

Sharko

By Ben Borland

Copyright Ben Borland 2012

Published at Smashwords

Prologue

It began with a whisper in the darkness.

"Put down the shotgun," said the hushed, rasping voice. "Do it real slow."

Gunn cursed under his breath, halfway up the stairs. The unmistakable turn and click of a revolver being cocked persuaded him to do as he was told.

He had been as quiet as the grave. In the sepia pre-dawn light he had rolled his car down the hill with the engine off; he had closed the garden gate without a rattle and ducked low under the jacaranda bush that guarded the front door; sweated quietly in the heat as he stood, barely daring to breathe, hunched over his lock-pick.

Finally, Gunn had swung the door open and stepped into the silent house, suddenly becoming aware that the reek of smoke was still clinging to his clothes. It would wash away, he knew, but the horrors he had witnessed tonight would never leave him.

The stairs had not creaked as he had climbed towards his destiny, but here he was nonetheless, neither up nor down, with an unseen killer holding him at gunpoint.

"Where's Evie?" Gunn asked. "What have you done with her?"

"This is your only chance," the man hissed, stepping forward out of the gloom, allowing Gunn to see his face. "Turn around and get the hell out of here."

"No' likely," said Gunn, knowing turning his back on this son of a bitch was a sure-fire way of getting a hole in it.

Then suddenly he realised the significance of the man speaking in a whisper. He did not want to wake Evie up, which meant that she must be asleep – and alive! Why would he lower his voice if she were already dead? Elated, Gunn climbed another step and...

BAM!

There was a sledgehammer blow to his shoulder and he fell backwards down the stairs, landing heavily against the wall by the front door. Gunn opened his eyes and saw his feet twitching on the thick Persian rug, the red and green and gold weave swimming before him.

Everything about this house was so familiar, he thought, but he had never noticed the rug before. It seemed like months since he had come here for the first time, in the early days of the investigation, before the true horrors of the case began to unfold, but he knew that it was barely a fortnight ago.

He realised that he could feel no pain, which scared him. Surely he should be in screaming agony? Instead of which he felt as though he was sinking helplessly into a deep, warm hole filled with cotton wool. He knew that he was about to die, and his mind seemed to be shutting down, section by section, like a factory closing down for the summer.

A light came on somewhere high above him, although he was unable to lift his head towards it. Then finally, as his field of vision began to narrow, the colours of the rug now a swirling maelstrom, he heard a heavy tread descending the stairs towards him.

And then nothing...

### Sydney, Australia - January, 1933

### Chapter One – The First Day

I

Rose Wright knew it had been mistake to bring the kids along to see the tiger shark, even before the horrible thing vomited up a severed human arm.

It had all started to go wrong earlier that afternoon, when the kitchen door crashed open and Alan and Sally charged in from the garden.

"Mum, mum, guess what! Cliff says there's a shark at Coogee."

Rose, who had been chopping an onion for meatloaf, put down the knife and wiped her eyes on the hem of her apron.

"Cliff reckons it's as big as a whale," said Sally.

"It's a shark, stupid, not a whale," Alan scoffed, frowning at his sister. "A tiger one."

Rose noticed their obnoxious playmate Cliff, lurking by the door and looking immensely pleased with himself. "It's got stripes, that's why it's called a tiger shark," he explained. "That means it's a man-eater."

Alan's eyes opened even wider. A man-eater! "Can we go and see it, mum, pur-lease?" he begged.

"Yeah, can we mum, pretty please?"

"No, you certainly cannot," said Rose, before attempting to stem the problem at its source. "Have you seen this shark, Cliff?" she asked, sceptically.

"Yes," the little so-and-so replied. "Twice."

Alan and Sally regarded him with awe for a moment, before launching a renewed bout of energetic pleading, jumping up and down on Rose's new black and white linoleum.

"Canwecanwecanwe..."

Oh, anything for some peace, thought Rose, as she told the cheering kids to go and get washed.

Coogee was one of Sydney's smaller beaches, dwarfed by once-fashionable Bondi to the north and wild Maroubra to the south, the graveyard of many old sailing ships.

Still, the beach was always popular, with its gentle crescent of white sand, deep seawater baths cut into the rocks at the foot of the cliffs and breezy parks on the cliffs above. It also boasted one of Australia's first shark nets, thick hemp webbing held in place with lead weights and marked by orange buoys, strung from a semi-collapsed wooden pier down to the southern end of the bay.

Of course, after the shocking events of the past summer the shark net was bringing more day-trippers than ever to little Coogee.

Today, at the height of the January summer holidays, hundreds of people were crammed into the protected southern end of the beach, leaving the northern half almost totally deserted.

With three fatal attacks on bathers in as many months, the city was in the grip of shark fever, a communal fear that had been eagerly embraced as an alternative to worrying about wool prices, hungry stomachs and the never-ending Depression.

While the politicians debated the relative values of warning bells or a mass cull, more solutions were being bandied about every day in the newspapers, including shark repellent tablets and even chain mail bathing suits. Most people, however, just decided to stay out of the water altogether.

In the midst of this chaos two local fishermen had struck the equivalent of saltwater gold, trapping a tiger shark in their nets while trawling a mile or so off Coogee Heads. By a further stroke of good fortune, one of the fishermen just happened to be related to the owner of the city's most popular aquarium.

For the past fortnight people had been paying a penny a time to gawp at the shark. Despite a rumour going around that it was already at death's door, the holiday crowds were still pouring in almost faster than the aquarium could cope with.

"Roll up, roll up. He's incredible, he's insatiable, but don't forget he's educational. Feast yer eyes on the tiger shark, before he feasts on you!"

A sunburned teenager, standing on an upturned Fiji banana crate, was yelling into a loud hailer at the corner of Beach Street and Dolphin Street.

Rose was doing her best to tune out the bluster as she waited with Alan and Sally in the queue. (Cliff, having seen the shark twice already, had already been sent home.)

The Coogee Bay Palace Aquarium was a three-storey building in the fashionable art deco style, with a blue and white dome on the roof. On Friday and Saturday nights it was used as a dancehall, the twirling couples illuminated by fairy lights and watched indifferently by the shoals in the enormous glass tanks.

Rose found the idea about as enchanting as an evening at the fishmonger's, and she and her husband had rarely ventured down to the dances even before the children were born.

"Come on now, folks, only a penny. Roll up and see the grinner that's killed more blokes than Uncle Joe Stalin!"

The man in front of Rose and the children chuckled heartily, but several other people shook their heads and a murmur of protest passed along the queue.

Undaunted, the teenager tried again: "He's not a kipper, he's Jack the Ripper."

At that moment a man dressed like a circus ringmaster, in a cream blazer and a straw hat with a cheery red ribbon, emerged from the aquarium and dashed down the street.

"Knock it off," he hissed at the youth. "There's been three men killed, you dope, show a bit of respect."

The ringmaster shooed his errant hawker off the banana box, climbed up in his place and grabbed the loudhailer.

"Thanks for your patience, folks," he called. "The previous viewing party has left the building so if you'd like to start making your way inside we can get this show on the road. And no pushing please, we've got room for you all."

Rose, despite some last-second misgivings, was relieved to finally get out of the sun and into the cool, briny darkness of the aquarium.

The tiger shark was in the largest tank, a glass-walled pool that took up the entire back wall of the building. A man on a stepladder was dropping chunks of bloody meat into the water but the shark was not displaying any interest, allowing the titbits to simply drift past its nose.

Rose, who had been secretly worried about the shark lunging ferociously at paying customers, was relieved to see it circling the tank so listlessly and decided that the rumours about its poor health must be true.

Still, there was no denying the size of the thing; it was at least 15 feet long and as sleek as a submarine, with vertical stripes emblazoned on its flanks. Under other circumstances it's crow-black, scavenger's eyes would have been spine chilling.

The dance floor had filled up and there were more people standing by the bars and amusement stalls at the aquarium's beachside entrance, but the mood of hushed expectation was slowly changing to one of disappointment.

"That thing's crook," somebody shouted after a few minutes.

"What did you expect? Somersaults?" retorted the ringmaster, who Rose now recognised from his photograph in the Sydney Morning Tribune as the Coogee Bay Palace's owner, Sam Gordon.

"I'm tellin' ya, it's as crook as Rookwood!" said the heckler, referring to the city's largest cemetery.

"Why not jump in for a swim then, see how crook he is?" replied Gordon, sweating profusely and dabbing at his gleaming red face with a handkerchief.

"This is a con!" somebody else yelled from over by the bar. "We want our bloody money back."

Rose locked eyes briefly with a fellow mother in the crowd and shook her head at the bad language. "Come along you two, we're leaving," she said to the children.

"But mum, look," said Alan, pointing at the shark. "It's shaking all over."

Sure enough the tiger shark had stopped swimming and was quivering violently. A flutter of panic rippled across the aquarium as the shuddering became steadily more and more dramatic, until the shark gave a convulsive jerk and hacked up a jet of yellowish fluid that hung in the water like egg yolk.

There was a sudden rush of people making for the exits and Rose winced from an elbow in the ribs as she held on to Alan and Sally. Over by the fish and chip stall, an elderly lady was knocked to the ground and a fistfight almost broke out as several men tried to help her up.

"Wait ladies and gents, wait please!" Sam Gordon was yelling. "It's perfectly safe, no need to panic!"

One by one, the crowd turned back to find the shark had indeed swum on as though nothing had happened, dispersing the slime in its wake and revealing a thin, crooked object that was sinking slowly towards the bottom of the tank. One end of this strange and pale thing looked raw and was reddish-brown in colour, and at the other end were five finger-like digits, like a squid or a cuttlefish or a...

"Stone the crows," said a man, his voice high and strangled. "I told yer he was crook."

... or a human arm.

All hell broke loose in the aquarium and Rose gathered Alan and Sally in her arms and fought through the melee, elbowing her way to safety.

II

Three hours later, Detective Inspector William Gunn was sitting on the beach wall at Coogee, gratefully watching the sky as a mile-high wall of cloud mugged the sun, promising thunder and cooling rain.

Rain had been very different at home in Scotland, he thought. It blew in from the Atlantic and fell steadily for hours, sometimes days. Here in New South Wales, the storms built quickly and unleashed a brief but torrential downpour so heavy that you could not see across the street. Afterwards, gutters ran like mountain streams and gardens steamed like Turkish baths.

The beach was now largely deserted, studded with empty deckchairs, half-finished picnics and abandoned towels flapping in the wind. The sunbathers had all come running when the pandemonium began and most were still gathered behind the police cordon strung around the aquarium.

The Sydney newspapers and radio stations were already tumbling over themselves in their desperation to get the scoop, although Gunn was pleased to see the uniforms on guard duty were all studiously ignoring the parrot-like squawks and calls from the assembled galahs of the press.

Still, it was quite a story. A shark choking up a severed human arm – this would never have happened back in Glasgow. At least, never on a weekday.

Although his suits were usually creased, his blue eyes bloodshot from long hours and late nights, and his sandy hair unkempt and greasy from being squashed beneath his felt fedora, Gunn still cut an imposing figure.

He was a heavy man in his late 30s, tipping the scales at 17 or 18 stones, but – as many a Sydney criminal had found to his cost - his size was a powerful legacy of the days when he played at lock and boxed at heavyweight for City of Glasgow Police.

Gunn grew up north Glasgow, where his father had been a foreman at the gigantic whisky distillery at Port Dundas. But on leaving school he had not taken up the job his old man had arranged for him, enlisting instead as a police constable and working the tough streets of the city's East End.

It had not gone down well and his position as the family's black sheep was cemented when he met and fell in love with Cathy, a Roman Catholic girl. They were married within a few months, paying no heed to the bitter divide that was rife in the west of Scotland.

Then came the Great War and, shortly afterwards, his young wife's untimely death. Gunn did not dwell on his time in as a military policeman in northern France or that terrible night when their tenement building was set on fire during a sectarian riot, the blaze claiming three lives. But he had never forgiven himself for not being there, for being out manning the barricades as the smoke poured up the stairwell and into the tiny flat where Cathy was waiting for him to come home.

He fled Scotland for New York on a Union line steamer, just like tens of thousands of other young Glaswegians during the ripping Twenties. A succession of jobs followed, some legal, others perhaps less so, as he drifted across the continent to California, where he decided to keep on running and boarded another Union ship across the Pacific to Australia.

Gunn had stepped ashore in Sydney drunk and destitute, but like many lost souls before him he found that the Lucky Country smiled upon him. Finally, at the other side of the world, he had been able to pick up the pieces of his life and move on, his time as a Glasgow bobby allowing him to get a position with the New South Wales Constabulary.

He was intelligent and hard working but it was his maverick streak, largely hidden in the days when he had pounded the beat in Glasgow, which had caused his stock in the force to rise so rapidly, propelling him to his current position as one of the most successful detectives in Sydney.

Gunn was toying with the idea of a quick beer at the Coogee Bay Hotel – said to be Australia's busiest pub – when he saw his partner, Detective Sergeant Alf 'Snapper' Spiroza, emerge from the aquarium. He spotted Gunn and waved him over, so with a wistful glance towards the pub, the detective heaved his bulk off the wall and followed Spiroza back inside.

The cavernous building smelled of seawater and spilled beer, and with the ballroom lights turned off it took a few seconds for his eyes to readjust to the gloom. The tiger shark was manoeuvring sluggishly at the bottom of its tank and looking – to Gunn's untrained eye – rather pleased with itself.

Spiroza was talking to the owner of the aquarium, a worried-looking character named Sam Gordon, and some of his staff. Several more uniforms were gathered around, looking as though they were hugely enjoying themselves. Everyone turned to face Gunn as he approached.

For the best part of half an hour, Gordon had been balancing precariously on the top rung of a pair of ricketly stepladders, trying unsuccessfully to scoop the arm from the bottom of the tank using a long-handled fishing net. After several near misses where he had almost lost his balance and fell into the water, Gunn had suggested they all take a breather before the man became a complete nervous wreck.

"I'm not going back up on that ladder, Detective Gunn, and that's final," Gordon was saying now. The other aquarium employees were all shaking their heads as well, and Gunn knew it was pointless asking any of his men to do it. This was too good a show to ruin by getting the job done quickly.

"It's no good, Bill," Spiroza said. "We'll have to drain the tank."

"That's going to take too long," said Gunn. "Here, give me that net. I'll hook the bloody thing out."

They trooped over to the tank and Gunn climbed the protesting rungs of the ladder all the way up to the rim, suddenly feeling uncomfortably close to tipping over into the water.

A constable quickly screwed together the wooden sections of a long pole with a green mesh net attached to one end. He passed it up to go Gunn, who lowered it quickly to the bottom of the tank, almost twenty feet below.

"How am I doing?" he called out, as the net poked about on the sandy bed of the tank. Gunn could see the arm but the water was distorting his view, making it impossible to judge the distance between it and the net.

"Left a bit, Bill," yelled Spiroza at ground level, his face pressed up against the glass of the tank. The movement had roused the shark and it swam in to investigate, blocking Gunn's view of the arm completely.

He gripped the ladders tightly, staring down at the enormous creature. He was suddenly struck by an image of those fairground games where you had to grab a prize with a small mechanical crane, and he wondered whether the arm, if he ever got it out, would have a shilling note attached to it.

