveillance was a skill he had neither mastered nor required until now. He felt awkward and conspicuous doing it, but he needed to know what certain other people were doing if he was ever going to get what he considered to be rightfully his.

He'd tried all the legal ways. He'd even simply asked for what he wanted. No-one had agreed. Now, he was taking matters into his own hands and, this time, they'd listen to him. He smiled as he caught a glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror because, if things went to plan, they'd be giving it to him.

He pulled the black baseball cap down over his eyes and watched the young woman sitting in the car parked three cars down on the opposite side of the road. She was fiddling with her mobile phone and not looking at her surroundings. He hoped she wouldn't look up and notice he was watching her until it was too late.

He'd followed her movements every day over the last week and she'd given no sign of being aware of him. Maybe wearing black to enhance his invisibility, something he'd gleaned from the internet, was working for him.

He looked at the clock in the dashboard. The time was three twenty-five pm.

She was as regular and as predictable as clockwork. In five minutes time, she'd get out of her car and walk into the school to collect her charge. Then, she'd drive the girl home along the same lonely road she used every afternoon. There was no other way for her to get to the tree-lined driveway of the house in the hills on the outskirts of Stirling.

He waited until she'd gone into the school building and then set off. He intended to be in position when she arrived at the spot he had chosen to relieve her of her charge.

The duty sergeant at the Stirling Police Station raised the alarm with Operations shortly after six-thirty, immediately after Harry Ryan had called the station to report that he and his wife had arrived home to find their nanny trussed up inside her car and their daughter missing.

Then, the duty sergeant dispatched all of his available constables to the scene, hoping they'd find the girl alive but fearing they wouldn't.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Taken_ **as an ebook, here's the link: **_Taken_**

Read on for the first chapter from **_Fallout_** , book six in the Stella Bruno Investigates series.

# Fallout

# Chapter 1

Doug Easton slipped Friday morning's paper from its plastic wrapping and read the headline covering half the space on the front page: _Bookkeeper Alleges Sexual Harassment by Prominent Adelaide Accountant._

So, this is how she's going to play, thought Doug, as he looked at the photograph of himself staring back at him and tried to remember where it had been taken. He scanned the article to see what nonsense she had invented to start applying pressure, and wondered how long it would be before she made her next demand for payment. He presumed he'd have a few days while she enjoyed the media spotlight, and the feeling of power his public shaming would give her, before she moved in for the kill.

He put the paper aside and finished his breakfast, before spending half an hour drafting the media release he'd use to deny the allegations and threaten to sue both the editor and the woman for defamation, if the allegations were not retracted.

At nine o'clock, Doug backed his Mercedes out of the garage into the media scrum waiting for him outside his house. He stopped the car and hit the button to slide down the window. But when he turned to address them and saw the wall of microphones and cameras converging on him, he decided it might be a better idea to get out of the car and make the most of his moment in front of the cameras.

'Mr Easton!'

'Mr Easton! Do you have anything to say about these allegations?'

'Mr Easton! Are they true?'

Doug held up his hand. 'For the record, these allegations are nothing but lies. I have never acted inappropriately with any woman employed by my firm. Never! If these preposterous allegations are not withdrawn immediately, I will be suing the paper and this scurrilous woman.'

'Is it true the woman named in the article worked for you?'

Doug turned towards the young woman who had shouted the question. 'There was a woman by that name who worked for my firm more that twenty years ago. Yes, that's true. But I had nothing but a professional relationship with her. I certainly did not make any sexual advances on her!'

'Was she fired?'

Doug shook his head. 'If my memory serves me correctly, she resigned when she decided to start a family.'

'Why would she make these allegations, if they're not true?'

'You best ask her that question. I have no idea.' Doug smiled. 'Now, if you don't mind, I have appointments in the city.'

Doug got into the Mercedes, drove slowly through the reporters and headed for his office, wondering how he was going to handle the fallout from the story in the paper when he got there.

He knew he'd gone a bit too far with some of the women that had worked for him, and he was aware of the rumours circulating among his partners about his behaviour, but no-one had confronted him. And, he'd been extra careful since he'd paid the last one for her silence. He smiled, as he reminded himself she'd signed a non-disclosure agreement as part of the settlement.

Although he was aware the allegations reported in the morning's paper weren't really about his sexual misconduct, he hoped his accuser's bravado wouldn't encourage any of the others to come forward and air their grievances before his lawyer could contain the situation.

Despite being worried about how his partners might react to the story, what really concerned Doug was the knowledge that the woman behind the story in the morning's paper was threatening to ruin him, if he didn't agree to give her a million dollars, and she'd called his bluff in a very public fashion.

Doug pulled into the car park of the Burnside Village, where he spent a few minutes watching people scurry from their cars into the shops to spend their money, as he gathered his thoughts.

He realized they'd have to stop her before she took the next step, if he was going to enjoy his much-anticipated retirement and keep himself and his client out of prison.

Doug swore at his luck and cursed her timing. She'd already cost him half his fortune once, and he had no intention of giving her the money she wanted now. He was too close to reaching his goal.

He picked up his mobile phone from the console and scrolled through his list of contacts. When he found the one he wanted, he pushed the call button.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Fallout_ **as an ebook, here's the link: **_Fallout_**

The Stella Bruno Investigates series is also available as two paperbacks through this link: **Stella Bruno Investigates**

# Ryan Parish PI: Rosie - Opening Scene

Sometimes, a man makes a mistake. Getting involved with Miranda might be one of mine. Don't get me wrong. The sex is fantastic. She's a great cook and fun to be with, but she's got friends in the wrong places. I wish I'd known more about her friends before I decided to bed her, if I can claim that as a decision I made.

Miranda works as a paralegal for Bannister and Broom. That's where I met her. I do a lot of cases for them. A couple of months ago, she invited me out and things went from there.

I didn't think we had much in common and thought we'd have a short, lust-inspired relationship before things went back to normal. That was my pattern. Women seem to float into and out of my life all the time.

Miranda has other ideas.

After a couple of dates, the bedding decision was made. Now, she lives at my place. I'm not complaining about that. I'm enjoying that part. It's the stuff she gets me involved in that's got me worried.

It started innocently enough. Miranda turned up at my office with a woman she introduced as her friend Rosie.

'You'll help Rosie find her son, won't you, Ryan?'

'That depends,' I said.

'On what?'

'If she can pay my fee, for starters,' I said.

'How much do you charge?' said Rosie.

Money was always an issue for me. There never seemed to be enough of it in my account when I wanted to spend some on myself. I'd made a rule never to take a job I wouldn't get paid for, which is why I did a lot of work for Miranda's employer. Law firms always pay.

'A hundred and twenty five an hour. First ten hours up front. No refund.'

Rosie didn't even blink. 'Oh, that won't be a problem, but what happens after the first ten hours?'

'We'll talk and decide if you want me to continue,' I said.

'And, if we do?'

'I'll ask you for more money.'

Rosie smiled. What she was wearing probably cost more than the amount I wanted to start work on her case.

'So, you'll do it?' said Miranda.

'Not so fast, honey. Money's only one consideration. I need to know why Rosie wants to find her son.'

'She's his mother, silly.'

Being his mother might have seemed a perfectly logical reason for locating the lad to Miranda but it wasn't enough for me. I needed to know more.

'How long has your son been missing?' I asked.

'A week.'

'How old is he?'

'Fourteen.'

Rosie didn't look old enough to be the mother of a fourteen-year-old boy.

'Have you tried calling him?' I asked.

'He doesn't answer his phone,' said Rosie.

'Maybe he doesn't want to speak to you,' I said.

'But I want to speak to him,' said Rosie.

There had been days in my youth when I hadn't wanted to speak to my mother, especially after I'd spent time at my father's place.

'You divorced, Rosie?' I asked, suspecting we might be talking about a custody issue.

She nodded. 'A couple of years ago.'

I looked at Miranda. Divorce was Bannister and Broom's specialty.

'We acted for Rosie,' said Miranda. 'We've been friends ever since. I told her if anyone could find Wilson, you could.'

'Thanks for the vote of confidence.' I turned back to Rosie. 'Who's got custody?'

'It's supposed to be shared, week about.'

'So, he hasn't come back from his father's?' I asked.

'No.'

'You been to the police?' I asked.

'I don't want them involved,' said Rosie. 'That would really piss off Ross. He hates that sort of publicity.'

'Ross?' I asked.

'Ross Stingway,' said Rosie. 'Perhaps you've heard of him.'

I'd heard of him alright. He was one of those guys always in the news. He'd made his fortune buying and selling highrise office towers, and had a reputation for getting his way.

'Why don't you just ask him what's going on?

'I can't find him,' said Rosie. 'That's why I need your help.'

'So, they're both missing?' I asked.

'I don't know if they're missing or just hiding from me,' said Rosie. 'Ross likes to play games, especially with me.'

'Have you tried your son's school?' I asked.

'They won't talk to me,' said Rosie. 'Ross pays their fees. He insisted on absolute control of Wilson's schooling. That was part of the settlement.'

I looked at Miranda. Her expression told me I would be taking the case if I expected the good life to continue. I smiled, to let her know I'd understood the message.

'Okay, Rosie, there are a few things I'm going to need.'

If you'd like to read the rest, here's the link: **_Rosie_**

That's the last of the crime fiction. Now it's time to try something else.

# Ryan Parish PI: Framed - Opening Scene

I spend a lot of time watching people cheat on their spouse or insurance company. Sometimes, I get involved in looking for missing persons. This assignment, though, wasn't going to be anything like my usual cases.

Clive Richards had been charged with murder. According to the charge sheet, he'd strangled a young woman named Ellen Ford, a sex worker, after an engagement with her in a brothel in Brompton.

The police had lifted Clive's fingerprints from the crime scene. They had a DNA sample extracted from semen left in a discarded condom found next to the body, which matched Clive's DNA profile, and CCTV footage of him entering and leaving the brothel.

And, just to top off the case against Clive, his bank had confirmed he'd paid for services at the brothel on the night of the murder with his credit card.

It looked like a watertight case with precious little wriggle room for a jury to give Clive the benefit of the doubt.

But, Clive was protesting his innocence and insisting he'd been framed. The police weren't buying his story, given the pile of evidence they had stacked against him.