"Nearly there Bill," yelled Spiroza, as the net missed the arm again. The shark made another pass, bumping into the net and nearly knocking it from Gunn's grasp.

"Christ Almighty," he yelled. "He's a big bugger isn't he?"

It all happened quickly after that. The arm seemed to move in the shark's wake and almost tumbled into the net. Gunn heaved the limb out of the tank and lowered it, dripping, onto the floor.

He wiped his brow, as one of the constables gingerly lifted the severed arm and carried it over to a table that had been covered in old newspapers.

"Bravo," shouted a voice, and Gunn turned to see the police pathologist George Bayliss applauding from the aquarium doorway.

"Thanks George," Gunn called, after he had descended from the stepladder. "But we could have done with your steady hands here about five minutes ago."

Spiroza patted him on the back as they walked over to greet Bayliss, saying: "Good onyer, Bill."

"G'day fellas," said Bayliss as they approached, regarding the ballroom with a nostalgic smile. "I haven't been here in years."

"I never had you down as a dancer," said Gunn

"I wasn't much cop. Didn't stop me trying to impress the sheilas though," said Bayliss, laughing.

"I was usually at the bar," admitted Gunn. "Two left feet, y'see. Come on twinkle-toes, let's go and see what my little fishing expedition turned up, shall we?"

They returned to the makeshift examination table, where a small crowd had gathered around the arm.

"Clear some room, folks," said Gunn, as Spiroza rifled in his pockets for a packet of Lucky Strikes and handed them around.

Gunn took a cigarette and lit it, tasting the smoke gratefully, before studying the appendage once again. It was a left arm, bitten off just above the elbow and seemed remarkably well preserved, considering where it had been. It was difficult to tell for certain but going by its size and slender shape, it appeared to be a woman's arm. There was no watch or wedding ring, but a large mole on the back of the hand would help with identification. The final aspect of note seemed to be some curious mottled bruising around the wrist.

Bayliss, donning a pair of wire-framed spectacles, leaned in for a closer look.

"Can you tell us how long it was in the stomach, George?" asked Gunn.

"Hard to say without knowledge of a shark's digestive process," he replied. "You'd need a zoologist for that, I'm afraid."

"Two weeks? A month?" suggested Spiroza.

"The shark has been here for a fortnight, we know that for certain," said Bayliss, glancing at Gordon.

"Came in exactly two weeks ago yesterday," the aquarium owner said, nodding his agreement.

Spiroza gently poked the flesh of the arm with his pencil. After a split-second of resistance, the skin gave way like a well-steamed black pudding and the point of the pencil disappeared with a slurp.

"Sorry," he said, as Bayliss fixed him with a ferocious glare. "I thought it would be firmer than that..."

Ten minutes later Gunn walked over to join Spiroza by the bar, where he had taken refuge after being shooed away from the makeshift mortuary slab.

"Never mind, Snapper," said Gunn, clapping him on the back. "There's plenty more pencils back at the station."

Alf Spiroza was short and stocky, his nickname coming from a supposed resemblance to a snapper turtle. He was a second-generation Greek immigrant from Melbourne, and he and Gunn had been paired together out of nothing more than old-fashioned racism. They were known as the Jock and the Wop among their fellow Sydney cops.

Now, though, Spiroza's normally happy-go-lucky features were creased with a frown. "How are we goin' to check for more body parts in that bloody thing?" he asked.

"We'll worry about that in the morning, I guess. We can't go slicing open a shark on Coogee Plaza today, not with that crowd out there."

Gunn shook out two cigarettes and lit them both, before handing one to Spiroza.

"Anyway, we should see what Bayliss can do with the bit we have got first," he went on. "He's having the arm packed in ice so it can be taken to the morgue at Randwick for a post-mortem. Get it done as quick as possible."

"Looks like a woman's arm to me," said Spiroza. "What did Bayliss say?"

"He's not said anything yet, really. You know what he's like."

Spiroza nodded, looking unconvinced.

"But aye, it looks like a woman's arm to me too," admitted Gunn.

"So its not from one of the three recent shark victims." said Spiroza. "They were all blokes."

Gunn raised his eyebrows. "Maybe there's been another attack we don't know about," he said. "Some poor girl goes for a late night dip, no witnesses and then whammo. Shark bait."

"Jeez Bill," said Spiroza, grimacing. "Could be, I guess, but most Sheilas I know won't even look at the sea nowadays, never mind go swimming on their own."

Gunn stubbed his cigarette out in one of the ashtrays on the bar. "I think we deserve a drink, Snapper," he said. "Where's that fellow Gordon got to?"

III

Eddie 'Rat-a-tat' Gattuso was born and raised in the helter skelter streets of Balmain, Sydney's toughest suburb. The mines and shipyards provided jobs for working kids who left school in their early teens but Gattuso and his pals had learned a different trade. The overflowing factory yards were easy targets for nimble thieves, scrambling up drainpipes and across lead slate roofs. As they grew bigger and bolder, Gattuso's gang progressed to knifepoint robberies, roughing up sozzled sailors and well-to-do strays from the city.

His partner in crime was Jack 'Loony' Mooney, who earned his nickname at the age of 15 after the brutal pool hall beating which also brought him his first stretch in jail. Gattuso set his sights higher, quietly building his protection rackets and legitimate front firms, pulling off occasional, well-planned robberies and establishing himself as a new face on the Sydney gang scene.

Gattuso, the son of Sicilian immigrants, was a handsome, brooding character with hooded eyes. He aped the style and language of the American gangsters he idolised and, from the Prohibition era of the early 1920s, he had never missed a newsreel showing Al Capone's latest outrage in Chicago or the bloody rise of 'Dutch' Schultz's Syndicate in New York.

The older villains thought the young upstart was a hoot, always dressed to the nines and wasting money on champagne, Sheilas and flash cars. 'All mouth and no trousers,' they declared, and christened him 'Rat-a-tat', after the sound of a child playing with an imaginary gun.

But this opinion, as it turned out, was way wide of the mark. As the 1930s dawned, Sydney's mobsters became engulfed in the most vicious turf war since the Victorian era, when dockside gangs like the Forty Thieves, the Iron House Gang and Bristley's Mob had slit throats over bushels of wool.

Eddie Gattuso missed the worst of the bloodshed during a two-year stretch in prison but joined the fray with renewed vigour when he came out. His remaining rivals were shot, stabbed, bludgeoned to death or simply disappeared, as Gattuso established himself as the undisputed king of Sydney, his once ironic nickname acquiring an unpleasant ring of truth.

Gattuso pushed open the door from the living quarters of the Hollywood Hotel in Glebe, a busy district to the south west of the city centre, and strolled into the public bar.

"Afternoon boss," said Mooney, looking up from the racing papers that were spread on the bar before him.

Gattuso slid onto a stool and asked the acne-scarred barman for coffee, black, four sugars. He gave a huge yawn and lit a cigarette, before looking around his pub. As usual, it was largely empty, apart from a couple of old geezers in the corner, nursing their India pale ales.

Mooney had not seen his boss since he'd sloped off to watch Scarface – the new gangster flick starring Paul Muni and George Raft – for the umpteenth time a couple of days ago, but it wasn't unusual for Gattuso to take off with a bit of skirt he had picked up in a club, throwing his money around in casinos and fancy hotels.

"You had the wireless on?" Gattuso asked.

"No boss," replied Mooney. "Just readin' the papers."

"Hey Ron, switch on the wireless will ya?" Gattuso called. "Wait 'til you hear this, Jack."

The barman turned on the radio set before setting down Gattuso's coffee. A news report was underway live from Coogee, the reporter speaking breathlessly of sharks, police and a human arm.

"Oh shit," said Mooney, after a few minutes.

"Couldn't have put it better myself," said Gattuso. "Must be thousands of sharks out there and this one ends up in a bloody fish tank. What are the odds on that?"

Mooney shrugged, and then lowered his voice conspiratorially. "You reckon it's one of Sharko's then?" he asked.

Gattuso glared at him. "Of course its one of his, you dumb arsehole," he hissed.

The geezers in the corner drained their drinks and got ready to leave. The only regulars tolerated in the Hollywood knew that when tempers began to fray it was best to make yourself scarce.

Before they could stand up, however, the door to the living quarters swung open once more and a young woman emerged, a tall redhead wearing a figure-hugging dress in scarlet silk and elbow length black gloves. Mascara trails smudged her pretty cheeks.

Without so much as a glance towards Gattuso, the flame-haired Betty Boop stalked across the pub and slammed the door on the way out. Mooney watched her through the Hollywood's tiny, smudged front window, stepping out into the traffic to hail a taxi amid a cacophony of blaring horns and squealing brakes.

He turned back to his boss warily. Despite his extraordinary success with women, Gattuso never seemed to be satisfied, always burning with some deep-seated frustration.

"She was a bonzarina," Mooney said, a little uncertainly.

"Yeah, not bad for a carrot top," replied Gattuso with a beetle-browed frown.

Mooney sipped his beer. He might not be the smartest, but he too knew when not to push his luck. "So, what are we going to do about this Noah's Ark?" he asked.

"The shark? Dunno, Jacko. Nothing we can do, apart from sit tight and see what happens. All they got is an arm."

IV

Gunn's brogue tapped an impatient beat on the waiting room floor until a glance from a nurse behind the reception desk stopped his foot in mid-air.

He shrugged in apology, and then shot his cuff to stare balefully at his watch. He was sitting outside the morgue at the Prince of Wales Hospital in Randwick, a mile or so up the hill from Coogee. What the hell was keeping Bayliss?

Finally, the pathologist rushed in from the corridor.

"Thanks for waiting, Bill. I've got some rather big news."

"Have you done the post mortem already?" asked Gunn. He had been expecting to sit in on this one.

"I decided to have a look while you took Alf back to Surry Hills and before I knew it I'd finished," said Bayliss, cheerily. "Must be a new world record. Mind you, there wasn't much of her to go on. Come on down and I'll show you."

He called to the nurse. "We'll be going back to the PM room now. Are there any messages?"

"No, Dr Bayliss," she replied. "But there are a couple of medical students waiting for you."

"Oh," said Bayliss, seeming a bit disheartened. "Willing note takers, I suppose. Let's go and get washed up shall we?"

Rumour had it that the easy-going Bayliss was often the butt of practical jokes from the young tyros who attended the nearby University of New South Wales.

"Any bodies missing lately?" asked Gunn, as they soaped their hands in the stainless steel sinks in the prep room.

"Not as far as I know," Bayliss said, eyeing him suspiciously. "You don't think that the arm could have come from the university, do you?"

"Just a thought. Remember the time some of your students put a corpse in the gents at Central Station?"

"Hmmm," Bayliss was not impressed. "None of them would go this far. And besides, like I said, we've had no missing cadavers for some time now."

Still, when they emerged from the prep room, Gunn fish-eyed the three students and held them back while Bayliss walked ahead through the double doors.

"This is a police investigation," he said. "What happens in this room goes no further, understand, or I'll be holding you responsible, ya wee nyaffs."

The students mumbled their agreement, instantly losing some of their ruddy-cheeked vigour, and they all trooped in after the pathologist. The arm was waiting for them, waxy and pale under the strip lights and appearing ridiculously small on the ten-foot examination table.

"What have you got then, George?" asked Gunn.

"The easy stuff first," said Bayliss. "The arm belongs to a white female, blonde or fair hair, of medium height and build, although slightly underweight. She would have been in her late 20's or early 30's at the time of death."

"Any prints?" asked Gunn.

"No chance for conventional fingerprints, I'm afraid. Stomach acids and water damage, mainly. But I think I'll be able to slice the skin off the two index fingertips using a very fine scalpel and a microscope. We should have some decent prints by next week at the latest."

Bayliss glanced at the students, beaming with obvious pleasure at this successful procedure.

"We could do with them as soon as possible, George," said Gunn.

The pathologist fixed him with a glare. "This is a world first, Bill," he protested. "Nobody, to my knowledge at least, has ever obtained fingerprints in this way before."

Gunn held up his hands apologetically, thinking that he would be bottom of the class at this rate.

"So she is dead then?" he asked. It seemed obvious, but you never knew – he had known plenty of men in the trenches who had lost an arm and lived to tell the tale.

"Well, few people could survive a trauma like that without immediate hospital treatment. The blood loss would kill you in a matter of minutes. But you're right Bill, losing a limb need not always be fatal. Nevertheless, the victim is certainly dead, and I think she was dead before the arm was even removed."

"Go on," said Gunn, resolving to shut up and listen.

"Now here's another thing," continued Bayliss. "There are definite signs of bruising around the wrist. It could only have been caused by a rope or something similar, and must have happened while the owner of the arm was still alive."

"But she was dead before the shark got to her?" asked Gunn.

"That's right. Look at the wound itself; no bite marks, no evidence of tearing or shredding, nothing that you would expect consistent with an attack by a large carnivore such as a tiger shark. It's too clean a cut. I'd be willing to stake my house that this arm was not bitten off by Sam Gordon's tiger shark."

"So how was it removed?"

"It was chopped off, using a heavy, single bladed instrument, like an axe or something similar. Needless to say, it would have taken a considerable amount of brute force. You're looking at a murder, I'm afraid."

V

Sharko stopped his car and peered along one of the narrow streets that run from Kings Cross down towards the docks. The woman was standing alone, leaning against a chain-link fence at the edge of a flickering circle of light thrown by one of the few gas lamps in the city's red light district.

He had found few whores out tonight, most of them no doubt scared away by the news from Coogee. The nightmarish discovery of the arm would have more resonance for them, for his prey, than it did for the other citizens of Sydney. But he knew they would be back on the streets soon, and if not them, then others just like them.

Besides, the threat of discovery had given him a charged thrill. He had known this day would come eventually, and he had prepared for it well. If the police were to get on his trail they would find more than a few surprises waiting for them.

He did have doubts, however. On his last kill he had deviated from his usual routine and paid the price by leaving far too many clues behind. In fact, he felt certain that the arm at Coogee belonged to his most recent victim, which would be typical of such a botched job. The night of his last kill was also the night he had lost his talisman and he felt uneasy without it, as though he had lost his air of invulnerability. For years it had been a treasured reminder of his early shark-fishing days, before he fully understood that wolves of the sea were to be his salvation.

Tonight, he was determined to prove to himself that he could prosper without his talisman, to prove that it was no more than a sentimental trinket. He needed to show that he had not lost the ability to kill quickly and quietly, leaving behind no trace.

He swung the steering wheel and drove slowly towards the woman, who stepped forward to the kerb, her hip cocked in the time-honoured fashion. She was blonde and pretty and she looked young, no more than 19 or 20, unlike many of the ageing Outback scarecrows who usually haunted this strip. Her chin was tilted in defiance, but Sharko could sense the fear in her body language. He brought the car to a halt once more, a few yards short of where she was waiting.

There was a shout from up ahead as a group of men emerged from one of the tumbledown terraced houses, passing around a bottle as they crossed the road and disappeared down an alley. The young woman watched them go and then turned back to the waiting man in the expensive car.

She had heard the stories, they all had, but she didn't really believe them. Girls disappeared all the time; they went home, moved in with a bloke or just drifted up the coast, looking for something better. She sighed and walked towards the car, hoping that he would be one of the rich, clean and married ones. Above all, one of the kind ones.