Miranda's friend, Maggie Clark, was defending Clive, which is why I was sitting in her office. You can probably guess how I got roped into finding out if Clive was telling her the truth or not.

'What do you think, Maggie? Do you believe him?'

Maggie twisted her hands together and shrugged. 'I really don't know, Ryan. He's an arsehole, if I've ever met one, but I can't let that get in the way of his defence. I owe it to him to at least find out if there's a possibility he's telling the truth.'

I picked up the folder she'd asked me to read before our meeting. 'The police case looks pretty convincing to me. We could be wasting our time,' I said.

'He's got plenty of money,' said Maggie, 'and it would be nice to stick one up the police, especially if they haven't done their job properly.'

That turned it into a bit of a challenge, and I liked a challenge, especially one that could expose a case based solely on the obvious. And, even if I wasn't convinced of Clive's innocence, I was willing to take his money.

'What's Clive's story?' I asked.

'He's in the import business. Fairly successful from what I can tell,' said Maggie. 'He's in business with his brother, Charles.'

'How long?'

'They started in ninety-eight,' said Maggie. 'They have a warehouse on Norwood Parade.'

'C and C Imports?'

'That's it.'

Small world. I'd bought stuff from them. 'What's his version of what happened?'

Maggie looked at her notes. 'He doesn't deny going to the brothel. Claims he's a regular, but he denies killing the girl. Says she was alive when he left.'

'We know from the police report he was at the brothel the night she was killed,' I said.

'Yes. The CCTV confirms that.'

'Have you seen the footage?'

'Yes, but it only covers the area in front of the reception desk. There are no other cameras inside the brothel, according to the police,' said Maggie.

'So, we know he went in and came out?'

'Yes, and that he left before the girl was found dead,' said Maggie.

'How long before?'

Maggie looked at her notes again. 'About twenty minutes.'

'Doesn't look good.'

'But that's enough time for someone else to act,' said Maggie, 'if Clive's right about being framed.'

She had a point, but that someone either wanted Clive out of the way or was organised enough to capitalise on his presence in the brothel to terminate Ellen Ford for some other reason.

# Author Insight

Ryan Parish PI is my newest character. I'm currently exploring him through short stories written from a first person point of view.

Ryan certainly doesn't have the same world view as the detectives found in other crime series.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Ryan Parish PI_** as an ebook, here's the link: **_Ryan Parish PI Short Stories_**

# The New Girlfriend

# Chapter 1

Something doesn't sound right. I look up from my screen. The office is empty. I'm sure they must have said their usual goodbyes. It seems they didn't register. Happens when I'm focused. I probably wished them all a goodnight and waved in their general direction as they left.

I look at the clock in the bottom right of my screen. It's 17:15. I started at 7:30; so I've well and truly done my required hours for the day. Most of my colleagues, working in offices located in the eastern states, are well into their journey home for the night.

I'm sitting in the Adelaide office, waiting for Jane to text and tell me that she is on her way. She's usually here by 17:30 on a Monday, unless some student crisis has erupted during her day, so I should be getting her message any minute now. There's the ping. Time to shut down my computer so I don't keep her waiting. She hates that. Seems her moments are more important than mine.

Anyway, I am standing at the kerb when she pulls up in front of the office. I've learnt my lesson. She's a good teacher.

'Hi, sweetheart.' I give her a quick peck on the cheek. 'How was your day?'

She looks into the side mirror and pulls out into the stream of traffic heading east. 'Don't ask. That bloody Oliver Dunbar attacked one of the teachers today. Punched her in the face. We had to call in his parents and the police.'

'The police?'

'He's eighteen, Dave. The teacher's pressing charges.'

I've been listening to stories about this Oliver kid for weeks. 'About bloody time someone stood up to the little shit.'

'Bloody father's such a dickhead! He's threatening to sue the school.'

'What for?'

'Says we're out to ruin his son's chances in life.'

'Why doesn't he change schools?'

'We're the end of the line. He's been expelled from every other school in the zone.'

'Like to be in court when that case comes up.'

She laughs. 'How was your day?'

'The usual shit. I've just about got that final project report finished.'

She looks at me, before quickly refocusing on the road ahead. 'What are you going to do when it's finished?'

'I've got a meeting with Rob Wellington to discuss that tomorrow morning, over coffee.'

'Do you guys ever meet without having a coffee?'

'Someone has to keep the local economy going.'

She guides the car into the traffic on Payneham Road. We should be home in another twenty minutes.

It's my turn to cook. I'm not the world's greatest cook but I've mastered enough dishes to hold up my end of the bargain. Besides, I seem to have more time on my hands when we get home than what Jane does. She'll be back at work in her home office after we've eaten. I won't be back at work until tomorrow morning.

I can't stand those people that reckon teachers have it easy. Sure, they might get more holidays than the rest of us but they seem to work a hell of a lot of hours without overtime during school terms, and they have to suffer everybody else's brats. Who'd want to work with kids like Oliver Dunbar every day? Not me. It's bad enough having to go on holidays with them.

Tonight, I'm cooking Atlantic salmon and preparing a mixed green salad. Jane's trying to lose weight again, so there won't be a dessert. The sacrifices we make for the ones we love.

She's gone into the sitting room to meditate while I get things ready. Twenty minutes should be more than enough time. I pour myself a cold white wine. At least I can enjoy a glass without feeling guilty. Jane stopped drinking years ago. Been a real benefit, when you think about it. Bloody nanny state reckons you can't drive when your blood alcohol reading is only 0.05. Anyway, once Jane decided she wasn't drinking that was one less problem I had to worry about.

Of course, there is a downside. There always is. When we have a good night out and I have a few reds, she's cold sober, so I get to sleep in the spare room. Apparently, a sober wife can hear you snoring.

It might be the wine, but when she joins me at the table I decide to raise something that's been on my mind for the last couple of months.

'Jane, I'm thinking about retiring.'

'I wondered when you'd bring that up.'

Seems a bloke can't keep a secret even when he's trying. 'Well, it feels like things are over at work, and I'm not just talking about the project.'

'Can we afford for you to retire?'

Typical question. She really has no idea about our finances or how any of that stuff works. I could say anything but elect to go with the truth, as I know it.

'I've spoken to the superannuation people. I'll be sixty next month. If I wait until then, my super pension will be tax free. When you do the sums, the difference in my take home pay will only be a couple of hundred dollars a month.'

'Are you sure?'

'I got them to do an estimate for me.'

Jane finishes her salmon and wipes the salad dressing from her plate using her fingers. I guess when you're on a diet everything on the plate is attractive.

'I'm not ready to retire yet.'

'I'm not saying you have to retire. I'm saying I want to retire.'

'What will you do? I don't want you doing what my father did. You know, retire, paint the house, go on an overseas holiday and drop dead. Mum still hasn't forgiven him.'

'That's not the plan. To start with, if anybody is going to paint this house it certainly won't be me. In fact, I'd like to sell it and move over to Somerton Park or Brighton, so we can be by the sea.'

'That would be nice. Do you think we could afford a house over there?'

'It's something we could look into. At least we've paid this one off.'

She gives me one of her I've got stuff to do looks and stands from the table. 'I'm sorry, honey, but I have work to do. All that time I lost dealing with bloody Oliver Dunbar. I've got a thousand things on my list. Perhaps we can talk about this on the weekend.'

I watch her disappear through the doorway that leads to the room she uses as her home office, and decide that didn't go too badly. I clean up the kitchen, stack the dishwasher, top up my wine glass and settle in for a night of TV.

Assistant Commissioner Rob Wellington is ordering the coffees when I arrive for our 8:30 meeting. Rob likes punctuality and I like him. We've worked together on several projects over the years. He's twenty years younger than me and on the way up. We meet for coffee at least once a month, always in the same coffee shop in Victoria Square.

'When will I have your final report, Dave?' he says, when he joins me at the table.

'By close of business, today.'

'What's on your plate after that?'

'Thought that's what we were here to discuss.'

The girl arrives with our coffees. Flat white in a mug for Rob and a long black for me. She's cute. She's one of the reasons we come here. I hate it when the serving staff are surly. Jasmine is friendly and a real flirt, especially when I'm having a coffee with Ben and Andy, which is usually every morning around 10:30.

Rob takes a sip of his coffee and looks around the coffee shop.

'You still thinking about retiring?'

'Raised it with Jane last night.'

'How'd that go?'

'Better than I thought it would. Her only concern was that I didn't go and do what her father did when he retired.'

'What was that?'

'Die.'

'Yeah, well I can see how she'd think that was a bummer.'

'She'd still get a shitload of cash.'

'It's not same, Dave.'

'Why did you ask?'

Rob looks around the shop again. We are the only people from the office having coffee, so I wonder what he is going to say.

'They're cutting our budget again. We've been told to shed resources. I wanted to give you a heads up that we'll be offering packages later today for people at your level. If you put your hand up, I'll support your application.'

'That keen to get rid of me?'

Rob shakes his head. 'Might be the last chance you get to pick up a package. The boss is looking to replace people like you with younger, less expensive models.'

'What's the time frame?'

'Three months.'

'That's pretty ambitious. The last round took nearly a year.'

'We're only offering it to staff at your level, and we'll be using a streamlined process. In fact, your application will need to be in by close of business next Tuesday, if you want in.'

'Have you spoken to Jim?'

'No, but when you put in your application you can tell him I'll endorse it.'

I drink my coffee. This sounds like the opportunity I've been waiting for. A package will get me immediate access to my super pension and provide a lump sum payment equivalent to a year's take home pay. I can't see Jane objecting to that.

'Okay. I'm interested.'

'Thought you might be.'

'What am I supposed to do for the next three months?'

'I'd like you to work on reformatting the main audit procedures so they'll be ready to publish on the new platform. You won't need to do them all but I want a prototype any idiot can follow once you're gone.'

'I think I can do that, and thanks for the heads up, Rob.'

'What are friends for, Dave?'

We wave to Jasmine and head back to the office.

Details of the voluntary redundancy package for executive level staff hit our inboxes at 10:00. Five minutes later, Jim Ryan, my immediate manager, who is too young to seriously think about taking a package himself, unless he has a job to go to, appears above the partition that separates our work points.

'Are you putting your hand up, Dave?'