The blonde climbed into the passenger seat and after a terse discussion about prices, Sharko put his foot down and the car accelerated away, the tyres leaving scorched rubber tracks on the asphalt. They left the slums of Kings Cross behind and drove into the well-heeled eastern suburbs, all the while following the salt tang of the Pacific.

He stopped the car again on the hill above Bondi, watching as the waves crashed onto the beach in the dim moonlight. Sharko knew that Sydney's life was inextricably linked to the sea and that Bondi was the city's pounding heart, absorbing the energy of the breakers and pumping it onwards, through the streets and tramlines.

But these were difficult times, and with the Depression refusing to slacken its iron grip on Australia, hundreds of country people were arriving at the in the city every week. The refugees came seeking the good life at Bondi they had read so much about in the magazines and newspapers of the previous decade, but found only hungry and homeless folk like themselves, living in makeshift camps on the plaza and hunting for scrawny rabbits in the parks.

The grand old resort had become little more than a seaside refugee camp, notorious even in Sydney for poverty and crime, a desolate place where the human flotsam and jetsam of the economic disaster gathered around fires on the beach.

"We'll go to the dunes," muttered Sharko, and drove on past the silent tent city with barely a second glance. He was heading for Ben Buckler, the hill at the northern end of the bay, and the barren stretch of grassy dunes that lay beyond. The car skidded to a halt on the sandy ground, before Sharko grabbed the young woman by the chin and slipped a knife from inside his jacket against her throat.

"Don't say a word," he whispered.

She screamed, so to show that he was serious Sharko stuck the blade into her nostril and slit it out, as he used to do with the wet-eyed cattle in the fields by his childhood home. Blood dripped down his arm – the cow's hides had been much tougher - and her scream turned to an agonised wail.

He pressed the knife back in against her jugular. "Now you know it's sharp," he said. "Turn it off, or the next one goes in your neck."

"You bastard," she sobbed, a hint of a country accent in her voice. Sharko grunted with amusement, genuinely aroused now, and hauled her out of the car and into the darkness of the dunes. He forced her onto her back among the saw grass and gagged her mouth with a knotted length of cotton sheet, barely conscious of the ceaseless crashing of the ocean or the crickets chirping in the humid night air.

The young woman, tense and shivering with fear and rage, stayed quiet throughout her ordeal but her eyes burned like embers. Towards the end, Sharko slashed her face with the knife, which had remained at her throat the whole time. Blood began to pour over her blonde hair and soak the ground.

She struggled ferociously and they wrestled for a few seconds until finally, panting and exhausted, Sharko sat back on his haunches. He had a strangely goofy grin on his face, as though expecting a compliment, and for a second the young woman thought she might live to see another dawn after all.

But then his smile faded and was replaced with a look of utter blankness. His eyes became as empty as the vast Pacific night against which his figure was framed, and he leapt forward to complete his terrible work.

##### Chapter Two – The Second Day

I

Gunn stormed out of police headquarters on MacQuarie Street, his mood as thunderous as the rainstorm breaking over the city. He ran down the steps and dived into Spiroza's waiting roadster, his suit jacket and trousers soaked even after just that short dash.

The car rocked on its suspension as he slammed the door, causing Alf to snap out his doze with a start. Gunn fumbled for his cigarettes and both men lit up, filling the Austin with a satisfying blue fug.

On a clear day, they would have had a fine view of the harbour and the new bridge, but today it was hard to see beyond the curtain of water hosing down the car windscreen.

The results of the post mortem on the arm had galvanised the New South Wales Constabulary, much as a cattle prod up the hindquarters might galvanise a particularly stubborn Friesian.

Gunn and Spiroza had been up before 5am, despite working until late on a fruitless trawl through missing persons' files for the owner of the arm. Gunn had ordered the tiger shark be killed and hauled out of its tank at first light, ready to be sliced open on the sands at Coogee.

Sam Gordon had been strangely reluctant, insisting that the shark was in such bad shape that it was likely to die within days anyway. It had already expelled most of its stomach contents, he said, and it was unlikely that the rest of the woman's body would still be in there.

Gunn had persisted, pointing out that a wedding ring would be enough to justify putting the damn fish out of its misery, and the arrangements had been made.

But when the two bleary-eyed detectives had arrived at the Coogee Bay Palace at first light, they found the tiger shark still lurking in its tank. An official from the mayor's office was there with orders from on high that the unusual autopsy be delayed, and the rest of the morning had been spent in a frustrating pursuit of somebody who knew what the hell was going on.

Gunn had eventually gained permission to speak to the city's police commissioner, Archibald Barclay, who promised to explain everything in his office at headquarters.

"It's only the bloody tree huggers," Gunn said now, expelling cigarette smoke from his nostrils. "That's who stopped it."

"Eh?"

"Tree huggers. Environmentalists. Some bleeding heart millionaire called the mayor and stopped the whole thing. We've to wait until the shark dies from natural causes." Gunn coughed as he spat out the last two words. "The bloody thing might live longer than us!""

"Environmentalists," Spiroza said, testing the word as cautiously as he might taste some unusual flavour. "That bunch who got their knickers in a twist over the Tasmanian tiger dying out?"

"The very same. Bloody nutters."

The ecology movement in Australia, as in the rest of the world, was a relatively new phenomenon, but it was picking up pace and enjoyed the support of some notably wealthy backers.

"So what does Barclay think?"

"He reckons it's a great idea to wait, but that's not even the end of it. He's not going to release the fact that it's a murder because he doesn't want to start a panic. 'Let's just wrap this up nice and neatly,' he said, those were his exact words."

"Hah, fat chance," grumbled Spiroza.

Gunn and Spiroza were 'B' district cops, covering the south and east of the city, and as such they always played second fiddle to the 'A' district boys who covered the city centre and generally handled any cases of state wide or national importance. The brass in MacQuarie Street regarded them as big frogs in a small puddle and Gunn knew they needed to make progress swiftly if they were to hang on to this murder.

"Ah, but all is not lost, Alfredo," exclaimed Gunn, clapping his hands together with a burst of enthusiasm.

"Why's that then?"

"Because thanks to a pal of ours, who shall remain nameless but might happen to be old Bert Cross, I know where these tree huggers live," Gunn replied with a wicked smile. "One's a Yank businessman and the other's a marine biologist from the marine institute at Taronga Zoo."

They were soon back in Coogee, not five minutes walk from the aquarium, parking outside a yellow-painted wooden house that overlooked the sodden cricket oval on Dolphin Street. The sky was already starting to clear as they walked up the path to the front door, ducking to avoid a dripping jacaranda bush.

An attractive brunette, wearing a black cocktail dress that seemed somewhat racy for lunchtime, answered Gunn's insistent knock. She was in her early 30s, with green eyes and a hint of sunburn on her bare shoulders.

"Sorry to trouble you," said Gunn, raising his hat. "I'm Detective Inspector William Gunn of New South Wales Constabulary, this is Detective Sergeant Alf Spiroza. We're here to speak to Dr Strathmore."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "May I ask what for?"

"Police business, I'm afraid," replied Gunn with his most winning smile. "It's really rather urgent."

"This actually isn't a very good time."

"I don't...I'm sorry miss, but is he in or not?"

"No he isn't, I'm afraid"

Gunn gaped, lost for words, as the woman's face creased into a sarcastic grin. "I'm Dr Evie Strathmore," she said. "Did your informant not mention that I was a woman? I take it you're here about the tiger shark."

"That's right."

"Well, I'm afraid you're wasting your time..."

"Our pathologist George Bayliss said we needed to talk to an expert, somebody who might be able to tell us how long the arm had been in its stomach. Why else would we be here?"

Dr Strathmore studied Gunn's face for a long moment, but his innocent expression and level gaze never wavered.

"You'd better come in," she said.

The walked through to the living room, where a jazz record was playing softly on a battered old gramophone and a set of French windows opened onto a lush, overgrown garden. A bedraggled group of lunch guests were emerging from the shelter of the trees, testing for rain, while a chef in a white apron was tending meat and fish on a smoking charcoal grill under a gazebo.

"I'm afraid I wasn't joking when I said this isn't a good time," said Dr Strathmore. "I'm hosting some rather important guests of my Institute for a barbecue."

One of the men crossed the lawn and stepped inside. "Everything okay, Evie?" he asked in an American drawl.

"We're here to speak to Dr Strathmore about the shark at the Coogee Bay Aquarium, sir," said Gunn, butting in quickly. "I'm afraid some well-meaning idiots have caused an unfortunate delay in my investigation, and I hoped she might be able to help us out."

The American regarded him coolly for a moment. "I don't believe we've met," he said, sticking out a manicured paw. "I'm Culver Gale."

"I thought you might be," replied Gunn, keeping his hand firmly by his side. "The shark fancier, right?"

"I beg your pardon, Mr...?"

"Detective Inspector William Gunn."

"The detective assured me he's not here to pursue a personal grievance, Culver," said Dr Strathmore.

"Just doing my job, that's all," said Gunn, glaring at the American.

"Mr Gale feels very strongly about animal welfare, as do I," Dr Strathmore went on. "We've been campaigning for the release of that tiger shark ever since Gordon launched his rotten freak show."

"Very laudable, I'm sure," said Gunn. "Is there somewhere we could talk in private, Dr Strathmore? I don't want to take up any more of your time."

"I hope not," she said. "I'll be back with you shortly, Culver."

Dr Strathmore led the detectives into her study. Nautical charts and photographs of sharks lined the walls, while bleached shark jawbones sat in a row by the skirting board, each displaying a wicked set of teeth. A bulging bookcase filled one end of the room, while papers and notebooks spilled from every flat surface and two goldfish swam in a bowl on the window ledge.

"Mr Gale is a philanthropist, and he's interested in funding some of the conservation work we're doing at Taronga," she explained. "Or at least, he was until about thirty seconds ago. Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?"

"As a Scot, the only shark I ever saw before yesterday was on a tray of ice at Glasgow fish market..."

Evie interrupted. "Actually, the Firth of Clyde has basking sharks, twenty feet long, which follow the Gulf Stream north every summer. British waters are also home to whale sharks, hammerheads, even white pointers."

"White pointers?" asked Gunn.

"The great white shark, Detective Inspector Gunn. Down Under we are blessed with 166 species of shark but contrary to popular opinion only four species are dangerous to man."

"The one here at Coogee was a tiger shark," Gunn said. "That's the only one I'm interested in. Now, as I said, we don't yet know how long the arm had been in its stomach and I was hoping that you might be able to help."

"It might not be that easy, I'm afraid. We think that sharks can slow down the production of their digestive fluids. We once had a captured tiger shark at the Institute for at least a month, and when it died we found two dolphins in its stomach, perfectly preserved."

Spiroza cleared his throat. "Excuse me, doctor, but do you mind if I smoke?"

"I do, actually," replied Dr Strathmore.

"No worries," mumbled the detective. Gunn grinned as Spiroza put away his cigarettes.

"So the arm could have been in there for a month without being digested?" he asked, picking up the thread.

"Yes, possibly even longer."

"Okay, second question. This shark was caught about a mile off Coogee Heads," said Gunn. "Does it follow that it got hold of the arm somewhere near Sydney?"

The biologist walked to one of the nautical charts, a map of the Tasman Sea dotted with red and gold drawing pins.

"Sharks travel to Sydney Harbour every summer to breed, and also to feed on other breeding fish," she said. "They come from all over the Tasman Sea and even further afield. Two years ago, we put a tag on a mako shark off Sydney Heads. It was recaptured last winter near New Zealand."

She returned to her desk. "I'm sorry, perhaps we got off on the wrong foot earlier but I really can't help without more details. What else can you tell me about the arm?"

"It belonged to a woman," said Gunn.

"A woman, really? How remarkable!"

Gunn and Spiroza exchanged a curious glance.

"But of course, that's why you are taking this so seriously," Dr Strathmore went on. "The arm had already been removed from the body when the tiger swallowed it, hadn't it?"

"How the hell...?" spluttered Gunn.

"Sharks kill 14 or 15 times more men than women. And almost all of those female victims live in Africa or Asia, where women wash clothes or clean bloody fish in the surf every day. There hasn't been a woman killed by a shark in Australia this century. And what's more, tiger sharks are natural scavengers. Oh, they can be deadly if provoked, but they are far happier eating any scraps that find their way into the ocean. Like this poor woman's arm."

"Incredible," said Gunn. "It's taken us 24 hours to get that far. You're obviously a top drawer scientist, Dr Strathmore."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector," she said, flushing slightly. "And please, call me Evie."

Gunn smiled, knowing that his next comment was going be as destructive as any of the brutal tackles that had once made him a force to be reckoned with on the rugby pitch.

"So Evie," he said, "now that we're friends again, perhaps you and that Yankee prick out there might like to get out of the way of my murder investigation!"

II

"Quickly, he's coming!"

Sybil Holmes was naked on the pool house window ledge, her bottom squashed against the smudged glass and her long, honey-coloured legs wrapped around the pool cleaner's back. She had just spotted her husband's car through the gum trees at the far end of the garden and knew they had a couple of minutes at most.

"So am I," grunted the pool cleaner, an athletic 22-year-old named Robert who also worked part-time as a lifesaver on Manly Beach. He winked at Sybil and increased the already energetic pace.

Sybil, her head bumping against the window, decided to offer a little extra encouragement so she grabbed Robert's hair and pulled his face down into her heaving breasts, causing him to let out a muffled yelp. Sybil gasped and throbbed but, much to her dismay, she did not have an orgasm herself. Robert gave one final shudder and lifted his head, grinning like a schoolboy.

"Crikey, love," he said breathlessly.

Sybil pushed him away and hopped off the ledge, landing amongst the tangles of rubber hose and bags of chlorine salt.

"Hurry up, you big galah," she hissed. "Get your beefbags on and look busy. He'll be out here in a tick."

Running her fingers through her dishevelled blonde hair, Sybil grabbed a cloth from the worktable.

"Any dangerous chemicals on this?" she asked.

Robert, tucking himself into his khaki shorts, shook his head.

"Good," said Sybil, dabbing the rag between her legs. She retrieved her black and white swimsuit from the floor and stepped into it quickly, grabbed her sun hat and dark glasses, then sprinted bare-foot across the lawn to her lounger.

Pulling his navy blue Rolls Royce into the driveway of his home in Neutral Bay, one of the North Shore's most affluent suburbs, Reg Holmes noticed a bicycle leaning against the paperbark tree, an empty bucket hanging from the panniers.

It belonged to the young fellow who cleaned the pool, he knew. He had been around a lot lately because their cocker spaniel, Rufus, kept jumping in the water and clogging the filters with dog hair.

Reg opened the car door and realised he had pulled up too close to the garage wall again, so he had to drag himself out sideways, scraping his jacket on the dusty bricks. As he emerged from the garage, blinking in the sunlight, he decided to go straight around to the back garden. Sybil would probably be out there anyway. She had a lithe and sleepy way of lounging around with a paperback novel and a packet of fags, as though it was the most delicious pastime in the world.

It used to drive Reg crazy with desire, but not these days. Today he just wanted to see her, say hello, and remind himself that not everything in his life had gone completely to shit.

He was trudging down the side path, twirling the car keys, when Rufus bounded around the corner to greet his master. Oh well, at least somebody was pleased to see him.