'That's the plan.'

'Do you think Rob will support your application?'

'Said he would.'

'Well, I guess that's a done deal then.'

'Sounds like it.'

'Stop looking so bloody happy.'

My phone rings. It's Andy Doyle wanting to know if we're doing coffee at 10:30. His way of telling me he wants to talk. I send Jane a text message. There is no point calling her. She calls back straight away.

'That's great, Dave. Did you know this was coming?'

'Not until I met with Rob this morning.'

'Are you going to apply?'

'Yes. It's got to be in before next Tuesday.'

'Don't worry about what I said last night. If this is what you want, go for it.'

'Thanks. I'll see you tonight.'

'You'd better catch the bus home. I'm going to be late. Gotta go.'

At 10:30 Ben Fisher walks up to my desk and makes a going to coffee sign with his right hand. I lock my screen and follow him out to the lift lobby.

'Tempted?' he says, when I join him in the lift heading to the ground.

'Yep. My application will be in before I go home tonight.'

'That keen.'

'No point in putting it off.'

'What do you think your chances are? They're only offering four hundred packages.'

'That's what, around twelve percent? Not that many in my position, ready to retire.'

'Do you think they'll let you go?'

'No-one is irreplaceable, Ben. Not even star performers like me.'

Ben laughs.

Andy is waiting for us in the lobby on the ground floor. We cross the street to Victoria Square.

I think Andy wants to know what I'm doing about the voluntary redundancy but he is more interested in showing us a photograph of his latest girlfriend. I don't think it even registers when Ben says Dave's putting his hand up.

'What's her name?' I ask him, as he scrolls through the photos of her on his government issued iPhone.

'Cindy.'

Cindy is the fifth girl we've seen photos of since Andy split with his wife six months ago.

Jasmine delivers our coffees and rolls her eyes when she sees Andy's iPhone. She knows all about Andy. He's chatted her up, too.

'Where did you meet her?' asks Ben.

'At George's. You should come, Ben. You should see the girls there.'

Natalie, Ben's wife of twenty years, walked out on him last year. Andy's been trying to get Ben to join him on his hunting expeditions.

'I'm not ready, besides I've got the kids to think about.'

'Haven't you and Nats worked out an arrangement yet?'

'She's still too depressed to take on the kids. Haven't you noticed that she's still on sick leave?'

'Still, it's not fair that she's dumped the kids on you. At least Brenda takes Luke every other week.'

'This Cindy got kids?' I ask.

'Yeah, she's got a girl about the same age as Luke. Her former partner's like Brenda. He has the kid every second week.'

'So, have you got your weeks aligned?'

'Didn't even have to ask Brenda to change. Worked out straight away.'

'I guess she wouldn't have been at George's at the right time otherwise,' I say.

'Funny how it works like that,' says Andy, with a smile.

'What's she do?' asks Ben.

'Works for Immigration.'

'Perhaps you should transfer over so you can spend more time with her.'

I can't see that happening. Andy's too focused on getting to the top of the ladder.

'Bit early for that, but I reckon she could get one of those jobs we'll be advertising once we get rid of all those old farts like Dave.'

Obviously, he'd heard enough of our earlier conversation to know what is going on.

'You'll get your turn, Andy?'

He looks at me.

'You know, to be an old fart.'

'Some of us think he's already had it,' says Jasmine, as she gathers up our empty cups.

Ben nearly falls off his chair. Andy goes red in the face. We return to the office, laughing and ribbing Andy as we cross the street.

When we get back from coffee, I review my final report and decide it's finished. I've addressed all of Jim's concerns with its content. I email a copy to Rob Wellington and copy Jim in. I read all the background material on the voluntary redundancy and what has to be done if my application is accepted.

It all makes sense to me. I double check my superannuation calculations and work out the size of my redundancy payout. I like the figures, so I complete and submit the streamlined application.

When I look up, it's lunch time. I decide I'll go outside for a walk and to grab a baguette for lunch. My mobile phone vibrates in my pocket as soon as I get out of my chair. It's probably Jane, so I pull it out. It's her school number. I press the green button and take the call.

'Dave, it's Moira Jenkins.' It's not Jane, it's her boss. Moira and Jane have been a successful school leadership team for the last five years. I wonder why she is calling me in the middle of the day.

'Hi, Moira.'

'Dave, I'm afraid I've got bad news. Jane's just gone to the Royal Adelaide in an ambulance.'

'What?'

'She collapsed in her office. The paramedics said she'd had a heart attack. I'm so sorry.'

'Is she alright?' I realise that's a pretty stupid question. 'Was she still breathing?'

'She was when she left here, but they had to resuscitate her.'

I don't know what to say, so I say nothing.

'Dave, is there someone there who can take you to the hospital?'

'Yes. I'll call you back when I get there.'

I end the call and look out the window, but I don't see the view of the southern suburbs. How the hell did that happen? She's only about ten kilos overweight and she's been walking to keep fit for years.

Jim is standing when I refocus.

'Everything alright, Dave?'

'Jane's had a heart attack. She's in the Royal Adelaide.'

'You'd better get going, mate.'

I call a taxi and shut down my computer. Then I grab my shoulder bag and head downstairs. The taxi is waiting when I get down to street level.

It takes ten minutes to get to the hospital. Those ten minutes seem like forever. I pay the driver and go into Casualty, and ask for Jane Chambers. The nurse asks me to take a seat.

A young doctor comes out and tells me Jane's dead. He takes me in to see her.

I look at the body on the bed. It doesn't look like Jane anymore. There's no infectious smile, no light behind the eyes.

'I'm sorry, Mr Chambers. We tried to revive her. She didn't respond.'

I shake his hand. He looks disappointed, but there are some miracles beyond the scope of modern medicine, despite all their machines. He takes me to an office.

After I complete the paper work, I call Moira and tell her about Jane and that I'm coming to get the car and Jane's bag. I hear her crying but I'm too far into emotional shock to shed tears.

I think about calling Jane's mother while I'm in the taxi on the way to the school and decide it might be better if I wait until I get home. I call Jim Ryan instead.

When I walk into Moira's office and she hugs me, I finally crack and it takes me nearly ten minutes to regain my composure. One of the school secretaries, who lives near me, drives me home instead of catching the bus.

# Author Insight

Sometimes you need to allow a bit of space between completing a manuscript and starting on all the editing and proofreading required to prepare it for publishing. When I finished the final draft for Holy Death, I indulged myself by writing a short romance story: _T **he New Girlfriend**_.

The story was inspired by the 'new girlfriend' adventures of a couple of my mates, and my reading of **_Transitions – making sense of life's changes_** by William Bridges, when I was preparing to retire from the public service.

I had a lot of fun writing this one.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_The New Girlfriend_ **either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_The New Girlfriend_**

This is the end of part 1: Fiction. Now it's time to explore the writings of the mystic.
II

# Writing as a mystic

  * A Question of Perspective
  * Sharing the Journey: Reflections of a Reluctant Mystic
  * I Am Affirmations: The Power of Words
  * Beyond the Words: Reflections on I Am Affirmations
  * My Life is My Responsibility: Insights for Conscious Living

# A Question of Perspective

# Introduction

**_A Question of Perspective_** is a curated collection of articles from my blog designed to give you an idea of what I mean by insights.

I'm a long time student of mind-body-spirit or metaphysical writers, which is how I got onto this mystical path. Some people call this material New Age but, when you look into it, it's actually only a modern expression of the perennial wisdom that sparked most of what people regard as sacred scriptures.

The challenge being presented to us today, by spiritual writers, is to question what we have been told to believe by our cultures and religions. This is the journey of the mystic, which is not an easy one in a world that emphasises the external and runs from examining the internal, where the answers that will set you free are to be found.

It's difficult because you need to firstly become aware of the beliefs and assumptions underpinning your behaviours and, then, decide what you choose to believe, and act accordingly.

The mystical path is about taking back your power from others. Some people won't like it when you do, but it's the only way to freedom.

I invite you to come on the journey, and recommend two practices if you are interested in joining me: meditation and journal writing.

There are many forms of meditation, and I've tried a few. My current practice is mindfulness meditation but there is nothing wrong with contemplative prayer or Transcendental Meditation - or any meditative practice that allows you to become aware of what you're thinking. The best part of meditation is the practice of taking the time to stop and intentionally spend some time with yourself. I call this the gift of silence.

Journal writing allows you to record your inner discoveries. One practice worth trying is free writing, where you ask a question and then simply write whatever comes to you without being critical of it as you write. It's a great a way of uncovering deeply held thoughts and beliefs.

I've included an article on keeping a journal, which also mentions I have designed a couple of journals.

You can read more about the journals in Part 4.

For now, let's read one of my insights.

# Superman

What is it about Superman we find so attractive?

I don't know about you, but I like the idea of flying without having to make a reservation, go through customs and border protection, or worry about the flight being cancelled, hijacked or worse.

I'm not so keen on the fancy costume with the underpants on the outside and the flapping cape.

I guess we would all like to be invincible. Or is that invulnerable?

Did you notice that the creators of Superman couldn't quite bring themselves to make him totally invincible? They gave him a weak spot. Interesting that they chose a piece of his home planet as the weapon that could undo him.

A bit like being vulnerable to home truths - those little things that only those closest to us know, which can be used to pull the rug out from under us when we go that little bit too far in public. Isn't it interesting that those who love us the most are the ones who take the wind out of our sails the quickest?

Who was the one person that could get Superman to do anything? Yes, you got it; Lois Lane. So they didn't make him invulnerable either.

Not so sure I would want to be rushing about the place saving every damsel in distress or chasing down every criminal wreaking havoc on society. I mean, why would you want to let everybody else off the hook of taking responsibility for their actions? No. I've resigned from being the general manager of the universe, and that includes being the saviour of the world.

Superman would certainly be busy if he was around today, what with all that stuff going on in Syria and Iraq, and who knows how many other places. I wonder if the man of steel could withstand a rocket-propelled anti-tank round the way he can withstand a speeding bullet. Come to think of it, tanks are made of steel, so maybe not. It seems even superheroes have limitations, and I guess back in the 1930s no-one imagined the sort of troubles or weapons we would bring into existence in the twenty first century.