"Who's a good boy then, ay?" said Reg, bending down to rub the dog's floppy ears. "If only you knew, Roofy. If only you knew."

He straightened up, rubbed his back and strode around the corner into the garden. His wife was in her usual spot on the patio, although Reg experienced a brief and rather odd sensation, as if his wife had just appeared out of thin air. But then she smiled and waved and he felt his fatigue and depression lifting a little.

"G'day jelly bean," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "Are you alright? You look out of puff."

"G'day darl," said Sybil. "It's just a little hot today. I'll fix us both a cold drink, how about that?"

Reg shrugged. He looked around, seeing two more empty buckets and a net on the grass but no sign of the pool cleaner.

"Filter clogged again?" he asked.

"Yeah, darl," Sybil replied. "Luckily I was able to get hold of Robert at short notice. Come on inside."

She stood up and led her husband into the kitchen. Reg, still uneasy about something, glanced backwards to see the big dope emerge sheepishly from the pool house and head for his precious buckets.

Reg stepped back outside. "G'day Rob," he yelled, nodding at the pool. "How's the old sheep dip?"

"Reckon she'll be apples now, Mr Holmes," Robert said.

"You want a drink or somethin'?"

"No ta, Mr Holmes. I'd best be off."

"Good on yer, mate. Tell Col I said g'day when you see him."

Reg – who was on friendly terms with Col Creasey, the secretary of Manly Surf and Lifesaving Club – waved and went inside, as Robert's cheery smile disintegrated into a miserable look of guilt.

Sybil filled a glass jug with lemon barley water and crushed ice, and then poured her husband a drink.

"Nice lad, that Rob," he said. "Bit of a drongo, though, don't ya think?" Drongo was a new Australian slang term for an idiot, in honour of the racehorse that was currently in the middle of a record-breaking losing streak.

Sybil coughed, hoping she wasn't blushing at the thought her husband had inspired. But then Sybil had never been a girl to blush easily.

"Did you hear on the news?" she asked, attempting a diversionary tactic. "They're going to cut that shark open tonight, to look for more body parts?"

The previous evening Reg had appeared animated for the first time in weeks as they discussed the amazing events at the Coogee Bay Palace, chatting over dinner like any other couple. But today he just grunted.

"Phew, I'm all sweaty from the sun," Sybil said, watching as Robert shuffled out of the garden and remembering that she still hadn't come, despite the lad's best efforts. "Why don't I go and have a shower, then maybe we could have a little lie down?"

Reg gave a half-hearted nod, gazing at his wife. He had heard the phrase 'come to bed eyes', but Sybil's lazy green peepers seemed to carry the extra promise, 'and screw me silly'.

"Maybe later, jelly bean," he said. "I've got some work to do first. "

Upstairs, Reg shut his study door, sighed deeply and then reached for his bottle of Scotch. In bed the other night, Sybil, horny and naked, had played with him for twenty minutes but he just couldn't get a hard-on. Difficult to believe that he was the same stud who had once rooted her on the Manly Ferry, or that they used to do it three or four times a night after he had won a big race. It had been like this for more than a year, ever since Eddie Gattuso had arrived on the scene.

Reg owned a boat yard in Lavender Bay on the north side of the harbour, where he built graceful, gleaming speedboats, each one housing enough horsepower to outrun almost anything else on the sea.

He had grown up on the water, and as a young man he'd been something of a star on the national speedboat racing circuit. He and Sybil had met at a regatta up at Port Stephens; Reg, then a veteran racer just a few days short of his 33rd birthday, swooped past Soldier's Point on the final lap, sending waves cascading all the way to the shore as the crowd hollered and threw their hats in the air.

Looking back, it was difficult to remember the exact moment the pretty blonde who presented his winner's garland had appeared on his arm that evening in the sponsor's beer tent, although he could clearly recall the smell of freshly trampled grass and the way Sybil's silver gown clung to her curves like smoke

They were married six months later in Polkalbin, Sybil's hometown in the Hunter Valley, where she had worked in the scorching vineyards since her early teens. To this day, her husband did not know that she had been planning to sleep with the champion no matter who it was, as long as he could take her away from her hot, dusty life among the grapes.

III

Gunn was back on the beach wall at Coogee, watching with a growing sense of déjà vu as another crowd gathered outside the aquarium in the sticky heat of a Sydney summer night.

A hastily assembled crew of workmen were rigging up a tent on the promenade, in order to screen the rather unusual autopsy that was about to take place from prying eyes – with the entirely predictable consequence of advertising the fact that something interesting was happening.

The objections from the mayor's office to killing and slicing open the shark had mysteriously evaporated that afternoon, and Commissioner Barclay had decided he would personally oversee the operation. The tent had been his idea and, with two powerful electric floodlights illuminating the grisly scene, Gunn cringed as he imagined the silhouette that would be visible to those outside.

He looked up just in time to see Dr Evie Strathmore heading in his direction at speed. She was dressed in Wellington boots, blue slacks and a white blouse, and was carrying a large leather doctor's bag. The new female fashion of wearing trousers was still frowned upon in Australia, but Gunn decided that they could look rather fetching – on the right pair of legs, of course.

"What are you looking so happy about?" Evie asked, placing her hands on her hips. "Finally got your way, is that it?"

Gunn slid off the wall. "Sorry about losing my rag at lunchtime..." he began.

"I don't want to hear it, Detective Inspector," Evie snapped, cutting him off. Her chestnut hair was tied back in a bun, but her cheeks glowed with rage. "You insulted a guest in my home. It's lucky for you that Mr Gale saw fit to drop his objection with the mayor, and not have you prosecuted for slander."

Some people were starting to look in their direction now, and Evie, with one last glare, turned on her heels and marched towards the tent. Gunn was left with his mouth hanging open like one of Sam Gordon's underwater exhibits. He'd expected a telling off, but that had been a bit much.

Gunn counted to ten a couple of times, telling himself not to cause a scene, and then followed her inside.

The tiger shark was hanging by its tail from an iron hook attached to a large rope and pulley, with four police constables taking the strain and several more hollering instructions.

As blood poured from its mouth onto the concrete, the police photographer manoeuvred Barclay into position alongside the shark.

"Get on with it man. I've got tickets for the opera," he snapped, although Gunn thought that he seemed happy enough to pose for the picture.

The long-suffering George Bayliss, hauled away from his dinner once again, was engaged in a whispered conversation with Evie Strathmore. Finally, Bayliss made an 'over to you' gesture and came to join Gunn at the back of the tent.

"You been put in your place as well, George?" asked Gunn.

"Fine by me," muttered Bayliss. "I never did like fish anyway."

Evie produced a large cleaver from her medical bag and asked everybody to stand back, before deftly slicing open the shark's stomach, releasing a torrent of blood and yellowish bile.

"My God, that's disgusting'," said a man with an English accent. Gunn turned towards a familiar dark-haired character, noticing him for the first time among the usual police faces.

"Who the hell are you?" demanded Barclay.

"Erm, Arthur Phillips, Sydney Morning Tribune," the man replied, swallowing hard.

"What?" Barclay exploded. "I should have you thrown in jail! Get him out of my sight."

The reporter was led away and Gunn, acting on a sudden instinct, decided to quietly follow him outside. Phillips was already making his way into Dunningham Reserve, the park above the beach, when Gunn caught up with him.

"You all right Arthur?" he asked. "Want a fag? Might help you keep your dinner down."

"Why not?" the reporter replied shakily. "Thanks."

"Serves you right for trespassing on a crime scene," Gunn said, striving to sound jovial. He did not particularly like the reporter, but knew him well enough from several years on the Tribune's crime beat to know that he could be trusted, more or less. "Come on, let's take a walk."

They strolled up the cliff top path away from the beach, with Phillips gulping down the warm Pacific air.

"So, I take it you've been covering the story?" asked Gunn.

"The shark arm case? Yeah, I'd say I'm pretty clued up," said Phillips, some of his confidence returning. "Why did you call it a crime scene just there?"

Gunn cursed under his breath. There was no going back now, and he decided to follow his gut and take a gamble that might give him a few more days on the case. "What if I told you that this was a murder investigation," he said.

"A murder...you must be kidding, right?"

"I don't kid, son," said Gunn. "It's been a piss poor one so far, but it's a murder case alright. Take it from me, that woman's arm was chopped off long before the shark got hold of it."

"But why keep it quiet?"

"So as not to start a panic, apparently. But it also means that we have no idea who she was, and nor are we ever likely to. Unless, of course, your rag was to get hold of the information. Then Barclay would have no choice but to go public and somebody might just ring in about their missing wife or daughter."

"Incredible," said Phillips, giving a low whistle. "I'll need a proper description of the arm."

"Right you are. White female, 20s or 30s, a natural blonde, no wedding ring but it could have been lost or stolen. There's also a mole, a big one, on the back of her hand."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Not a lot to go on, but what a story. Who should I say I got it from?"

Gunn flicked his cigarette over the cliff edge, and it danced for a second in the wind before spiralling towards the churning sea.

"Well, not me for Christ's sake," he replied. "It would mean my badge. Tell you what though, why don't you ask the lovely Dr Strathmore for a comment when she's finished butchering that bloody fish in there?"

"Right you are, Bill."

"Aye, well, let's just say you owe me one, shall we? A large one."

He heard a noise and glanced around to see a figure approaching through the gloom.

"Sorry about this," he whispered, somewhat unconvincingly, before grabbing the reporter by the scruff of his tweed jacket and yelling: "Now I don't like trespassers, especially not ones who work for the papers, so next time you're tempted to duck under a police cordon think of those rocks down there and stay the hell out!"

He finished by yanking on Phillips' arm so he stumbled backwards and fell onto the grass. "Consider yourself warned," said Gunn, stalking away down the hill, his jacket and tie flapping in the wind, past the startled police photographer who had stepped into the park for a smoke.

By the time Gunn returned to the tent outside the aquarium the autopsy was over and the gore-smeared carcass of the tiger shark was being hauled onto a cart by a gang of perspiring, swearing constables, while two more officers shovelled guts into a large barrel.

"Well, did we find the other arm?" asked Gunn.

The sergeant who was overseeing the operation, a handkerchief clasped over his nose, shook his head and pointed to a small pile of junk lying on a rubber sheet. Gunn wandered over for a closer look, and found two large and badly rotted fish, a rancid length of rope and a dented Victoria state licence plate.

"Barclay still here?" asked Gunn, turning back to the gut-shoveller.

The sergeant removed his handkerchief. "Went home in a huff after he got blood on his shoes," he said.

"Best news I've heard all week," said Gunn and he headed inside the aquarium, hoping to persuade Sam Gordon that under such trying circumstances he had a duty to open up his bar for a celebratory drink.

Chapter Three – The Third Day

I

The distillery loomed over the city like a castle on some Transylvanian mountaintop, its chimneys belching towers of white smoke that stood out against the night sky.

Gunn craned his neck as he stared up at the vast brick ramparts, for the most part dark and seemingly deserted but here and there showing a light from a window. This close, the acrid smell of roasting barley stung the back of the throat and from behind the distillery wall he could hear the metallic clang and bustle of the loading yard, and men shouting as they worked through the night. He wondered if his father was on shift.

The Port Dundas distillery was located on a branch of the Forth and Clyde canal, which made a wide loop around an island of goods yards and loading sheds. Beyond the cranes and the reeking lums he could see row after row of the tenements that crowded around Sighthill cemetery, haunt of a notorious razor gang.

This grim corner of Glasgow had functioned as a working port for centuries, even though it was located on a hill more than a mile north of the river. The canal came down through here from the countryside, providing a link to the wider world for Scotland's industrial heartland.

Years of pollution had left the water filthy, but on a moonlit December night such as this it could have been a Highland loch, gleaming under the stars like black ink. It would be near freezing, cold enough to quickly snuff the life out of anybody who fell into its frigid embrace. The roadside puddles were topped with ice, but the canal was so mired with oil and whisky and other factory spillages that the mercury had to go a good bit lower than this for it to even form a crust.

Constable William Gunn, recently married and just a few years home from his military service, had been called up here to investigate a report of a strange object floating in the water. The area was eerily quiet and apparently devoid of all human life, while every second gas lamp seemed to be snuffed out.

As he crossed over a footbridge onto the island formed by the loop of the canal, Gunn took out a book of matches and lit his own lamp, holding it up so it threw a weak yellow glow into the darkest corners.

He was working overtime tonight, called in for an extra patrol as the Brigton Billy Boys were on the rampage in the east end, looking for Roman Catholics to beat up. Of course, there was an equal if not greater mob of Irishmen and their sons down from the Garngad to meet the challenge.

Who, or what, had started the trouble? Depending who you asked, the answers varied from Michael Collins to William of Orange, or it could simply be put down to the result of the latest Old Firm game. At times Gunn thought of his old man and decided that the wealthy owners of the breweries and distilleries had to shoulder their share of the blame for the violence.

There was a sudden splash away to his left and out of the corner of his eye he saw a patch of brilliant white standing out amid the gloom. Gunn jumped, almost dropping his lamp as he wheeled around towards the canal. It was a swan, floating serenely on the mirror-smooth surface.

"Must be the world's toughest swan," he muttered, glancing up at the hard-edged city landscape all around them.

Then he saw it. It was a man's body, floating face down in the reeds. He carefully checked his surroundings once more, but there was not another soul in sight. Whoever had made the report had obviously not stayed around for the police to arrive, and Gunn couldn't really blame them.

"Just me and you pal," he said to the swan, which was regarding him with mild curiousity. Living around here, Gunn thought, the bird had probably seen more stiffs than the average hospital orderly.

He knelt down carefully on the cold, slippery cobbles at the water's edge and reached out with his truncheon, hoping the catch the back of the dead man's jacket. For a second, he thought he had lost his balance and was about to tumble in... then he hooked the body, felt the waterlogged weight of it, dead weight, and heaved.

As he pulled, another smell replaced the heady aroma from the distillery. It filled his nostrils and clogged his throat. It was fire and smoke, he realised, and then he could hear the blaze crackling and roaring and crashing all around him.

The dead body jerked free of the reeds at last and sailed towards him, flipping over in the water as it did so. Gunn gasped. It wasn't a man's body at all. It was Cathy, her mouth captured in a silent scream and and her eyes fixed on some point a thousand miles beyond the sky....

Gunn sat bolt upright in his bed, his heart pounding and his body drenched with sweat. The dream had not troubled him for months now, maybe more than a year.

He fumbled for his cigarettes on the bedside table and lit up, instantly feeling slightly better. It was such a familiar sensation, waking up from that dream, or several even worse variations of it, and he was almost reassured by the fact it had not gone away forever.

Of course, Cathy had not actually drowned in the canal but he had been up there alone the night she died, fishing a homeless man's body out of the turgid waters of the Port Dundas Basin.

The poor man's skin had been as white and waxy as beef dripping, and Gunn thought back to the arm at Coogee. No wonder his subconscious had dredged up the old nightmare again.

He lit another match and checked his wristwatch. No point trying to get back to sleep now, he knew. He might as well use the early start to his advantage.

A passing tram rumbled slowly by, skyhook sparking against the overhead wires, and Gunn watched it go before running across the road to the Sydney Fish Market at Blackwattle Bay.

It was barely six o'clock but already the market, the second largest in the world after Tokyo, was starting to slow down for the day, the city's restaurants and fishmongers having already taken the pick of the catch.

Across the street, three men were standing outside a warehouse reading a copy of that day's Sydney Morning Tribune. 'Shark Arm Case Was Murder', screamed the front-page, with a second headline beneath it in smaller type: 'MPs accuse city police of 'secrecy and deception' in bid to prevent a panic'.

"Probably time I went back to Scotland anyway," muttered Gunn.

He walked on, looking out at the bay itself, which was flat and depressing and probably the least inspiring part of Sydney Harbour. A labyrinth of wooden jetties and wharves led up to the quayside and the huge cobbled yard where the fish were unloaded. Brick warehouses surrounded the yard, and everywhere he looked people were rushing around, carrying crates of lobsters, bundles of nets or great buckets of waterlogged ice.

One young lad hurried up the centre of the yard holding up a Moray eel, longer than he was tall, his thumbs stuck in it its gills.

"Scuse me," called Gunn. "I'm looking for a bloke named Bert Gordon and his son, Ron."

"You a copper?" asked the youth, allowing the eel to slump to the ground.

"Right first time, young'un."

"Is this about the tiger? They was so full of it when they caught the thing the other week, now it's only gone and spit up an arm."

"How'd you mean, full of it?

"You'd think Ron were the first fishermen to ever land a big grinner, but I've seen plenty bigger and I've only been 'ere a few years."

"He can be a bit of a show off then?"

"They both can, him and his old man. Always playin' tricks on folk, larkin' about on deck, that kind of thing. But they're good as gold, really. Anyway, you could ask them yerself, that's old Bert over there."

I grip the cricket bat tightly and brace myself against the swell as my lad Ron quicksteps across the deck and turns his arm over in the style of a demon fast bowler.

I wasn't expecting a ripper of a delivery, to be honest, given that we're playing cricket two miles out to sea on a cramped fishing boat. And instead of a ball we're using a small, poisonous jellyfish called a stinger.

But Ron has fooled his old man and he stalls at the last second, lofting the slimy, translucent blob from his gloved hands in a gentle arc so that my swing misses it by a mile. I'm wearing a vest and the stinger lands with a splat on my bare shoulder.

"Aaargh," I howl, flinging the bat on the deck and brushing off the jellyfish. Ron hoots with laughter, leaning over and slapping his thighs.

"That's gonna sting like buggery," I growl, but I'm trying not to laugh. There are millions of stingers in Australian waters and they generally give you a tickle no worse than nettle rash.

"You're no Don Bradman, dad," says Ron.

"Yeah," I reply. "And you're worse than the bloody Poms. Talk about bodyline."

"Ah, cobblers. Get your bat and I'll bowl you a proper one."

Ron gestures at the tangled netting at his feet, glistening with dozens of stingers.

Then suddenly the boat pitches violently backwards, throwing us across the deck. Ron stumbles and slips, falling heavily into the gunwales, but after a lifetime at sea I know how to keep my feet. The engine squeals in protest and the stern dips lower into the water, so I rush into the wheelhouse and throw her into neutral.

The grinding stops and the boat sets herself right again with an unsettling lurch.

"What the hell was that?" asks Ron, picking himself up. He's soaking wet and a trickle of blood runs from a cut on his forehead.

"Reckon we must have got snagged on a reef," I say, a mite uncertainly. I know we're too far out for the net to have caught but I don't want to worry the boy. "Let's wind her in and see."

Our trawl net was out 100 yards and it had definitely caught on something. Or something had caught in it. The ropes lash like bullwhips, flicking spray high into the air, and the winding gear shudders under the strain.

When we were line fishing and caught a tuna or a marlin, the boat would give a slight shiver. That was the cue for me to grab the cricket bat – there's nothing better for quieting down a bloody big marlin before you haul it aboard.

But this was no marlin. It was big, so big that it had almost stopped a 1500 horsepower engine in its tracks.

"Should we cut the net?" asks Ron, his schoolboy bravado absent for once. "What if it's a whale?" he adds.

"Don't be a rube," I snap. "It's too early for spouters." Thousands of humpback whales migrate up the New South Wales coast every winter, but the earliest I've ever seen one was May

The winding gear gives another almighty groan as I stare at the ocean, weighing up our options. If we'd snagged something truly huge – an orca, or a sick and injured humpback – we could be pulled under. But the creature, whatever it was, hadn't tried to dive yet.

"Push us forward a bit, Ron," I say, "Let's see if we can't land this bugger."

Ron grins uncertainly and goes back around to the wheelhouse. The engine grumbles into oily life and the boat begins to joust forward into the waves. My fisherman's instincts are telling me it was a shark, and almost immediately I spot a slate-grey dorsal fin in our wake.

It was a shark, and a big one too.

"Ron, come and have gander at this," I yell, turning to find Ron already back at my side. "Look at that," I say more quietly, grabbing his shoulder and pointing out towards the thrashing grinner.

"Christ," says Ron. "It's the biggest shark I've ever seen."

"Reckon it must be 20 feet long."

Ron whoops, suddenly confident again now he can see our adversary, tangled and tiring in the stout net. "Will we bring him aboard, dad?" he asks.

"Not likely," I reply. "Unless you fancy hitting him with the bat. Nah, we'll head for shore. We tow 'im backwards so he drowns on the way in and we can land him at Blackwattle. It'll be free grog all round tonight."

"Or maybe we could bring him alongside?" Ron says. "Lash him to the boat frontways and stop him drowning?"

"Why, for Pete's sake?"

"We could take him to the aquarium," he says. "Uncle Sam said he wanted a shark, didn't he? Said he'd pay big money, too, what with all those fellows killed..."

"...and that's how it happened," said Bert Gordon, shaking his head. "Wish I'd never bothered now. My brother thinks he's going to be ruined."

"Maybe," replied Gunn, closing his notebook, although he privately thought that Sam Gordon and the Coogee Bay Palace would do rather well out of the notoriety.

"So I saw today that this poor girl was murdered. Are you going to catch the bludger that did it?" asked Gordon.

"Sure we'll catch him."

Gunn felt the day's first trickle of sweat at the nape of his neck. The heat was already beginning to build and he could easily imagine the pungent reek of the fish market come two o'clock this afternoon.

"You must see a lot of sharks down here?" he asked.

"Plenty, mate."

"Do you think they're becoming man-eaters?" asked Gunn. "That's what I keep hearing, anyway."

Gordon shrugged, his jumper sparkling with fish scales. In his right hand he was carrying a heavy iron hook on a rope, of the kind that all the wharfies used for hooking cargo off the boats.

"They always was man-eaters," he replied. "I was a whaler for a few years before I saved up enough money for me own boat. If you want to hear about sharks, you should go down to the Whalers' Mission on Spring Street. Those fellers have stories that will make your hair stand on end."

During the early 1800s Sydney harbour had sheltered one of the world's largest whaling fleets. Thousands of men fed their families by taking to the Southern Ocean in light wooden clippers, hurling harpoons by hand and climbing into rowing boats in order to tether their giant prey.

Today the whalers used dynamite, rocket harpoons and steel-hulled steamers, and hunted the faster, deep-diving sperm whales, whose heads were filled with valuable oil and whose bellies were pearled with ambergris.

The trade had also migrated a hundred or so miles down the coast, to Twofold Bay on the Victorian border, although Sydney retained a small whaling station on the northern beaches.

In general, however, the whole gruesome business was kept well away from the tourists, who did not want to see a 60 tonne whale, bleeding and bloated with compressed air to keep it afloat, ruining their view of the bridge.

The Mission was still here in the city though, a crumbling building that housed and watered whalefishers who could no longer work and were down on their luck, paid for by a pittance from the whaling companies and the profits from a busy member's bar.

Catching whales was thirsty work, day or night, but when Gunn arrived there was only one old boy in there, staring deep into his glass of bitter. The detective settled down on a bar stool and ordered a whisky. It was not long after breakfast time but he remembered the days when he turned to the hard stuff within minutes of waking up from his recurring nightmare, and he felt as though he had earned it.

His neighbour soon struck up a conversation, and after a few minutes of chat Gunn offered to stand him another drink in exchange for some good tales about sharks. The grizzled whaler glared at Gunn as he ordered two fresh schooners, but after a few sips he began to speak.

He said the whalers on Twofold Bay hated only two things - the whalers at Boydtown, their competition across the state line in Victoria, and sharks.

"When the fleet has had a good hunt there are more whales than the flensers, that's the boys who cut up the carcasses, can cope with. So the others are left floating out in the bay, hundreds of 'em, the sea as red as Campbell's tomato soup. That's when the grinners come. In the winter, when the whites swim up from the Southern Ocean, we have to put out a second fleet of boats to patrol the bay. They cast out donkey meat on great big hooks, pull the sharks out of the water, cut 'em open and then chuck 'em back in for the others to eat."

"Would a great white attack a live whale?" Gunn asked. The whaler spoke as though he had just stepped ashore yesterday, although Gunn guessed that he had been a resident of the mission for some time.

"Probably not on its own, but I've seen grinners get together and go into a feedin' frenzy. They'll eat anythin' then. A bull sperm whale, a fully-grown blue whale almost as long as a footy pitch, even each other fer crisakes. And you want to know about man-eaters, they'll eat a hundred men overboard in minutes, mate. That's nothing new you're talkin' about.

"I remember one year, just after the war, '21 or '22 it would have been, we was haulin' this big bull spermie back up from the Bass Strait. He was huge, would'a been 90 tonnes if he was an ounce. Then we starts to see a few fins around 'im, taking a chunk out here and there. We made full-steam ahead, nigh on fifteen knots even with all that weight behind us, but it made no difference. More and more of the bastards kept comin'. Whites, hundreds and hundreds of them, churnin' the water until we couldn't see where they stopped and the whale started. They stripped him to a skeleton in minutes, mate, some even tried to get onto the boat and come fer us.

"They're driven mad by the blood, you see. Sometimes, after you've hauled a spouter up onto the flensin' deck, those grinners will swim right up in a wave and ground themselves on the ramp, thrashin' and chewin' on its hide. The flensers swipe at 'em with their knives, cut 'em to shreds, but the grinners keep right on like its nothin'. They're bloody berserk, mate, the devils of the deep blue sea."

Gunn whistled softly, suddenly better able to understand why the old buzzard spent so long staring into the depths of his beer. He also vowed that if he ever had a son, he was not going to become a whaler and definitely not a flenser.

The whaler turned to face him with his rheumy, bloodshot eyes. "You a copper, Jock?" he asked.

"Aye," said Gunn, producing his warrant card. "You've tumbled me."

"You want to hear a real horror story then?"

"Of course."

"What's it worth?"

"Two drinks so far," grumbled Gunn, but he took out a one shilling note and folded it on the bar.

The whaler snatched it up with tobacco-stained fingers, glanced around the otherwise deserted bar and leaned in closer.

"You ask about grinners, but there's a bloke right here in Sydney more dangerous than all of 'em put together. They call 'im Sharko 'cos he chucks his victims to the sharks, see? Mostly its the prozzies up in Kings Cross he goes after, so the coppers won't lift a finger against 'im."

"How do you know then?" asked Gunn.

"You hear stories in 'ere," he replied. "But there's more than that, I've seen 'im with my own eyes. He was in a fancy motor yacht, chucking big bits of meat to the grinners, and it weren't no normal meat either. I nearly tipped me boat over when I saw them sharks thrashin' about."

"Where?"

"Right 'ere in the bloody harbour, over by Bradley Head. It was early one morning last winter, still dark nearly, and I was fishing by the shore in a rowboat I'd borrowed from a mate. I slipped into the shelter of the trees as soon as I saw 'im and so he never seen me, I'm right pleased to say."

II

Sharko was driving north, following the narrow finger of the city that stretched for miles up the coast. At the affluent village of Bayview he turned inland, eventually arriving at the shores of Pittwater, part of the sprawling estuary of the mighty Hawkesbury River.

The Hawkesbury was the northern neighbour of the Parramatta River, the placid waterway that fed Sydney Harbour, and it was certainly the black sheep of the family, twisting and turning through wide channels that were booby-trapped with rip tides that could turn a Mississippi steamer.

Sharko put his foot down on McCarr's Creek Road, Sydney far behind him now, racing along through the tinder dry forest of the Ku-Ring-Gai Chase. The narrow road dipped and twisted, before dropping suddenly out of the hills towards the creek itself.

The car lurched down a dirt road, bouncing over the uneven ground until it screeched to a halt before a stone house in a yard filled with burned-out oil drums, rusting farm machinery and piles of rubble and wood.

Sharko went inside and ten minutes later, a wooden hatch was flung open at ground level, exposing some dank stairs leading down to the basement. He pushed a heavy sack out into the yard, then dragged it to the water's edge and rowed with it to a motor launch floating high on the tide.

Once his burden was safely on board the larger boat he allowed himself a moment's rest, gazing towards Scotland Island through the shimmering heat haze and watching pelicans skimming low over the water.

He had brought the girl up here immediately after the recent murder on the dunes and prepared her body for the feeding, but the tides were against him and besides, even he was not crazy enough to tackle the Hawkesbury in darkness.

Soon Sharko sailed out into Pittwater, far from prying eyes on the yachts over by the eastern shore. He was wearing a dirty green jumper and thick canvas trousers, already slick and wet from the spray, and he pulled the strap of his bush hat tight against the wind.

On summer days, the coastal waters of New South Wales boil with fish, that have come to breed in the millpond calm of the sheltered rivers and bays. Fishermen haul out bream and mackerel by the thousand. All you have to do, they say, is fetch a case of beer, sit under a shady tree and chuck your line in the water.

But half-drunk anglers are the least of the fish's worries. Far deadlier predators have followed them in from the depths. There are sharks here too – tigers, makos, bulls, whites and many more, lying in wait in the rolling Tasman Sea like pirates off the Spanish Main.

Sharko throttled back the engine in a steep-sided cove, set back amongst a maze of lonely channels. There was a frantic splashing from the water ahead and the boat drifted silently towards the noise. Then a sleek missile burst from the water, leaping high into the air. The shark's beady black eyes gleamed with a prehistoric emptiness, and it crashed back into the water with a sharp smack on the surface.

Half a dozen grey nurse sharks were thrashing the water, swallowing great mouthfuls of panicking bream, the foamy surface shot through with crimson bursts of blood. Dorsal fins cut this way and that, tacking crazily like drunken sailors at a yachting regatta.

The boat drifted closer to the feeding frenzy and Sharko's knuckles turned white as he gripped the wheel, a familiar feeling of power and awe sweeping over him. He walked onto the deck and dragged the heavy sack over to the port side, leaving a ruby slick across the wooden boards.

A steady trickle of blood dripped from the sack into the sea and as the sharks churned around the boat, Sharko watched and waited, revelling in the moment. Then he pushed the sack into the water and sharp teeth tore into the thick material, the sharks snapping at each other like hungry dogs and tearing at the strange meat within.

A lower leg span slowly out into the water and two sharks ripped at a section of torso, as the ribs cracked and blood from the internal organs exploded in crimson blooms.

Sharko could see the head, straw-like blonde hair streaming out around it, features caught in an unseeing scream from the chamber of horrors. Then a huge bull shark, 12 feet long and faster than a torpedo, rose quickly from the depths and swallowed it in one easy gulp.