There's one thing about Superman though that I think we are all emulating. We're all hiding behind a version of mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent. We're keeping our real strengths and talents hidden, mainly because we don't trust ourselves or believe in ourselves enough to live authentically. Some of us are so much into being Clark Kent we aren't even aware of our Superman nature.

It's only when you've travelled some distance on the inner journey that you realise there is a lot more to your nature than you were led to believe. But you won't discover what that nature is unless you're prepared to look under the mask and find out who really is in there, and nobody can tell you who you'll find. You need to discover that for yourself.

You wouldn't believe me anyway.

# Free Copy of A Question of Perspective

A free e-book **** edition of _**A Question of Perspective** is ****_ available to **subscribers of my newsletter**: Insights from a crime writing mystic. You can unsubscribe after you download your free copy if you're not interested in subscribing to my mailing list.

If you'd prefer to buy the paperback, here's the link: **_A Question of Perspective_**

* * *

If the links don't work in the reading app on your device, go to **www.petermulraney.org** using the web browsers on your device or computer.

* * *

Read on to discover **_Sharing the Journey._**

# Sharing the Journey: Reflections of a Reluctant Mystic

# Introduction

A reluctant mystic knows there is an inner journey but needs a bit of encouragement to get started, and then some more to keep moving, along the path of inner exploration.

I count myself in that group.

I've known about the inner journey for a long time. I was a small boy when I first started sitting high up in the trees and silently contemplating the world. Life was a mystery to me but, at the same time, life had to be lived. There were games to play, teams to be part of, school work to complete and girls to fall in love with.

Like most of us on the planet, I got distracted from the journey by the dazzle of the world and all the things that had to be done: get an education, get a job, get married, buy a house and raise a family - make something of yourself.

Somewhere in my thirties, when I had the education, the job, the marriage and the kids, I encountered a dull, colourless and boring state of mind and started looking for answers, or maybe the questions came looking for me. You never can tell with the soul. You're convinced you're in control and making all the decisions, until you discover that you aren't.

That was when I started looking for inspiration outside the boundaries of the traditional catholic world I had grown up in. There was something about the message that I was hearing on Sundays that no longer resonated, so I started looking elsewhere.

Today my library holds works by authors like Hans Kung, Matthew Fox, John Shelby Spong, Richard Rohr, John O'Donohue, Neil Douglas-Klotz, Jon Kabat-Zinn, Wayne Dyer, Tara Bach, Cynthia Bourgeault, Paul Ferrini, Eckhardt Tolle, Deepak, Chopra and Osho, to mention a few of the minds that have informed my journey.

It was in those dull and colourless years that I discovered _A Course in Miracles_. If you haven't worked your way through that book, let me warn you, it challenges all your beliefs.

Over the last ten years or so I've been a student of the _Way of Mastery,_ which covers the same material as _A Course in Miracles_ but is a lot more user friendly to the average pilgrim, like me. You can find out more about that at www.wayofmastery.com.

The other thing that's had a huge impact on my journey is meditation. It takes a long time to remember that the voice of God is silence, and that in that silence you can hear the voice for God - your soul.

In these pages you'll find my reflections on a journey we are all on, and some observations, influenced by my understanding of the workings of the universe, of the state of the world we live in.

Most of the material in this book first appeared as posts on my blog at **www.petermulraney.org.** The articles have been edited for this format.

This is not a book to read in one sitting or in any particular order.

If you haven't read my blog, be warned. These reflections will challenge some of your cherished beliefs and ask you to move out of your mental comfort zone.

That's why we're all reluctant mystics at the start of the journey home - no-one likes moving out of their comfort zone, even when there is no other choice.

Let's ponder a couple of my reflections.

# The Journey

A few thoughts you might like to ponder about life, the universe and the journey you're on. If you're game.

Most of us are aware of the journey that starts with birth and ends with death. If you identify yourself with your body, death is the end of the road.

This is what we could refer to as the surface journey. The one you experience if you don't ask questions like:

  * Who am I?
  * What's my purpose?
  * Why was I born?
  * What's the meaning of life?
  * Is there a God?
  * Is there life after death?

What if your journey doesn't end when your body does? Maybe you believe you and your body are the same thing, and that you end when the body does. What if that's not true?

What if your journey started with the Big Bang? You know, that cosmic thing the astronomers and physicists think birthed the universe. Puts age into a different frame of reference, doesn't it? Have you ever wondered where you were before you were born, this time?

How we see the journey comes down to what we choose to believe, and we can believe whatever we want to believe. Sure, there are people out there that want to tell us what to believe. That's their problem. Let them worry about it.

What we believe determines how we see things. Changing our beliefs can change the way we see things. You don't have to take my word for it, just ask a recent convert to any cause.

I invite you to re-consider the journey you think you're on. What might it mean if there is more to it than you first thought?

# Start from where you are

It's mind blowing to contemplate the vastness of a journey across the cosmos that began before time. So mind blowing as to be incredible, and possibly so far removed from your present reality as to be meaningless. Yet such a picture can offer you a much larger canvas to play on, if you can entertain the possibility that there is more to your life than what you have so far been led to believe.

Okay, we've opened a portal that leads onto the field of possibilities. It all sounds exciting but how do you get through that portal? You need to start from where you are.

So, where are you? What sort of journey do you believe you're on? Is it a journey you have control over or are you a victim of your circumstances or of some whimsical God? Maybe you believe in destiny?

Maybe it's all written in the stars. Maybe it isn't.

If you're interested in things written in the stars, you might enjoy, _Fractal Time_ by Gregg Braden. Seems the ancients saw a thing or two in the night sky that might help our climate scientists. I'm not saying it's the answer, what I am saying is it's another perspective, and unless you're prepared to consider other perspectives you'll stay right where your are.

To move from where you are, first of all you need to work out where you are and how you got there.

If you're like the rest of us, you have a story. The story of your life that you tell yourself, and anybody else that will listen. Start by questioning your story.

How much of what you tell yourself is the story of your life is actually true? How much of it is simply what someone else told you?

Ever wondered why programs like 'Who do you think you are?' are so popular or why so many people are spending hours on 'ancestry.com'?

People want to know the truth in their stories.

What's the truth in your story?

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Sharing The Journey_ **either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_Sharing the Journey_**

Read on for a look at **_I Am Affirmations._**

# I Am Affirmations: The Power of Words

# Introduction

I am affirmations are statements of belief. We use them all the time, often unthinkingly, to reinforce our beliefs about who we are.

Spend some time listening to the I am statements you make. Write them down so you can see them.

If you're like most people, you'll be shocked by the number of negative I am statements you make about yourself and repeat to yourself every day.

This is a book of positive I am affirmations you can use to remind yourself who you are and what you're really like.

Don't just read each affirmation. Say each affirmation out loud and repeat it to yourself frequently as you go about your day.

When you first start working with affirmations you will meet some resistance. We all do, thanks to our social conditioning which teaches us to think about ourselves in less than supportive ways. Fortunately, you can change the way you think about yourself.

As you work with these affirmations, you'll hear the voice of your inner critic. Saying positive affirmations your subconscious doesn't agree with will flush out your hidden beliefs about who you are and what you're like as a person.

Don't try to suppress that voice. Acknowledge it and let your hidden beliefs become visible so you can release them, stop saying them, and overwrite them with new positive I am affirmations.

# a miracle

# Author Insight

This little book holds a deceptively simple secret. Words really do have power and what you say to yourself is important.

You don't have to use the affirmations listed in the book. They are simply presented as examples. Make up your own and take control of what you tell yourself about yourself.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_I Am Affirmations_** either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_I Am Affirmations_**

Read on for a look at **_Beyond the Words: Reflections on I Am Affirmations._**

# Beyond the Words: Reflections on I Am Affirmations

# Introduction

In **_I Am Affirmations: The Power of Words_** , I share eighty one positive I am statements that I use as affirmations.

Those affirmations can be used many ways. You can repeat them to yourself, write them out, or read them silently every morning. There are no strict rules.

I hope those affirmations inspire you to write your own as you decide who you want to be and how you want to feel.

When you work with affirmations, it's not uncommon for your negative beliefs to rise to the surface of your awareness in opposition to the positive statements you are now using to describe yourself. You may even hear your ego voice challenging those affirmations. Don't let that discourage you. It means the affirmations are working.

Affirmations are a useful tool for flushing out our negative beliefs about ourselves for examination.

The secret is to stop saying those negative things about yourself once you're aware of them, and letting them go without berating yourself when you become aware of falling back into your old habits. Be kind to yourself.

Consciously using positive I am statements will allow you to think about yourself differently - if you persist.

To succeed, you need to make it a habit that replaces your old habit of talking about yourself negatively, and that requires commitment and self-discipline. But, you're worth it.

It's one thing to use the affirmations.

It's something else again to really think about what each affirmation means to you.

We all use words differently. Each word has a meaning for us within the context of our lives. Sometimes we share a common understanding of what a word means but other times we don't. That's one reason we have dictionaries.

In **_Beyond the Words: Reflections on I Am Affirmations_** , I explore what the words in the affirmations mean to me.

I hope you find the reflections useful for developing your own understanding of what the words mean for you.

Read on to ponder a couple of my reflections.

# A miracle

I wake up in the morning. How does that happen? Where was I when I was asleep?

What triggers my return to conscious awareness of my body and surroundings?

When I awake from my slumber, I have a sense of being alive. What keeps me functioning?

Am I breathing?

Or is some presence breathing me?

I'm present in the physical world through a seemingly solid body that scientists are now telling me is composed primarily of nothing - both my body and the physical world are apparently swirling vibrations of energy.

How does that work? How do I maintain the illusion of being a solid form in the physical world?

I have self-awareness but I have no recollection of who or where I was before I came here.

I've defined myself with stories but I know I'm not my stories.

I am a mystery to myself.

I am a miracle.

# Amazing

I am self-aware. Otherwise I'd never know how amazing I am.

I look around, notice things, and wonder about them.

I give everything in my environment a meaning so that it makes sense to me.

I have a body I can move by deciding I want to be somewhere else or to perform a particular task.

I have no idea how those messages move instantaneously from my mind to my limbs. But they do, and I'm able to move my body from one location to another or to persuade parts of it to perform selected actions.