Sharko watched impassively, a clear-headed relief replacing the sexually charged excitement he had felt moments earlier. Then he rinsed the deck with water from the hand pump and returned to the wheelhouse, sailing back towards McCarr's Creek.

III

Gunn drove east from Blackwattle Bay, through Glebe and Ultimo and into the city centre, and then on to the docks at Woolloomoolloo.

He was on his way to see Frank 'Tommo' Thomson, a genial bruiser who had once been All-Australian middleweight champion. He also ran the biggest 'two-up' gambling racket on the east side of town, all from a room above the 'Loo Lads Boxing Club.

Gunn parked outside the redbrick building, walked into the stifling atmosphere of the boxing gym and took a seat on a bench by the door. Tommo, who still coached the local kids, was stripped to his vest, his trousers pulled high around his beer belly, holding the heavy bag for a skinny, scowling teenager. Although well into his sixties, Tommo's grip on the bag was rock solid despite the rapid-fire punches.

The lad gave the heavy bag one final jolt and stopped, exhausted.

"Well done, son," Tommo growled, retrieving a bottle of Toohey's Dark Ale from the floor by his feet and taking a long swig.

He walked over and sat down beside Gunn. "Kid's got plenty of guts but he's all skin and bone. These lads don't get enough to eat, mate. It's a cryin' shame."

Gunn nodded, preparing a comment about Tommo's extra weight.

"Not like you, eh?" Tommo said, stealing Gunn's line before he had the chance to speak. "Not many heavyweights like you these days, Bill. You were all behind like Barney's bull."

"Still am," Gunn replied. "You wouldn't be holding that bag so easily for me."

"Still a touchy bastard too, I see," Tommo said, chortling.

"Listen, it's been great catching up," said Gunn. "But I can't stay to blether. I wanted to ask for a favour."

"What else is new?" grunted Tommo. "Come upstairs into the office, I'll get us a couple of cold ones."

Gunn, who wasn't a great believer in abstinence on duty, even at nine o'clock in the morning, followed Tommo into his office – which turned out to be the bathroom. A small wooden desk and a chair had been dragged in and placed underneath the window, the sink was full of ice and bottles of Toohey's Dark and a green rubber plant had been placed artfully on the toilet lid.

"Nice touch," said Gunn, as Tommo moved the plant to the floor. He knocked the top off two beers and then sank into his leather chair, gesturing grandly for Gunn to take a seat on the lavatory.

"So what can I do for you, Bill?" he asked, leaning back and steepling his fingers together as though about to address the board of the National Bank.

Gunn owed Tommo, owed him from way back to the dark days after he had first staggered off the Pacific line steamer from Long Beach and slipped into a life of cheap drink in the alehouses and alleyways of The Rocks.

Luckily, Gunn had not acquired a police record before the night Tommo saw him trading punches with a Norwegian sailor on Circular Quay and stopped to watch the fight. Gunn eventually put the big Scandinavian on his backside and was about to do the same to the inquisitive Australian when he noticed the dangerous gleam in the man's eyes.

"You should come down to my gym tomorrow," Tommo had said. "I could use an ugly bastard like you."

It was hardly Paul on the road to Damascus, but within six months Gunn had cut down on the booze and was competing with success in amateur bouts up and down the east coast.

It was Tommo too, who told him to stop pissing his life away and apply to join the New South Wales Constabulary.

"You're no builder, Jock," he said one day in the gym, after another dead end job had gone sour. "What's your real trade?"

"Don't call me Jock," said Gunn, grunting as he thumped the heavy bag. "Or I'll arrest ye for inciting violence."

Tommo laughed. "A rozzer! I should have bloody known, ruthless bugger like you."

Now, more than ten years later, Gunn sat in the same gym, listening the thump, thump, thump of the same heavy bag, and turned to his unlikely saviour for help once again.

"It's this shark arm case," said Gunn.

"You landed that one did ya? Bad luck."

"Right enough, but we can't do anything until we know the woman's identity. I thought that maybe you could keep your ear to the ground, call me if you hear a whisper of who she might have been?"

"Will do, mate," said Tommo.

"There's something else. I heard a strange rumour and it sounded a bit, well..."

"Fishy?" suggested Tommo with a wry grin.

"Everyone's a bloody comedian," muttered Gunn. "You're right though, it does sound fishy but I want to check it out anyway. Have you heard of a character named Sharko?"

The old boxer was silent and thoughtful as he drained his beer and examined the suds on the inside of the bottle, tilting the dark brown glass to better catch the light from the window.

"If I were you," he replied carefully, after a little while, "I'd go and see Doreen Quigley. Ask her the same question."

Gunn nodded his thanks, unwilling to push his old friend and occasional informant any further. He finished his own drink, stood up and placed the empty bottle on the desk.

"Hey, how about I send down some of the money left over in the police Christmas fund, enough for a slap up meal for your lads?" he asked. "It won't be missed by those fat buggers at MacQuarie Street."

Tommo shrugged. "Fine by me, mate," he said. "But are you sure you want to feed up these hooligans? You might end up getting more than you bargained for."

Gunn hurried up Bayswater Road in Kings Cross, barrelling along like a Clyde tug going against the tide. He had been out of the office since the previous night and was keen to get back and see if there were any leads from the description of the arm that had been printed in the Tribune.

However, he was reluctant to leave the area before he got to the bottom of the unsettling story he had heard from the old whaler. He stopped at a black door, numberless and seemingly independent of the neighbouring shops, and rapped loudly.

Hearing a sharp whistle, Gunn turned to see a young lad in a flat cap dashing away towards Kings Cross Road. He was a 'cockatoo', an urchin paid to keep watch for the hookers. He scowled after him for a moment, before ducking into the nearest alley and jogging through to the back yard, where he found a man trying to scramble up and over the fence.

Gunn grabbed the overweight, would-be escapee by the shirt collar and heaved him back into the yard, sending a collection of metal dustbins clattering.

"Not so fast, sunshine," he said.

"I must have took a wrong turn, officer. I was looking for the haberdashery next door."

"Save yer breath," said Gunn. "I don't care if you were out shopping for ladies' smalls. I need to see Doreen and I'm in no mood to be pissed about."

The man gulped, saying nothing, but causing his double chin to wobble.

"You've got ten seconds or I'll have the vice boys here so fast you won't even have time to get all the city councilmen out."

"Okay, okay," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "but she's not goin' to be a happy bunny."

He led the way through the back door of the dilapidated building, along a dusty corridor and past a small office, where a wireless was playing Ella Fitzgerald and a cup of tea was going cold, before stopping at a doorway covered by a maroon velvet curtain. Arabic music drifted out from behind it, along with an unpleasant smell of unwashed male bodies and disinfectant.

"What is it today?" whispered Gunn.

"Vera of the Seven Veils," replied the man, pulling aside the curtain wearily. Somewhere inside, a man coughed in the darkness.

The room behind the doorway was laid out like a theatre, with a small stage against the far wall. On it, a woman with long, straight black hair and heavily made-up eyes was belly dancing. She wore a veil over her face but not much anywhere else, apart from bangles on her wrists and a ruby in her navel. Her breasts were pale and heavy, with large, dark nipples, and her pubic hair was shaped in a thick V.

Gunn gawped for a moment, mesmerised by the dancer's gyrating hips, then shook his head and blinked several times. The exotic music lurched to a halt as he marched over to an ancient gramophone and lifted the needle.

"Hey, what's the pitch?" came an affronted yell.

"Let's have the lights on, brother," said Gunn. "Fun's over, gents, this is the police. You'd all better go home to your wives."

As the lamps came on, the dark-haired dancer fled into the wings and several figures scurried for the doorway, shielding their faces as they ran. Gunn was sure he recognised a magistrate from the city assizes, who locked eyes with him for the briefest of seconds.

But one fellow wasn't going to leave so easily. He loomed up from the back row, well over six feet tall and almost half as wide. He was a Maori, his face and neck and arms covered in swirling indigo tattoos.

"You goin' to arrest me, copper?" he asked.

Gunn stared at the man. "If I have to," he said.

"You and whose army?" replied the Maori. He had a chest like the prow of an Antarctic icebreaker.

"I'm Bill Gunn frae Glasgow, pal," he said, in his best Gorbals drawl. "And I don't need an army to deal with the likes of you. I used to eat All Blacks for breakfast."

The Maori kicked two chairs to one side, clearing his path. Then, to Gunn's relief, a door opened at the side of the stage.

"It's alright, Jake. You can leave little Willy alone. You don't know where he's been."

A woman, with the raw, gravelly voice of a truly dedicated smoker, stepped out into the theatre.

"You don't know the half of it, Doreen," said Gunn, breaking into a smile. "Got your guard dog well trained, I see. Could I have a quiet word?"

Doreen Quigley nodded and Gunn walked across the room, pausing only to bark, "Down boy" out of the corner of his mouth. Jake's eyes were popping out of his head in fury.

"You just wait copper," he hissed.

Somewhat to his surprise, Gunn found himself in a cosy back kitchen, with a cast-iron range that positively glowed with warmth and a pot of soup bubbling merrily on the hob. There were comfortable armchairs, a shelf of well-thumbed cookbooks and a thick Persian rug on the floor.

Doreen had evidently been doing her washing and Gunn was distracted again, this time by a clothes horse weighed down with erotic lingerie, the corsets, brassieres and bloomers like so many silky birds on a wire.

Doreen Quigley was Sydney's leading madam, a shrewd businesswoman in her late 40s who had retained something of the looks and glamour of her youth. Gangsters like Eddie Gattuso dominated the city's vice trade, but her rambling bordello and pleasure palace on Bayswater Road was still the preferred choice of the establishment. She had also become the unofficial leader and spokeswoman of the girls who walked the dark and dangerous streets of Kings Cross

"Now, what was it you wanted? I've got work to do," she asked, returning to her ironing board.

"I'll get straight to the point then," said Gunn. "I was told you might be able to tell me more about a character named Sharko."

Doreen froze, her cigarette glowing brightly, and soon her press began to singe the bedsheet beneath it. "Well, it's about bloody time one of you lot took an interest," she said.

"So that's a yes, then?" he asked.

"This is no laughing matter. There's a killer on the loose in Kings Cross," said Doreen. "He's murdered God knows how many girls this past couple of years."

Gunn stared at her for a moment, then put his hat on and turned to go. "If you're going to play silly buggers, Doreen..." he began.

"Wait," she said. "Just wait. It's fair dinkum, Bill. That woman's arm you found will be one of our girls, I guarantee."

Doreen set the iron down on the board with a clatter, stubbed out the cigarette and rubbed the heel of her hand against her eyes, before walking to the sideboard and opening a bottle of Johnny Walker scotch.

"Sit down, please," she said, pouring two healthy measures.

Gunn removed his hat again and sank into one of the armchairs, accepting his drink with a nod.

"Why haven't you reported this before?" he asked, as Doreen sat down opposite him.

"Course we bloody reported him, but the coppers don't listen to a bunch of whores. Especially the ones in the Cross. And he never leaves any bodies, not until now at least. Oh, there's always been rumours about him, but now we know for certain"

"Rumours about what?"

"That he's feeding his victims to the grinners."

"So that's why you call him Sharko."

"Right, you catch on fast," replied Doreen, lighting another cigarette before leaning across the room to offer one to Gunn, exposing more of her famous cleavage in the process.

Gunn averted his eyes and said: "Girls go missing from the Cross all the time and they usually turn up in Melbourne or Brisbane, married with kids, or living back with their folks in Broken Hill. You know that, Doreen."

"Right, and he knows that too. That's why he's getting away with it."

"And besides, I thought 'Rat-a-tat' Gattuso ran the Cross these days."

Doreen sighed. "Gattuso's hoons have started goin' around asking for protection money," she said, "like he's got Sharko on a leash or somethin'. Sayin' if the girls pay up they'll be safe."

"This gets bloody worse," Gunn said. "How long has this been goin' on?"

"Months," said Doreen. "But I only knew for certain after my Shona disappeared. And she wouldn't have done a flit. This was her home."

Doreen's shoulders started to spasm. She turned her back and made a series of racking coughs into her clenched fist, as Gunn realised with a start that the tough madam was crying.

"Come on, Doreen," he said. "Are you sure about all this?"

"Sure?" she spat. "I knew Shona like me own daughter, and she hasn't run away. He's bloody killed her. Sharko's for real, and everybody knows it 'cept the bloody coppers."

Gunn put his head in his hands, rubbed his face and took a deep breath. "Okay, right. Let's say he's real. What do you know about the bloke?"

Doreen sniffed. "Nothing much. He's got a flash car, that's about it."

"How do you know?"

"One of the new girls down at Bondi saw him, that's how. She was taking a pee when some creep with a razor blade bundled her friend into his car. The friend never showed again. Up until then I didn't really believe in Sharko either."

"This girl, where is she now?" asked Gunn.

"Dead," said Doreen. "She came to me and I got her into a flat in Paddington. It should have been safe but somebody killed her; broke in, pumped her full of drugs and threw her out of the window. Not that your lot were interested. She went down as a suicide."

Gunn felt his head spin. Where the hell had all these wild theories come from?

There was a knock at the door and the raven-haired belly dancer peered in, now dressed in a white towelling bathrobe.

"Shall I just get on home then, Mrs Quigley?" she asked, shooting a sharp glance at Gunn.

Doreen, who had been rubbing her eyes again, wafted at the cigarette smoke. "Bloody fags are getting to my eyes," she said.

Gunn drained his whisky and stood up. "No love," he said, "I wouldn't want to get in the way of your, er, work. You can start the show again, Doreen, I'd best be off."

"But..."

"I'll be in touch," he said, tipping his hat as he headed for the door. "Good day to you, ladies."

IV

Reg Holmes boarded the ferry at Circular Quay and climbed to the upper deck, turning his face gratefully to the breeze as the vessel slipped from the quayside. There had been no thunderstorm today to clear the heat and humidity, and the town felt oppressive and uneasy, as though on the verge of falling into a bad dream.

The harbour bridge loomed away to the port side, stretching across the neon bay like a dinosaur's skeleton made from granite and steel. It was one of the wonders of the modern world, an engineering feat to rival the skyscrapers of New York or Chicago. Tourists came from all over the world to see the majestic arch, but around here folk had already christened it 'the giant coat hanger'.

The harbour widened now, over a mile across, and a seaweed-covered rock jutted out of the water. It was Fort Denison, better known as Pinchgut, where mutinous prisoners in the early days were hanged or marooned to starve to death.

The ferry passed the naval dockyard on Garden Island, alive with sparks and activity, and gave a wide berth to an ocean liner steaming into Woolloomoolloo, before docking at Neutral Bay.

As Reg stepped down the gangplank he saw a familiar black and cream Daimler sliding to a halt outside the ferry terminal, and like a man asked to dig his own grave and then hop down into the earth, he trudged over to the car and climbed inside.

"G'day Reg," said Eddie Gattuso, lurking in the dark interior like a snappily dressed troll. He grinned his matinee idol grin, as empty and unnerving as a barrage of flashbulbs. "How about a lift home?"

Reg was about to reply that he had some business to take care of first, but he thought better of it and slid onto the Daimler's leather seat.

"Been for a nice chat with the rozzers?" asked Gattuso, as the car sped away into the streets of north Sydney, Jack Mooney at the wheel.