I can shift my centre of attention without moving my body simply by thinking about another place or time. Time travelling inside my mind. Amazing.

I think a thought and move my fingers and words appear on the screen or page, depending on the tool I choose to use.

I think a thought, open my mouth and automatically (without conscious awareness) vibrate my vocal cords and make sounds to communicate with others.

And, I can interpret the sounds made by others.

Amazing.

# Author Insight

I found writing these reflections a revealing experience. Often, the words that appeared as I thought about an affirmation were not the words I expected to write.

It's as if reflecting on the words in an affirmation opens a window into the subconscious and lets your thoughts escape onto the page, where you can look at them and ponder what they're telling you about yourself and what you believe.

Perhaps you should give it a go.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Beyond the Words_ **either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_Beyond the Words_**

Read on for a look at **_My Life is My Responsibility: Insights for Conscious Living._**

# My Life is My Responsibility: Insights for Conscious Living

# Introduction

Conscious living involves being aware of what's going on in your life and, more importantly, what's going on in your mind.

How you experience life depends on what you choose to believe.

If you never take the time to examine your beliefs, or to question your assumptions, you end up living unconsciously. When you live unconsciously, you live your life according to somebody else's beliefs. You end up trying to meet somebody else's expectations and not your own.

We all inherit beliefs from our family, from the culture we live in, from the schooling we receive, and from the messages we are exposed to in the media.

There is nothing wrong with that. It's all part of the plan. You have to start somewhere when you arrive on the planet. But, at some point, you'll be called to move beyond that starting point. A lot of us resist that call. It sounds unsettling, like too much trouble.

Life often gives us quite a shove in our mid-thirties: a mid-life crisis. Some of us pay attention.

What I noticed was a whisper inside that wouldn't go away. It kept inviting me to look within and stop worrying so much about what was going on in the world around me. Sometimes, it would nudge me to read a book by a particular author, or to listen to someone speak, or to undertake a course of study.

When we get these prompts and do something about them, we begin by exploring voices from within our belief bubble. Having been born into a Catholic family, my early exploration involved studying the works of various Catholic authors, but then something happened and I started reading more widely.

I came across _A Course in Miracles_ and, several years later, _The_ _Way of Mastery_ , both of which encouraged me to examine what I thought was real, and challenged all my beliefs about God and what it meant to be human. Those works started me on the path to accepting responsibility for my life and opened my mind to the possibility that nothing was as I thought or believed it was.

The insights in this book flow from a sense of being aware that you can change the world, but not in the way most of us think about doing that.

Real change happens when you accept that there is only one thing that can be changed: how you choose to see things.

My hope, in sharing these insights, is that they may inspire you to question what you have been told, and to spend a few moments contemplating the possibility that things may not be as you have been led to believe.

This book is an invitation to accept responsibility for your life, and to let others accept responsibility for theirs.

A few words on how the book is structured. It's not designed to be read from cover to cover in one sitting, and there is no order in which the insights should be contemplated.

Each chapter has:

  * an image which holds the text of the insight,
  * a discussion or expansion of that insight,
  * a ponder point for you to think about, and
  * actions for you to consider in relation to the insight.

I recommend that you keep a journal to record your observations and insights as you work your way through the book. You may want to use the companion workbook I designed for that purpose.

Let's check out a couple of the insights.

# My life Is my responsibility

Until you come to the point of accepting responsibility for everything that happens in your life, you are not free.

When you refuse to accept that your life is your responsibility, you continue to blame someone or something else for everything that happens to you. You see yourself as a victim of fate, a tyrannical god, controlling people, and natural disasters. You blame your parents, the government, and any person who abused you in any way for how your life has turned out.

Accepting responsibility for your life is both confronting and liberating at the same time.

It's confronting when you have experienced things or committed acts you would rather forget than take responsibility for.

It's liberating because it lets you see that you are never a victim.

How do we go about accepting responsibility for our lives?

One way is to stop thinking of yourself as a human being with a limited lifespan and to see yourself as a spiritual being that chose to incarnate into the human form - for specific learning experiences.

When you look at your life from this perspective, you need to acknowledge that you chose your parents and the circumstances into which you were born.

From this perspective, you also come to appreciate that events happen for you and not to you. Things only happen to you if you see yourself as a victim.

Another way of looking at that is to regard all events as neutral – that is; they happen but they have no intrinsic meaning. The only meaning any event has is the meaning you give it. You are the one who decides whether an event is beneficial, disastrous, or of no consequence.

Accepting responsibility for your life means acknowledging that you have total control over the way in which you respond to any event.

That's why you hear all sorts of gurus telling you that change begins within. They're telling you that although you may not be able to change the world, you can change the way you behave.

Accepting responsibility for your life also means you get to choose what you believe; instead of simply accepting what others tell you to believe.

## Ponder point

So, who or what has control of your life?

You might think you are in control but, unless you're willing to examine your beliefs and habits, you're probably fooling yourself.

## Actions to consider

Spend some time listening to what you say, and what you think but don't say.

Take a look at how you react when people push your buttons.

Start keeping a journal to record your observations.

# Attend to your own business

One of the great temptations of life is to run other people's lives for them. It's a great distraction from running your own.

Have you noticed how parents like to tell their children how to live their lives, even when they're adults with children of their own?

Most of the time you don't even realize you're doing it. Other times you do it on purpose – with the best of intentions, of course. After all, you do know what's best, don't you?

The truth is you don't know what's best for another. It often takes a lifetime of inner work to discover what is best for yourself.

The flip side is you often let other people run your life - whether it's a spouse, a parent, a priest, some politician or the gossip down the street – or, more likely these days, on social media or talkback radio.

Part of taking responsibility for your life is allowing others to take responsibility for their business while you attend to yours.

That doesn't mean that as parents of young children you let them do as they please, but it does mean that as your children grow and mature you need to transfer the responsibility for how they live their lives gradually over to them.

Not always easy but essential. At some point, though, you need to be like the birds and push them out of the nest.

How someone chooses to behave is not your business. What you choose to do about it - that's your business. That's the part you are responsible for.

When we aren't running other people's lives, we often devote our energy to solving the problems of the world or complaining about things we have no influence over – activities which provide distraction or avoidance from the realities of our lives.

Attending to your business, instead of trying to run the world, is actually a lot less stressful than worrying about things you have no control over.

Funny thing is though, when you stop trying to run other people's lives, they seem to do a good job of living them on their own, and you start enjoying your own life more.

## Ponder point

Whose lives are you interfering in? Who are you telling how to live their life or bring up their children?

If you're doing it professionally, keep in mind that doing it as an educator and not as a dictator will always be more effective.

## Action to consider

Observe how you relate to the people in your life, at home and at work. Are you trying to take care of their business?

Notice whether you let others tell you what to do or what to think. Are you taking care of your business?

Record your observations and thoughts in your journal.

# Author Insight

**_My Life is My Responsibility_** is one of my better selling titles, which I think reflects people's interest in personal growth and awareness.

We all ask questions about the meaning of life or how we can live a better life. I know I do, and this book contains some of the answers I've allowed to come through for me to think about and act on.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_My Life is My Responsibility_ **either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_My Life is My Responsibility_**

Note: there's also a workbook you can use to record your thoughts.

# Mystical Journey: A Handbook for Modern Mystics

# Introduction

I have been on the mystical journey for more than thirty years. As a self-confessed reluctant mystic, often held back by my fears and resistance to change, I recommit to the journey each morning.

I see myself as a Christian mystic. I grew up within a traditional Roman Catholic family and was an active member of my local parish well into my adult years. But things changed.

These days, when my friends call me a lapsed Catholic, I tell them I'm an evolved Catholic; one that has moved on from the theology of Rome; one that has chosen to seek answers to my questions beyond the confines of Church doctrine.

I believe there comes a time in life when you are called to question what you have been told is the truth, especially the truth about God and who you are. That's when the mystical journey starts. It can be a wild ride, and a lot of us decide not to take the chance and choose to stay within the safety of the herd. That's okay. God's patient and the call is always open.

People use terms like the 'dark night of the soul' to describe how it feels when you lose the certainties you thought you had but, like everything you encounter in life, that too will pass and, eventually, you will discover the truth that sets you free – if you persist.

I am a student of _A Course in Miracles_ and the _Way of Mastery_ , and I've been exposed to Buddhist and Sufi thought. When you read outside the sacred texts of your religious tradition, you discover there is only one truth expressed in many forms. There are many roads leading to the top of the mountain but the view from the top is the same, no matter how you get there.

I am what is called a modern or urban mystic. I don't live in a monastery. I'm married, have children, and live and work in my local community. My lifestyle is nothing like that of St Francis of Assisi, Mother Teresa, or any other saint.

This is a book for modern mystics like me, who walk a different pathway to the one followed by the holy men and women of history. The ancients, like St Francis of Assisi, got to hide away in monasteries and ashrams or a cave in the mountains. Today, we get to answer the call to the spiritual journey while walking the way of the householder in the streets, offices, shops, and factories of the world, right here where everybody else is.

In these pages, you'll find some insights into the mystical journey and a toolkit for navigating your way.

I encourage you to follow your heart and listen to your inner guidance. Let's begin.

# The Mystical Journey

The journey of a mystic is not about finding God. That's an impossible task.

That which is, otherwise known as God or a host of other names, reveals itself to anyone who takes the journey inspired by the question: Who am I?

That's the mystical journey.

The point of the mystical journey is not to find God but to become known by God, and the only way you can come to that is to know yourself.

The journey is a process of uncovering and remembering that looks like a process of learning and discovery, but it's a journey of unlearning and unmasking. It's a journey of coming out from behind your defensive shield. It's a journey of courage and vulnerability. It's a journey of integrating all aspects of yourself into wholeness.

The mystical journey cannot begin until you have lived a life you don't want. It's only when you realise you want something more or that you've been living someone else's dream or that you've settled for something less to survive that you're in a position to begin.

When that unsettling moment arrives, if you take the opportunity to spend some time exploring your doubts and questions, you may hear the call to embark on the journey. Or you may let your fears persuade you that it's better not to rock the boat or upset anybody.

But, God wants us all to begin. So, if you put it off, you may receive a more intense wake-up call, especially if you're reluctant to make changes in your life. For example: You get fired. Your spouse leaves you. You get sick. You lose all your money. Things stop working for you.