"Course not," replied Holmes miserably. "What makes you say that?"

"I was only asking. Don't be so defensive, Reginald. Have you heard about the two detectives on the shark arm case? A big thick bloody Jock and a Greek midget from Melbourne – hardly Elliot Ness and the Untouchables."

Mooney gave a great guffaw.

"But they could still cause a lot of grief, Reg, for you and me both. And more grief is the last thing I need; I don't react well to it, it makes me do unpredictable things."

Reg watched morosely as they sped past the turning towards his home and headed instead towards the Pacific Highway, the trunk road leading out of Sydney to the north. He was certain he was being 'taken for a ride', as Gattuso's American heroes might say.

"I haven't seen 'em," he said. "And if I did I wouldn't tell 'em a thing. I'd just be signing me own bloody prison forms anyway, wouldn't I?"

Gattuso laughed and cracked his knuckles. "Cheer up, Reg, ya miserable bastard. As long as you stick to the story, you've got no worries."

Reg was beginning to get tired of Gattuso's predictable routine, the menace barely disguised beneath his fake bonhomie. Every time it was the same; he would get on to one of his Al Capone stories next. "Where we goin' Eddie?" he asked with a sigh.

"Taking you home, mate," replied Gattuso. "Jeez, you're jumpy today. I ever tell you about this one time, when the Big Man was just a kid, Capone shot two men in a dance hall in front of hundreds of witnesses, but nobody saw a thing. Why's that, d'you think Reg?"

"Because nobody dared fizz on him?"

"Exactly, nobody ever breathed a word against him, not once. 'Course, he also built the respect of the community by opening soup kitchens and so on, but that's the long way of doing things. Me? I'm going to have Sydney so scared that I won't need to dish out a free feed for blokes to keep their traps shut."

Holmes nodded. They were still heading north on the Pacific Highway, nearing the outskirts of Chatswood, just a few miles from the bush. "There's no need to do this, Eddie," he blurted out, unable to stay calm any longer. "I'd never turn you in, you know that."

"No need to do what, mate?"

"Bloody kill me!" Reg almost screamed it. "What else is all this about? We're bloody miles away from my house and you know it."

Gattuso and Mooney roared with laughter. "Kill ya? Oh, you're a card, Reginald," said Gattuso, wiping his eyes. "Jack, let's turn around and take this joker home for his supper. I bet Sybil's got something hot on for him."

"She probably got a nice bit a' meat in this afternoon," sniggered Mooney, spinning the Daimler around 180 degrees and sending up a shower of roadside dust. It's a laugh a minute with these two, thought Holmes, as he settled into silence for the rest of the ride home.

V

Narrabeen was a small town on the coast about ten miles north of Sydney, little more than a few streets of sun-bleached wooden stores and houses with windblown sand piled up against every wall. To the west of the town was Narrabeen Lagoon, a shallow saltwater inlet that was popular with fishermen – and a notorious place for sharks.

This afternoon, however, hundreds of day-trippers and most of the town's population were gathered in the dusty park above the beach, some engaged in huddled conversations and others standing shocked and silent, as though staring out to sea at some terrible storm on the horizon.

Arthur Phillips parked his car on the road behind the park, took a deep breath and stepped out into the sunshine. In his haste to get up here, he realised he had forgotten to bring his hat and he could feel his forehead beginning to burn immediately.

He trotted up the worn-smooth steps into the park and walked to a sand dune overlooking the Pacific, where a handful of gawpers were craning their necks for a better view. Still, you were entitled to feel curious when your Saturday at the beach was interrupted by another shark attack.

Five hundred yards away, at the line of the surf, a group of men in shirtsleeves were talking urgently and taking notes, while dozens of uniformed officers were perfecting the art of looking purposeful and busy while doing very little.

Phillips saw a huddle of reporters gathered at the edge of the police cordon and walked over to them. "So what the hell happened?" he asked, handing around cigarettes.

Grady, one of the old hands from the Herald, said: "Keep yer voice down, kid." He led Phillips away from the crowd and pushed back his hat, leaving strands of hair stuck to his forehead, and drew the tobacco smoke deep into his lungs.

"The victim's a local teenager, down at the beach with some pals, diving around in the surf and what not, when a shark takes him under. Dragged him about thirty feet out in no time, the poor bastard was almost bitten in two. Some of his mates pulled him out, and...well, you can imagine the panic on the beach. He's down at North Shore hospital now."

"He going to make it?" asked Phillips.

"Too early to say. Doesn't look good though, kid."

Grady flicked his cigarette and wandered away, leaving Phillips to watch gulls swoop and dive in the wind. Almost bitten in two, Grady had said. Bloody hell, what a country.

It did not take him long to find his first eyewitnesses. A blonde girl was sobbing into the shoulder of her boyfriend, who looked pale and on the verge of throwing up.

"I'm terribly sorry to bother you," Phillips said, sounding grave and polite as he explained who he was. He knew that Australians generally responded better to posh Englishmen, and he tried to soften his Lancashire accent into an impersonation of movie star Basil Rathbone.

The girl lifted her face and sniffed, flicking a lock of hair from her puffy red eyes. Dicey one this, thought Phillips. She could turn hysterical, and her boyfriend would get all outraged and protective, both venting their fear and shock on him.

Newspaper reporters were often targets of civil anger after incidents like this. They were seen as scavengers, fighting over scraps of other people's misery, gathering around scenes of murder and disaster like so many scruffy crows.

Then again, maybe not.

"Sure, mate," said the teenager in a carefree tone. "Flora's just a little bit upset, you know, 'cos of the shark and everything. Hey, are we gonna get our pictures in the paper?"

He gave Flora a reassuring squeeze on the bum and a goofy smile. Flora snorted again, but also looked to be cheering up a bit at the prospect of relative fame.

"I'd say so," said Phillips. "Did you see the attack?"

"Nah mate, I was at the kiosk," replied the youth. "Turned round and everybody was screaming. Then I saw the blood in the water and some people dragging the kid out of the sea."

Phillips nodded, and started to write in his notebook. "So you didn't actually see him get, erm, bitten?"

"Nah mate," said the boy, shaking his head. "Oh, wait. Flora did though."

Flora nodded earnestly, and Phillips thought that perhaps the couple's dazed and confused expressions were actually a permanent fixture.

"Okay, great. I mean, that must have been terrible," Phillips quickly corrected himself. "Listen, why don't we take a walk? Find a bench to sit on?"

"No worries," replied the boy. "Just let me get my board."

He pushed through the crowd and returned with a polished wooden block, roughly the same size and shape as an ironing board and splattered with damp sand. It was a surfboard, Phillips knew, a common sight on the beaches since the sport crossed the Pacific from Hawaii almost a decade ago.

"You surf mate?" asked the teenager, when they had relocated to a nearby bench.

"No, I'm afraid not," he replied, not at all ruefully. "Never had much chance in Blackpool."

"So you can't surf in Ireland?" said the puzzled boy. "What a drag."

"Blackpool is in England, actually," said Phillips, "but how were you to know?" Obviously his cut-glass accent wasn't as convincing as he had thought. "So, Flora, you actually saw the shark attacking the victim?"

She eyed Phillips's pencil poised in mid-air over his notebook. "Is this really going to be in the newspaper?" she asked.

The reporter looked away again, hoping to find the will to finish this damn interview, when he saw Detective Inspector William Gunn striding across the park and away from the beach, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Excuse me a minute, would you?" he asked, and then jogged over to catch up with the detective.

"What the hell do you want?" asked Gunn without breaking stride.

"I didn't think I'd see you up here in the arse end of nowhere," said Phillips.

"Is this connected to the Coogee case at all?"

"Don't push your luck, pal."

"I might have something for you, detective," Phillips said. "A lead."

Gunn stopped walking. "Okay, but make it quick," he said. "What was with all that 'police secrecy' rubbish anyway? I thought you were just going to run a straight story."

"My editor," said Phillips with a shrug. "But listen, somebody called the news desk today, said the arm belonged to his missing sister. He sounded genuine and I thought I would repay the favour."

"You got this fellow's name and address?" said Gunn. Typical, he thought. Nobody had called in with a decent lead at B district headquarters all day, but now this idiot had gone straight to the newspapers.

Phillips flicked through his notebook quickly, then ripped out a page and handed it to Gunn. "So we're even, right?" he asked.

Gunn glanced at the address – a grim suburb of south Sydney – and then folded the paper and put it in his pocket. "If this checks out, and if I still have a job tomorrow, then you can consider yourself a quarter of the way there to paying me back," he said.

Gunn parked his car in a run-down street of California bungalows in Punchbowl. The back of his shirt was damp with sweat and sticking to the vinyl car seat after the long drive; every time he sat down for longer than five minutes in Sydney, he seemed to become glued in place by his own perspiration. He checked the address again. A man named Edwin Smith lived here, it said, and he thought the arm might belong to his sister, Janet.

Not a lot to go on, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

A wiry, unshaven man in a greasy singlet opened the door, and his puffy eyes and tired expression suggested that he was already resigned to the worst. Gunn introduced himself, struck by a sudden certainty that his luck had changed.

"G'day," said Edwin Smith. "You'd better come on in."

Specks of dust floated in the sunlight in the sitting room and Gunn could hear the grandfather clock ticking as he took out his own notebook.

"Have you seen it?" asked Smith. "The arm, I mean."

"No," Gunn lied. "The coroner wouldn't let us get near it."

Smith gestured to the back of his left hand. "Her mole was right here..."

"Lots of people have moles, Mr Smith," said Gunn, as gently as he could. "What else makes you think it might belong to Janet?"

"She never stays away like this. Tell the truth, I've been checking the 'paper every day for a body being found. I heard about the arm down at Coogee but Janet never went in the sea, so I thought nothing of it. But then when they said it was murder..."

"What do you think could have happened to her?"

"Her bloody fella did it. He was meaner than a goldfield Chinaman and I'm sure he was knocking ten bells out of her, but Janet would never admit it, not to me at any rate. If she'd have said so much as a dickie bird, I would'a bloody killed him."

"What's his name?"

"Brady," said Smith. "Paddy Brady. A bloody great Mick from Darling Harbour."

Gunn's ears pricked up at hearing the name of one of Sydney's most prolific crooks. His lucky break was starting to feel more like a racing certainty, but he tried to stay noncommittal. "When did you last see Janet?" he asked.

"Three weeks last Sat'day. We always go down to visit our dad on a Sat'day but she hasn't shown up once since then. It's just not like her."

"Was she married?"

"No, mate. She never met the right bloke."

"Where does she live?"

Smith paused, seemingly reluctant to answer. "She used to live around here, just a few streets away," he offered, eventually.

"And now? You said you were close, you must know where she lives."

"She used to work in one of the nightclubs up in town, waitressing, that sort of thing. That's where she met Brady, as well as God knows who else, and we started to lose touch a little after that."

"So she moved in with this Brady?"

"She did for a while, but then...ah, what the hell. Last I heard she was living up at Bondi, in the camp."

"That must have been tough."

"I tried to help her, said she should come and stay here, but she wouldn't have any of it."

"What about the rest of the family?"

"Dad didn't know about any of it, mum died years ago."

"Okay, how about the name of the nightclub where she worked?"

"Dunno. She kept that part of her life pretty quiet. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't a prozzie or anything but she got in with the wrong crowd. A pretty girl like Janet was just another bloody notch in the bedpost."

"How old is she?" asked Gunn, determined not to fall into the trap of referring to Janet in the past tense.

"Woulda been 29 this year, I reckon," said Smith, glumly referring to his sister as though she had been in the ground for months.

He stood up and picked up a framed photograph from the mantelpiece. "Here she is," he said fondly. "With my little girl."

Gunn looked at Janet Smith, sitting on a deckchair in a sun-dappled park with a beaming toddler perched on her knee, her arms folded protectively around the youngster.

"Little'un lives with her gran in Balmain now," Edwin said, gesturing around the untidy front room, as though his daughter had been forced to leave because of his bad housekeeping.

Gunn nodded. The photograph appeared to provide the rubber stamp on Janet Smith's death certificate, in the shape of a large mole on the back of her left hand.

Arthur Phillips filed his story on the shark attack to the Tribune's duty sub-editor and then trotted downstairs to the basement, which was cool and quiet and home to the paper's voluminous cuttings library.

There was a thick folder for shark attacks, the number of which seemed to have risen sharply over the past 12 months or so, all the way from Palm Beach far to the north of Sydney to Cronulla way down in the south.

Five of these had been fatal - three of them in the past couple of months, although the boy from Narrabeen could soon become the fourth. A further ten had left the victim in a serious condition, facing weeks in hospital to recover from their injuries.

A fellow from Melbourne had been dragged out to sea by a shark off Watson's Bay, before somehow managing to wrestle himself free. He swam to the foot of the cliffs at The Gap, where he was trapped on the rocks for two hours until he could be winched to safety.

This story had not been given many column inches, but then again most Sydneysiders were notoriously sceptical about anything achieved by a Melburnian.

Tucking the cuttings file under his arm, Phillips strolled back up to the newsroom for a coffee. But he had no sooner sat down than the newspaper's editor exploded from his office.

"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded. "The press conference is in half an hour."

"What press conference?"

"Call yourself a reporter," snapped the editor. "The kid from Narrabeen beach has died. Get up to MacQuarie Street pronto."

Sydney's fourth shark victim of the summer was 18-year-old Dean Kernick, from North Narrabeen. His shell-shocked parents had been hauled up in front of the media, and Phillips was quietly relieved to avoid the dreaded 'death knock' at eight o'clock at night, attempting to wring a few quotes from the grieving family on their doorstep.

The police had also confirmed that the people who had dragged Dean from the sea were up for bravery medals, and perhaps even a cash reward.

It was a good story, a great story, but even among the hacks Phillips thought he could detect a growing suspicion that there was something deeper going on here, something beyond the simple tale of shark bites man.

Perhaps he was just getting spooked, but every day, it seemed, wherever he went, he heard people talking about sharks, many of them asking the same question he resolved to ask now.

"Inspector, is it possible that Sydney's sharks are starting to get a taste for human blood?"

The policeman behind the handful of radio microphones looked exhausted, his face tired and drawn. "I suppose so, yes," he said with a shrug. This had been a hell of a long day. "Any more questions?"

"What can people do to avoid being attacked?"

"Stay the hell out of the water, I guess. Okay, I'm going to wrap it up here. That's all for tonight, fellas."

The rest of the evening passed in a blur, as Phillips – working on his second big splash in two days - raced to get the copy ready for the following day's edition.

Chapter Four – The Fourth Day

I

"What the bloody hell is this?"

Commissioner Barclay stormed into the squad room and over to Gunn's desk, where he knocked a coffee mug flying with a venomous swipe of the Sydney Morning Tribune. The other detectives in the squad room flinched as the black liquid splashed up the wall.

"Hell fire," muttered Spiroza, to nobody in particular. "Looks like he's got round to reading the papers."

Gunn bit back the urge to tell Barclay where to stick his damn newspaper. The front page headline read, 'Police: Sharks ARE Man Eaters'.

"Nothing to do with us, sir," said Gunn.

"No?" said Barclay, thwacking the paper with the back of his hand and reading aloud. "The disturbing development comes just one day after the Tribune exclusively revealed that the Coogee Shark Arm case was in fact a murder investigation. In addition, some politicians are now calling for an investigation into the as-yet-unfounded rumours that somebody is deliberately feeding human body parts to sharks in Sydney's waters."