You have free will. So, when or whether you answer the call is your choice but, be warned, God is persistent.

The mystical journey is an inner journey. Your dragons live within, so that's where you need to go to meet them. It's a journey of death and resurrection where you put aside your old identity and take up a new one. It's a journey without end because who you are is forever expanding.

Your inner journey ultimately influences the expression of your outer journey. When you remember who you are, discover why you're here, and what gives you purpose, it's impossible to carry on as you have been living.

Going on the mystical journey always leads to transformation.

We all know this journey, which is why we're in love with stories, especially stories that embody the hero's journey.

All heroes are called to undertake the hero's journey and come to know themselves, and you are the hero in your life.

Maybe, this is not what you thought being a mystic was all about but, trust me, it is.

# Author Insight

**_Mystical Journey_** demystifies what it means to be a mystic in the 21st century. It's also a reminder that we're all called to the journey of self-discovery in one way or another.

The tools shared in the handbook are ones I find useful as I make my way in the world as a modern mystic. I hope you find them helpful as you make your own journey of self-discovery.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Mystical Journey_** either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_Mystical Journey_**

This is the end of part 2: Writing as a mystic. Now it's time to explore the self-help books.
III

# Self-help

**Living Alone series**

  * After She's Gone
  * Cooking 4 One
  * Sanity Savers
  * Living Alone (Boxed set)

**Everyday Business Skills series**

  * Everyday Project Management
  * Everyday Productivity
  * Everyday Money Management

**Field Notes for Writers**

# After She's Gone: A survival guide for men who find themselves living alone.

# Introduction

_Doing those things she used to do for you_

Sometimes it feels like life happens to you, especially when your journey intersects with death, divorce or desertion; or you find yourself temporarily separated from the woman who had been taking care of business at your place.

It happened to me. Around five years ago, my wife, who had been looking after me in Adelaide, Australia, for thirty something years at that point, decided she wanted to broaden her horizons by becoming an educational consultant in New York. Yeah, you got it, the one in the United States of America. That's a tad more than a cut lunch and a water bottle trip from my place - by 747.

For reasons associated with financial commitments (the bank still wanted its money) and maximizing my retirement savings plan, I chose to stay at my job in Australia.

No need to feel sorry, it's working out fine. We're still married and we get to spend time together in two different cities, in two different parts of the world, in two different time zones, and I found out about Skype.

But, I found myself living on my own again, for up to four or five months at a time.

There's only so much stuff a woman can leave behind in the freezer, and if she's left for good, she may not have left you anything in the freezer, and she's certainly not going to be on Skype, telling you how to cook whatever it is you want to try this week.

In a way, I was lucky. Being a country boy, I'd had some experience looking after myself when I was at university. We country kids had to leave home and come down to the city to study, and I ended up living in an apartment with a couple of my brothers. So, I had some basic cooking skills I could fall back on. And, having been one of those collaborative husbands, who shared the housework while we were raising our kids, I knew how things about the house worked.

My wife would say that I was well trained. I might not have mastered much in the kitchen, but at least I'd done some sort of an apprenticeship over the years. I might not make the bed the way she wants it made, but at least I know how to make a bed, and I've done enough supervised cleaning to know which end of the vacuum cleaner is the business end.

Having looked after myself successfully for a while, I thought it might be useful to share what I know, so that anyone finding himself in a similar situation would have access to a basic survival guide written by a fellow traveller, one who had survived by acquiring the basic skills required to look after himself.

_Disclaimer:_ **** I'm no expert, I'm simply a practitioner who has relied on the ideas discussed in this book, and lived to tell you about them.

# Topics covered

**Staying alive.**

Shopping for food and cooking.

**Keeping the place clean**

Overview of house cleaning tasks.

**The mysteries of the laundry**

Tips for washing and drying clothes.

**Outsourcing**

Paying someone else to do it for you.

**It's your place**

Making your living space your own.

**Staying in touch**

The importance of staying in contact with the people who love and support you.

**Looking after the inner man**

Grieving, quiet time, hobbies, and the difference between being alone and being lonely.

**Keeping the body working**

The body may not be a machine but it benefits from regular maintenance.

**Money management**

A crash course in money management **.**

**Tidying up loose ends**

Taking care of legal issues and dealing with her stuff.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_After She's Gone_ **either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_After She's Gone_**

# Cooking 4 One: An introduction to cooking for men who find themselves living alone.

# Introduction

This is a basic cookbook written with the intention of helping you master feeding yourself, now that you're the one who has to do the cooking.

There are no intimidating pictures of perfectly prepared meals.

In fact, there is nothing fancy in this book at all.

This cookbook tells you how to cook the meals I discovered I could cook for myself, without having to decipher the secret language of all the fancy cookbooks on the shelf in the kitchen or available in bookstores or online.

When you look inside most cookbooks, the first thing you notice, after the glossy pictures, is that all the recipes (that's the fancy word for cooking instructions) are for preparing meals for two or more people. Not much help if you only want to cook for yourself, and you haven't done much of that before.

In this cookbook you'll find instructions for cooking 4 one.

For convenience, I've grouped the meals under the headings of breakfast, lunch and dinner, but you can eat any meal at any sitting. It's your life. When you're living alone, if you want to eat a breakfast meal for dinner or vice versa, there's no-one there to complain or tell you to do otherwise.

Some meals could be listed under more than one heading. I've chosen the heading that makes sense to me.

Where possible, I focus on process so that you don't have to wade through a lot of repetition of the same instructions under different meal headings. For example, I look at pan frying (a process) instead of listing separate instructions for cooking steak, pork, sausages, chicken and fish.

If you've never cooked before, take comfort in the knowledge that if you can boil a pan of water on a cooktop, you already have one of the main skills required for success in the kitchen.

You also have a lot of other skills, like being able to read instructions and measure things, that will come in handy. If you're good at project management, some of those skills can be transferred to the kitchen as well.

The first part of the book covers buying and storing food, and a few other basic instructions I think you'll find helpful.

Towards the end of the book, I've included a chapter on entertaining, for those of you who want to cook a meal to share with friends - after you have the basics under the belt.

When you've mastered the basic cooking skills in this book, I encourage you to venture into some of those fancy cookbooks with the glossy pictures - they won't seem so intimidating once you have an idea of how this cooking thing works.

_Disclaimer:_ I am not a chef or a nutritionist - although plenty of men are. I'm simply a practitioner. At the time of writing, I've been cooking for myself for around five years, using the ideas you'll find in this cookbook.

# Topics covered

**Some basic stuff**

  * Buying food
  * Basic shopping list
  * The 'if in doubt throw it out' rule
  * Equipment
  * Portion sizes
  * Variety

**Breakfast**

  * Toast
  * Muesli
  * Porridge
  * Other breakfast cereals
  * Eggs
  * Things you can add to eggs for a more complex meal
  * Fruit salad
  * Beverages
  * Yogurt

**Lunch**

  * Sandwiches
  * Fresh salads
  * Salad dressing for fresh salads
  * Cold meats

**Dinner**

  * Making soup
  * Pasta and rice dishes
  * Pan-frying - cooking meat
  * Cooked salads
  * Roasts
  * Stews and Curries
  * Fish in the microwave
  * Vegetables
  * Stewed fruit
  * BBQ

**Sample Menus**

  * A weekly eating plan

**Entertaining**

  * Eating with friends and family

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Cooking 4 One_ **either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_Cooking 4 One_**

# Sanity Savers: 9 strategies for enjoying life for men living alone.

# Introduction

Being on your own, following the end of a long-term relationship, can be quite daunting. It often presents challenges, like boredom and loneliness.

My intention, in writing this book, is to introduce you to some strategies that will help you keep your sanity intact.

In what follows, I share seven strategies for finding constructive or interesting ways to use your alone time, and two personal growth and development strategies you can use to stay connected with the world, and to explore some of life's more intriguing questions.

These strategies will remind you that there are things you can do, things you can learn, places you can visit, and friends you can make. They also highlight the value of making commitments to your personal growth and engaging with others.

Over the last several years I have spent a fair amount of time on my own. My long-term relationship may not have ended when my wife accepted a position in another country, but it certainly changed form.

Since finding myself on my own for months at a time, I have employed the strategies I am sharing with you to write several books, focus on my spiritual journey, establish a blog, and stay connected to my extended family. I've also acquired a set of new skills, related to self-publishing and online marketing, had a lot of fun, met some interesting people, and travelled.

To be honest, I haven't had the time to feel bored or lonely.

I recommend that you explore some of the activities suggested in the first seven strategies. Discover which ones work for you and make the most of what they have to offer.

I encourage you to embrace strategies eight and nine: staying connected and befriending yourself. I believe these are essential for the ongoing sanity of anyone living alone.

# Topics covered

**Reading**

  * Reading for entertainment
  * Reading for information
  * Reading for inspiration
  * Formats: books, e-books and blogs
  * The online library
  * Resources

**Writing**

  * Writing a book
  * Blogging
  * Courses and presentations
  * Journals
  * Diaries
  * Letter writing
  * Resources

**Learning a new skill**

  * Musical instruments
  * Foreign languages
  * Woodwork and other practical stuff
  * Creative crafts
  * Resources

**Exercising**

  * Walking, jogging and skipping
  * Swimming
  * Cycling
  * Yoga and Pilates
  * The gym
  * Sleeping
  * Some reminders
  * Resources

**Growing things**

  * Herbs, vegetables and flowers
  * The indoor garden
  * Community gardens
  * Taking care of public spaces
  * Resources

**Serving**

  * Service clubs
  * Sporting clubs
  * Charities
  * Local community
  * Family
  * Resources

**Having fun**

  * Going to the movies
  * Eating out - treat yourself
  * Travel
  * Catch up with friends
  * Go to the game instead of sitting home with the box

**Staying connected**

  * Family
  * Friends
  * Neighbours
  * Pets
  * New relationships
  * Resources

**Befriending yourself**

  * Self-discovery
  * Meditation
  * Journal work
  * Resources

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Sanity Savers_ **either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_Sanity Savers_**

# Living Alone: Information for men who find themselves on their own.

Boxed Set

# Preface

For those of us in middle or old age, finding ourselves living alone after the end of a long-term relationship can be a bit of a challenge. Not only is there all the emotional stuff to deal with, there is also the need to start looking after ourselves, sometimes for the first time in our lives.

When the woman in your life has gone, for whatever reason, all those things she did in the kitchen and around the house are suddenly no longer secret women's business. Now they're your business; and your health and well-being depend on how well you master them. Most of us can't afford the luxury of outsourcing all or any of it, so we have to learn to do it for ourselves.

It's easy to be discouraged when you first try and work out how things work in the kitchen, especially if you've never done any cooking or food shopping. It's tempting to take the easy way out and live on takeaways. From my perspective, it's best not to go down that street.

Keep in mind that if you can boil a saucepan of water on a stove or cooktop, there are a lot of things you can drop into that boiling water and turn into a meal in minutes. I share some of the ways I use a saucepan of boiling water in the section: Cooking 4 One.

When you're doing the cleaning, remember, if it appears to be overwhelming you can always chunk it. If chunking works for project management, it will work for cleaning a house or an apartment - just do a bit at a time. That's how I do it. I break the cleaning down into manageable tasks and do them regularly. You don't have to fall in love with cleaning and keeping things in some sort of order - you simply have to do it.

I don't know anybody who loves ironing. I know I don't, and I know how to do it. My best advice is to buy shirts that don't need ironing if you can, and remember to let then dry on a hanger. Stay away from any idea that you have to iron sheets and pillowcases, or tea towels and tablecloths for that matter. If you're stuck with cotton or linen tablecloths, do yourself a favour and buy something that doesn't need ironing or use place mats.

Apart from looking after yourself physically, you need to look after yourself mentally and emotionally.

In the Sanity Savers section I share nine strategies for finding constructive ways to fill in your time and maintain your sanity. You don't have to embrace them all but I do encourage you to stay connected and to befriend yourself.

A lot of us put off doing the personal growth stuff, because we're afraid of what we'll find if we start looking 'under the hood'. I can only tell you that it's therapeutic - it's good for you - if you're prepared to spend some time doing it.

In the end, life is what you make it, so be kind to yourself and enjoy this new way of being.

# Topics covered

The content of _Living Alone_ is taken from the three titles in the Living Alone series: _After She's Gone, Cooking 4 One_ and _Sanity Savers._ Although those names appear as section headings, the content of each section has been edited to remove duplication and consolidate material for the purposes of clarity.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Living Alone_ **either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_Living Alone_**

**_Living Alone_** makes a great gift.

# Everyday Project Management

# Forward

Projects involving billions of dollars require serious project management by highly qualified and experienced project managers.

Most of us won't be doing any of that, but that doesn't mean we can't benefit from applying the principles of project management to our everyday work or personal projects.

I was introduced to project management at Adelaide Bank during a manager development program, and undertook formal training in project management with the Australian Taxation Office.

While I was working for those institutions, I didn't get to manage any billion dollar projects, but I did manage or participate in a number of administrative projects, and I applied project management principles in the execution of my duties as both an auditor and as a portfolio manager of audit procedures.

These days, I apply those same project management principles to my writing projects and, with this book, you'll be able to apply them to your projects, too.

The first project management textbook I studied was a tome of several hundred pages, filled with a lot of terminology which took me a considerable time investment to comprehend.

This is not one of those books.

Despite all the mystique, project management is not all that complicated, even if some projects are. In my experience, most of the stress associated with projects comes from money, time and communication issues. Project management is all about reducing or eliminating those issues.

# Project Overview

The development and management of a project involves a series of logical steps. The steps set out below apply whether you are managing a project for yourself or for someone else, however, the extent of the work required for each step will depend upon the nature of the project.

**_Concept development_**

Somebody has a bright idea or sees a possible solution to a problem.

**_Project definition_**

The idea or potential solution is described in detail.

**_Endorsement_**

The person funding the work, the project owner, authorises the project with a timeframe, budget and reporting regime.

**_Project manager appointed_**

The owner of the project appoints someone to manage the project and to report on progress. This step may involve selection and management of a team of project officers.

**_Project plan_**

A detailed plan is developed by the project manager, listing all tasks required to complete the project, and assigning each task to a project team member.

**_Execution_**

Project outcomes are developed by completion of the tasks in the project plan. May involve testing of outcomes to ensure they meet owner's specifications.

**_Implementation_**

Project outcomes go into production.

**_Post implementation review_**

Analysis to determine if the project delivered as planned.

**_Project closure_**

Process for closing project.

# Author Insight

This is a project management guide written for unofficial project managers in layman's language. Any 'project speak' terms are clearly explained.

I suggest you start using the concepts discussed to help you manage the completion of a small, multi-step project. That's how I started.

I purposely choose a couple of such task to illustrate how project management works:

  * writing a book, and
  * organizing a significant birthday party

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Everyday Project Management_ **either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_Everyday Project Management_**

# Everyday Productivity

# Introduction

If you're interested in productivity, you're no doubt looking for ways to work smarter so that you'll get more done. In fact, you're probably looking for apps to help you get things done faster and with less effort. After all, you live in a digital world that promises streamlining and efficiency.

Surprisingly, or not so surprisingly for those of us who have been around for a while, there are steps you can take to work smarter that don't involve apps at all. Some of the most effective ways of increasing your productivity are simple things like getting more sleep, drinking less booze, changing your diet and doing some exercise. They don't cost much but they do require something that all productive people know about: self-discipline.

Self-discipline allows you to move from dreaming through planning to action and to persevere until you reach your goal. It's a choice to act. It's not restricted to champions. You choose to be self-disciplined – it doesn't happen any other way.

I have nothing against productivity apps and use several myself but this is not a book about apps. This is a book about developing a productive mindset that you can apply to all areas of your life, not just during the hours you spend at work. In addition to self-discipline, a productive mindset requires self-awareness, that is, being aware of how your own behaviours and attitudes impact on your performance and the performance of others.

The strategy for developing a productive mindset offered in these pages involves an examination of eight areas that influence productivity, an analysis of your current position, and the construction of action plans to help you refocus your efforts and be more productive.

If you're not interested in applying a little self-honesty to an examination of your current behaviours and attitudes or in making a commitment to yourself to become more productive, put this book back on the shelf - there are no magic tricks inside.

On the other hand, if you are ready to develop a more productive mindset and to apply it to everything you do, then turn the page and join me for a journey through your attitudes and behaviours that will set you on a path to doing more with your life.

# How to use this book

The structure of this book provides a focus on each of eight areas that influence productivity:

  * Lifestyle
  * Attitude
  * Work Environment
  * Habits
  * Tools
  * Skills
  * Knowledge
  * Community

In each focus area, you'll be guided through a self-analysis exercise and then asked to construct an action plan based on the findings of your self-analysis.

The end result of completing the exercises will be a reframing of your understanding of how your behaviours and attitudes impact on your productivity. It's that reframing which will help you develop a more productive mindset.

I suggest you read through the book before starting on the self-analysis exercises, and then come back and work on the areas that appeal to you the most. This is not something you should expect to complete over a weekend. This work takes time and will be ongoing.

The focus area you choose to start with is up to you, but I recommend you consider starting with lifestyle.

# Overview

## Productivity

Productivity in the workplace is a measure of your effectiveness - with a focus on both the quality and quantity of the work you do.

Your personal productivity is influenced by a range of factors:

  * Lifestyle
  * Attitude
  * Work Environment
  * Habits
  * Tools
  * Skills
  * Knowledge
  * Community

## Lifestyle

Lifestyle is about how you live your life. Your lifestyle choices may be affecting your productivity in the workplace. The secret is becoming aware of how what you're doing when you're not at work is influencing your performance at work.

## Attitude

Attitude or mindset is about how you approach things mentally. If you hate your job, you're going to find it difficult to be more productive. If you're set in your ways and not open to change, you're going to struggle with doing things differently, which is often a key ingredient for increasing productivity.

## Work Environment

If you work in an environment that does not encourage change or innovation, you're likely to meet resistance whenever you try something different. Sometimes you have to take a risk and lead from where you are, even if you aren't in charge. And, more importantly, when you are.

## Habits

Your daily habits either facilitate or impede your productivity. You need to bring your habits into awareness and assess their value. Some of them may have to go. You may need to develop some new ones.

## Tools

Tools are the things you use to help you do your job. Your level of mastery of the tools available to you and the nature of those tools affect your productivity.

## Skills

Every job requires a particular set of skills. Not having the proper skills or not keeping up with changes as your job evolves hinders your productivity. Skills are like tools in that your level of mastery influences your productivity, and mastery requires an ongoing commitment to your own education.

## Knowledge

What you know about your job or your role in the workplace, and, just as importantly, what you don't know about it affect your productivity. You have some level of workplace knowledge but unless you bring it into awareness you can't use it constructively.

## Community

We are all surrounded by people, and the people around you influence your productivity to the extent that they support you or not. In some cases, your measured productivity depends upon the actions of others, where your challenge is to lead them to the level of performance you want to achieve.

> _If you want to increase your productivity, you need to address each of these factors._

# Author Insight

**_Everyday Productivity_** is a workshop in a book.

The paperback edition is set out as a workbook with space to record your answers to the exercises. If you use the e-book, you'll need a notebook or journal to get the most out of your 'personal productivity workshop'.

**Everyday Productivity** is designed for personal use, however, managers or team leaders could easily use the ideas and exercises as a productivity workshop for their teams.

Prepackaged training at a fraction of the cost of a facilitated workshop!

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Everyday Productivity_ **either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_Everyday Productivity_**

# Everyday Money Management

# Introduction

This is a book for you if you're looking for ideas on money management because:

  * you never seem to have enough money, or
  * you're thinking of starting a small business.

## Money

The stuff that makes the world go around or, at least, the stuff that greases the axles of whatever mechanism it is that makes things happen in our society.

Officially, money is a medium of exchange, something created to facilitate the buying and selling of goods and services. It could be anything, and in past eras many things have been the agreed medium of exchange. Once upon a time, for example, you needed to have gold in your purse. At other times, and in other places, you needed bags of barley seeds or various types of shells. You can read the complete history of money in Wikipedia, if you're interested in the historical details, but you don't need to know any of that stuff.

Money is also regarded as a store of value or measure of wealth. That's why you see the price of things expressed in dollars, for example, and we think people with lots of money, like billionaires, are rich.

In modern societies, money is represented as a paper based currency or, increasingly, as a string of digits in electronic bank accounts connected to smart chip enabled plastic cards.

## Money Management

Whatever form it takes, money needs to be managed or, to put it bluntly, **your use of money needs to be managed** , if you are to have any control over its flow through your life.

Given the number of people and businesses that get into trouble with money, and end up using the various forms of bankruptcy available around the world, you could be forgiven for thinking that money management is a challenging and difficult task. You'd be wrong.

**Money management is a very simple task that is easy to understand.**

The problem with money is never the money. Money is not even the root of any evil let alone all evil. The problem with money management always comes down to one thing: the money manager. In your case, if you're having money problems, that's you.

## It's all about education

People often complain that we don't do enough to educate our children about money in schools. In my opinion, and I've spent more time in schools than the average citizen, they're not the right place to teach children about money. Besides, anything talked about in the classroom is always swamped by the real life examples of money management and attitudes to money children witness at home.

Think about your own money education for a moment. Where did you get your attitudes to money? What difference did anything a teacher said to you make?

So, if you missed out on money management at school and your folks didn't pass on any useful habits, what can you do? That's the question this little book is designed to answer, and you'll notice it's not a massive volume of words and techniques that you have to master. As I said earlier, money management is actually a simple task based on very few principles.

Okay, let's get started by explaining some terms you need to understand if you want to be in charge of the money.

# Topics covered

**Glossary of terms**

Plain language meaning of the terms you need to understand for money management.

**Principles of money management**

Four principles of money management you need to know.

**Understanding your cash flow**

Before you can make informed decisions about managing money, you need to understand where your money comes from and, more importantly, where it's going.

**Taking control of your personal cash flow**

Understanding why you have a cash flow problem and details of a strategy for taking control of your cash flow.

**Do some long-term planning**

Planning for future expenses that you know are coming.

**Wealth creation**

The aim of the game is not to accumulate a large amount of money. The aim is to increase your wealth, and wealthy people own assets - things that generate income.

**Planning to start a small business**

To put it bluntly, if you can't manage money, starting a small business is one of the easiest ways to lose your money.

**Business cash flow analysis**

Read this chapter if you're operating a small business or considering the figures of a business before buying it. The material presented here will give you a basic understanding of a business cash flow analysis.

# Author Insight

Most of us struggle with money management at some point. I know I did.

It was when I came across the principles described in this book that I understood where the problem was - with the money manager.

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Everyday Money Management_** either as an ebook or a paperback, here's the link: **_Everyday Money Management_**

# Field Notes for Writers

# Introduction

Stepping into the arena as a self-published or independent author is a huge step for anyone.

When you self-publish, you risk a lot more than failure. You risk absolute humiliation.

By publishing a book or blog post, you proclaim to the world that you believe what you have to offer as a writer is of value. When you publish a book, you're asking people to pay for the privilege of reading what you have written.

Publishing a book is exciting, but there is always the chance the launch of your book will be greeted with silence. Pretty scary stuff for most of us mere mortals.

I made the decision to self-publish in 2013, when I published my first novel, _After._ A few people bought it when it was launched. The great part is people are still buying it.

I have published a few more books since then. _(As you have no doubt noticed if you've gotten this far._

I'm a little different from most writers. I write crime fiction, non-fiction, and body, mind, spirit books. I've even designed some journals and colouring books.

I started writing while I was still working full-time as a public servant. In fact, I spent a lot of time at work writing. I wrote procedures for tax auditors and reports for project managers, but I didn't consider myself a writer until I finally decided to write the book I'd been dreaming about writing for nearly twenty years. If that sounds like your story, rest assured there's still time to write your book if you want to - but it will not write itself!

It's only when you publish your first book that you realize there is a lot more to this self-published author business than you thought. Not only do you have to write the books, you have to market them, and engage with your readers to create an audience for your body of work.

To be honest, there is a lot to learn. That's where this book of field notes comes in. With these notes, you can take advantage of my field experiences on the way to becoming a successful writer.

Inside you'll find a summary of what I have learnt as a writer, some insights on the process of being a self-published author, a list of resources I found useful and some knowledge I hope you'll find useful on project management, on writing a non-fiction book, and using MS Word.

Some of these field notes started life as blog posts for bookmarketingtools.com, although you might not recognise them now. Others started as notes for friends and some were written for this book.

Self-publishing is a lot of fun. You'll meet people from all over the world and, if you reach out, you'll discover there's a big community of like-minded people out there willing to help you succeed.

A word of warning. Like all information, what you'll read here will be interesting, but it won't be of any value to you unless you take action and put this knowledge to work for you.

# Topics covered

  * Writing a book with a day job
  * The secret to becoming a great writer
  * Project management for self-published authors
  * Writing a series as a marketing strategy
  * Self-Promotion for Indie Authors
  * Productivity - a question of awareness
  * A look at self-editing
  * Self-Publishing: It's a profession, not a hobby
  * 13 useful resources for writers
  * Writing a non-fiction book
  * My writer's toolkit
  * Setting up Microsoft Word
  * Beware the vultures
  * Repurposing content
  * Further reading

If you'd like to find out where to buy **_Field Notes for Writers_** as an ebook, here's the link: **_Field Notes for Writers_**

This is the end of part 3: Self-help. Now it's time to explore my coloring book and journals.
IV

# Coloring books and journals

All the titles listed in this section are available as paperbacks.

**Sharing the Journey Coloring Books**

  * Mandalas
  * Mandalas by 3

**Sharing the Journey Coloring Journals**

  * Coloring Journal
  * Discovery
  * Reflection

**Living Alone Journal**

# Sharing the Journey Coloring Books

Mandalas

* * *

Mandalas by 3

# Mandalas

Mandalas have a long and colorful history in several religious traditions.

The first time I saw a mandala, it was a huge picture 'painted' in colored sand by Buddhist monks. It was stunningly beautiful - and then they wiped it off the table.

Those monks were constructing the mandala as a spiritual practice for establishing a sacred space, and as an aid to meditation. The destruction of the mandala was their way of demonstrating lack of attachment to the object. For them, it was all about the process.

**Modern mandalas**

Today, mandala is a generic term for a diagram, made of repeated symbols or patterns, found in coloring books or as wall art.

In our busy lives, where many of us struggle to find the time to meditate or enjoy some down time, coloring mandalas is one way of slowing down and taking a moment for yourself.

You can spend as little as ten or twenty minutes a day coloring or as long as it takes to complete a mandala in one sitting.

The mind thinks you're doing something (so it's okay with you spending time doing it) and, with a little practice and an eye to color theory, you can produce a beautiful picture to enjoy forever after.

There's no need to do the Buddhist thing and throw it away when you're done.

**The secret**

The secret is in the process. It's the actual coloring itself and not the end result that has the calming effect on you.

You can do it as a mindless exercise to distract yourself from your stressful life, you can do it listening to music, or you can do it as a meditation focusing on precision coloring. The effect is the same.

All you need is a handful of colored pencils, a pencil sharpener and an open mind.

Be warned. It's addictive.

I created twenty mandalas to use in the Sharing the Journey Coloring books and journals. **_Mandalas_** has one copy of each image while **_Mandalas by 3_** has three copies of each image.

I've included a couple of the images to give you an idea of the type of mandalas used.

# Mandala No 10

# Mandala No 20

If you'd like to find out where to buy either coloring book, here's the link: ** _Coloring Books_**

# Sharing the Journey Coloring Journals

Coloring Journal

Discovery

Reflection

# Journaling

Journaling is a pathway to self-discovery. For some reason, it works best if you use pen and paper, which is why I've designed this journal for you.

You can start journaling by asking yourself some questions, sitting quietly, and writing down whatever answers come up. The secret is not thinking about it too much or editing what you write. Just write - sometimes the answers really surprise you.

A few starter questions:

• What do I believe in?

• What could I live without?

• What can't I live without?

• What hurts am I holding on to?

• What do I want to do with my life?

• What are my special talents and qualities?

• How do I feel about (a specific event or person)?

• Why did (a specific event or person) show up in my life?

Journal work can be challenging. If you're trying it for the first time, you might find the following books useful guides:

• _Your Ultimate Life Plan_ by Jennifer Howard

• _Change Your Thoughts, Change Your Life_ by Wayne Dyer

• _Real Happiness_ by Paul Ferrini, and

• _Love is letting go of fear_ by Jerry Jampolsky.

Another approach to journal work is writing out the story of your life. You don't have to share it with anyone but yourself. We're all carrying around the story of everything that has ever happened to us - the good, the bad, and the ugly things. Using a journal is one way of getting in touch with that story.

One resource for really getting in touch with your story is _Writing from the heart_ by Nancy Aronie.

**_Sharing the Journey Coloring ~ Reflection_**

I inserted ten reflections from **_Sharing the Journey: Reflections of a Reluctant Mystic_** into this journal to help you get started on the process.

If you'd like to find out where to buy the coloring journals, here's the link: **_Coloring Journals_**

# Living Alone Journal

# Introduction

A journal is a private book you write for yourself. It's a place for recording whatever's on your mind.

You can use it for recording the insights that pop into your mind during meditation or for writing answers to the questions you ask yourself.

You can use it to record the events of your daily life or for writing your life story.

You can use it to explore issues or to pour your heart out.

You can use it to plan your next adventure or project.

Keeping a journal is a way of becoming aware of your beliefs and assumptions about life, and for identifying patterns in how you respond to life's events.

I doodle in the margins of my journals, so I've including a doodling zone on each page so you can do the same.

# Author Insight

Keeping a journal is one of the activities I suggest in the Living Alone series. I designed this journal with readers of that series in mind.

I'm a daily journal writer. I use all of the journals I created for you, but this one is my favourite.

If you'd like to find out where to buy the **_Living Alone Journal_** , here's the link: **_Living Alone_**

This is the end of part 4: Coloring books and journals.

# Final Note

I hope you've enjoyed my Official Reading Guide and been inspired to buy some books and recommend me to your friends.

Thanks for taking the time to check out my books.

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_Drop by and say hello._

www.petermulraney.org

peter@petermulraney.org

Peter Mulraney

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