"There must have been a leak, sir."

"And you'd know nothing about that, would you? I bloody well warned you what would happen if this murder became public knowledge. We'll have a riot on our hands if we don't put to bed this half-baked theory about a killer on the loose. I'll need to call another press conference in the morning, so you'd better have some results by then or so help me..."

"As it happens, sir," said Gunn, frowning to prevent a satisfied smirk from creeping onto his face. "I think we've identified the owner of the arm, and what's more we've got a pretty good suspect."

"Go on, detective," said Barclay, sceptically.

"A woman named Janet Smith. Her brother says she's been missing for around three weeks, and she has a mole in exactly the same place on the back of her left hand. George Bayliss should have some fingerprints by next week, so hopefully we can confirm its her."

"And the suspect?"

"Patrick Brady, a well-kent face from the Darling Harbour mob. He was seeing the Smith woman and the brother thinks he was beating her up."

"You say Brady's a villain? Is he capable of this?"

"He's a drunk and a brawler, sir, but he's no Jack the Ripper. I think it was a straightforward domestic murder. Brady went too far with his fists one night, probably after a skinful. He chose a bloody unusual way to get rid of the body, I'll grant you that, but there's nothing more sinister there."

"A straightforward domestic murder, you say?" said Barclay, storing the phrase away for his press conference. "That's good. Excellent, in fact. Where is Brady now?"

"Here's the rub. It looks like he's skipped town, although that hardly helps the case for his defence," said Gunn. "Alf and I will be back out there today, but if we could get a few more bodies down here..."

"Of course, call MacQuarie Street and tell them I authorised it. I want a full report on my desk by nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

Rule number one.

No matter whether it was Sydney or Glasgow, Redfern or Govan, the majority of crimes always came back to a minority of criminals. And Paddy Brady certainly fell into that category. He had form for armed robbery and was well known to most Sydney policemen, not least because of his imposing physical appearance. He stood 6' 4", towering over most city coppers, even Bill Gunn himself, and was the proud owner of a shock of bright red hair.

Brady was not usually a difficult man to find. However, Gunn more than most knew that if a man really, really wanted to disappear, there was very little anybody could do to find him again.

After running away from Scotland, Gunn had not contacted his family for almost a year until a chance meeting with a friend of his father's in Kelly's Clam Broth House in Hoboken, New Jersey. The man told him that everybody back home thought he was dead, that he had killed himself out of grief.

His conscience pricked, he had sent wires and Christmas cards to his mother and his old man on a fairly regular basis ever since. But Gunn knew that really, to his parents and brothers and sisters, not to mention his old friends and colleagues, he had simply disappeared on the day of Cathy's funeral and never returned.

Gunn had been in Hoboken that day to meet a man who wanted someone who knew how to drive a truck and to keep his mouth shut. It was a big truck, closed in all over, and he didn't have to be told it was for carrying booze. He was so far into the bottle in those days that he didn't care, although he was alert enough to appreciate the irony of a Glasgow constable running booze to beat Prohibition in the USA.

The deliveries were usually between New Jersey and Detroit, sometimes Cleveland, and Gunn had made the long trip a dozen times or more over four or five months. The biggest danger was not from the police, who were mostly squared away already by the Jersey mob, but from hijackers.

Two or three armed men would travel with him in case of trouble, but no matter how many other runs were hit, Gunn always managed to keep his nose clean for some reason.

Then one night, barrelling along a country road about 60 miles out of Hoboken, shots started crackling out of the hedges and Gunn had jammed his foot on the accelerator and let the truck go for its life.

But the back tyres were shot out and Gunn, who was usually so drunk on these booze runs that it was a wonder the hijackers did not find them by the fumes alone, had veered wildly into a hedge.

He cracked his head on the steering wheel but had not blacked out. Gunn dived out of the lorry and ran into the field, blood dripping into his eyes and hearing more gunshots and yells from the road behind him, before sliding into a muddy patch underneath a holly bush.

"There's two dead here, and one wounded," one of the hijackers called, before another gunshot rang out into the night. It had gone terribly quiet after that, and Gunn had sneaked away and walked all night, heading back towards the Jersey shore.

There had been five men, including him, on the run, so that meant somebody else must have survived the ambush. Gunn knew how much his cargo was worth and that both survivors would be under immediate suspicion. It was definitely time to move on, he knew, but of course he had to have another drink first to help him think straight.

The gangster from Hoboken had woken him the following lunchtime, standing over his flophouse bed with a gun in his hand. Still half-cut, Gunn had jabbered an explanation, but the man seemed to have it all worked out already.

He declared that the other man to escape the hijackers – a Swede named Ol Carsen – must be the one who had betrayed them, and Gunn was going to go with the gangster to pay him back. It had not seemed like an optional arrangement.

Taking the keys to the gangster's Ford, Gunn had driven them out to a barn in the country where they found Carsen inside among the hay bales, on his knees with his hands bound behind his back, two more men standing guard over him. Gunn had decided that, whether or not he was next in line for a bullet in the back of the head, it was time to take a stand.

He cold-cocked the gangster sitting to his right in the passenger seat with a ferocious jab, the man's head cracking the glass of the car window. Gunn had enjoyed the look on the faces of the two guards, who had only previously known him as a drunken gentle giant, a pliable fool willing to risk his life driving truckloads of bootleg brandy and whisky across State lines, not a street-fighting, brawling bobby with his name embossed in gold leaf on the amateur heavyweights board at the Kelvin Hall.

Their surprise only lasted an instant however, before Gunn ploughed into them and sent them flying into the stacked bales. He slammed on the brakes, shoved the unconscious gangster out of the passenger seat and helped Carsen scramble into the car, before roaring out of the barn in a cloud of straw and exhaust smoke.

Gunn had little feeling for Carsen, who was a loudmouth and a bully, and he had simply untied the Swede and dropped him off with barely a word in the nearest town. Then he had headed north, dumping the car after another hundred miles or so and boarding a train for Buffalo and the Canadian border.

He knew he was a dead man if he ever returned to Jersey, or ran into anybody who recognised him from his rum-running days, but it had not taken him long to learn the art of keeping his head down.

And if he could do it, then Brady could do it too.

Of course, Gunn had been on the run from the mob and not the law but there was some doubt, at least there had been in the States in those days, as to which was the more powerful of the two organisations.

And while he had fled across the border to Canada, there was little chance of Brady escaping from this country; that was the original point of Australia, after all. But still, Gunn knew there were plenty of places to hide in this vast, dried-out nation.

By early evening, Gunn had already spent hours in a fruitless search for the big Irishman and he was beginning to feel sure that he had already skipped town.

However, he finally got something resembling a break in an American pool hall on Pitt Street. Sean Maguire was a wharfie, although many of the goods he unloaded from the ships at Darling Harbour ended up being flogged in the city's pubs and drinking clubs. He was also one of Gunn's best informants among Sydney's Irish criminal underworld.

"I 'aven't seen Paddy for weeks, Mr Gunn," said Maguire, after Gunn had made it clear they were going to talk, one way or the other. He leaned over the pool table and took his shot, grinning as the three-ball dropped softly into a corner pocket. "I heard he blew town, gone looking for work."

"Why would he leave Sydney looking for work, Sean?" asked Gunn. "This is the only place in Australia where there is any bloody work."

Maguire shrugged. He was playing like a man possessed, potting balls from incredible angles in his desire to finish the game quickly. Gunn let him get on with it and soon the eight ball was rattling home.

"Looks like you caught me in good form today, Mr Gunn," Maguire laughed. "I'd stay for a rematch, but I've just remembered I've got to see a bloke about a job on....Oooof!"

Gunn casually spun his cue and used it to shove Maguire up against the wall, leaning it on his chest with most of his considerable weight.

"Did you know I worked on a farm when I first came Down Under, Sean?" he asked. "First thing I learned was how to pin down a Merino ram and then chop off the poor bastard's balls."

"Honestly, Mr Gunn, I 'aven't seen Paddy for weeks. He's left town, that's the truth."

"Funny thing was, if you did it fast enough they didn't even seem to notice," said Gunn. He pushed a little harder on the cue, lifting his knee up to nudge Maguire in the groin. "I reckon you'd notice though, Sean, don't you?"

"Okay, okay, what do they feed you in Scotland? Last time I saw Paddy was down in Cronulla."

Cronulla was a seaside resort, a few miles south of Botany Bay. "Where in Cronulla?" asked Gunn.

"You know Paddy, even when he was hiding out it turned into a pub crawl. We had a drink one night in the Cecil Hotel with a few other blokes."

"You said he was hiding out? Who from?" asked Gunn, wondering who had enough menace to force a thug like Brady to scuttle under a rock.

"Oh Christ," sighed Maguire, his voice little more than a croak. "You didn't get this from me, right? But it was Eddie Gattuso. I heard Paddy owed him money. Now come on, Mr Gunn, fair's fair."

Eddie 'Rat a Tat' Gattuso. Now there was that name again, thought Gunn. Rule number one in action once more.

He let the cue fall and slipped a shilling note into Maguire's shirt pocket. "Thanks Sean," he said. "And bloody well played, by the way.

II

The skyline of downtown Sydney was shimmering in the heat, and even from this distance, a couple of miles away at least, the soaring iron arch across the harbour dwarfed all but the tallest buildings.

But Evie Strathmore was too distracted to enjoy the view. She drummed her fingers nervously on the table in Doyles, an exclusive seafood restaurant in Watson's Bay. Doyles was a popular haunt for those few Sydneysiders who still had money, although in typically Australian, egalitarian fashion there was a hatch at the back of the kitchen where you could buy takeaway battered fish and chips.

She watched as Culver Gale finally emerged from the lounge, where he had been charming a predominantly female group of Sydney's wealthy young elite, and wandered across the restaurant's rooftop verandah, nodding and smiling at other acquaintances among the diners as he made his way towards their table above the water.

Although he had only been in Australia a few years, Culver seemed to know everybody in town. He was impeccably polite, but with a broad smile and a mischievous sense of humour, as well as an excellent dress sense and of course pots of money. Considering some of the beer-swilling lumps he was up against, Evie was not in the least surprised that he was usually referred to in the newspapers as one of the city's most eligible bachelors.

However, all that mattered to Evie – or so she repeatedly told herself – was whether or not he was going to invest in her research.

"Sorry for abandoning you," said Culver as he took his seat. "There's a fundraising shindig in a few days' time and I need the big shot daddies of those brats on my side. Hey, why don't you come along? It's going to be swell."

"I'd love to but..." began Evie, before she was cut off by the appearance of the waiter. He poured a dash of chilled white wine for Culver, who swirled the clear liquid expertly, inhaled briefly and took a sip.

"That's just great," he said, beaming at Evie. "Why don't you serve the lady first?"

The oily, golden fluid was so cold that her glass clouded instantly with condensation. Culver was watching her closely, making her feel a little awkward. She took a sip.

"Mmmm," she said, smiling politely. "Semillion, isn't it? It's very nice."

"Well I'll be," Culver hooted with delight, clapping his hands. "Beautiful, intelligent and she knows her wine too. What a woman!"

The waiter left the bottle in an ice bucket by their table.

"Kind of melts in your mouth, doesn't it?" Culver went on. "Where I grew up, most folks couldn't tell pinot noir from peanut butter; it was all rye whiskey and cheap beer. But I've been lucky enough to learn a little about wine down the years and," Culver paused, lifting the bottle from the ice bucket, "I think this is a very good drop."

Evie nodded her agreement.

Culver chuckled again. "You look a little perplexed," he said. "I'm just a little giddy today, because you see I own the vineyard and this is my first vintage. It's a little place up by the Hawkesbury."

"Crikey," said Evie. "Your very own vineyard. Well, here's to you."

"Why thank you kindly," said Culver, grinning. He paused, his attention caught by the view across the harbour. "What a view," he said softly, almost under his breath.

"It's fabulous isn't it?" agreed Evie. "You probably think this is awfully coarse, but I come here sometimes for fish and chips. I can sit in the park for hours, just looking out across the water, but I've always wondered what the view would be like from up here."

Culver smiled again. "You're a great gal, Evie," he said, then clapped his hands again. "Hey, let's get the dull business talk out of the way, shall we? I made a lot of money from oil, Evie, a lot. But it came at a price. There's bayous all along the Gulf coast that will never see another shark again, thanks to people like me. Hell, they'll never see another living creature again."

Evie was about to say something about such wanton vandalism but she forced herself to hold back. If the man wanted to salve his conscience by investing in her work, then who was she to question his motives?

"I never knew much about sharks until I came to live in Sydney," Culver continued. "But I've seen enough over the past few months to change my mind and...well, what I'm trying to say in my long-winded way is that I'd be delighted to fund your research for another five years."

"Oh, thank you Culver," said Evie, blushing. "Thank you so much! That's fabulous news." She hadn't dared to hope for a result like this one.

Culver smiled bashfully, topping up their glasses.

"It's the least I can do," he said, frowning at the perfectly white tablecloth. "You probably think this sounds totally loopy but I figure I owe it to the critters, to the whole damn natural world, considering the way I've behaved in the past."

"I don't think it sounds loopy at all. I think it sounds very honourable," said Evie.

"Great," said Culver, recovering some of his joi-de-vivre as the waiter returned with two menus. "You're going to go a long way, Evie. It's just a pity you're not in the oil business, because you'd be a millionaire by now."

III

The landlord of the Cecil Hotel, a sparrow of a man in a white apron several sizes too big, was another who seemed anxious to see the back of him. It was turning into one of those days.

"Can't help you I'm afraid, detective," he said. "We don't get their sort in here very often."

"Well, thank Christ for that," muttered Gunn. "You wouldn't want to scare away all the other customers."

The Cecil Hotel was still open for meals, although it was now after six o'clock so no alcohol was being served. The only occupants of the bar were three men sitting at a corner table, drinking some unidentified beverage from teacups and trying hard not to look at the big policeman.

Last orders across New South Wales had been set at six pm ever since drunken and deadly riots in Sydney during the Great War. After the Armistice, to everybody's surprise, the public had voted to keep the laws in place, giving rise to the 'swill', the precious hour between work and home when tens of thousands of Sydneysiders could be found in the pub, drinking furiously.

Despite the early call, Gunn had learned to love the opportunity for unbridled alcohol consumption and there were still plenty of places where a thirsty policeman could drink throughout the night if he knew where to look

"Your ginger ale," said the landlord, placing a foaming bottle before Gunn. "On the house, of course."

"Cheers," said Gunn, leaving the soft drink untouched on the bar. He leaned closer and asked, in his best world-weary tones: "Now, are you going to think a little bit harder or do you want me to start checking your best China cups over there for Scotch?"

"There's no need for that, detective."

"Good, so help me out here. A big Irish chap, huge in fact, red hair and lots of tattoos, as rough as get out. He was with a few pals, tough guys from the city. They would have stuck out like sore thumbs in this place."

"We get quite busy at the weekends..."

Gunn turned away to begin his inspection.

"Wait, I think I remember him. As you say, he was with a group of hoods in here on a Friday night, maybe three or four weeks ago."

"That's the spirit. Now, could you hear anything of what they were talking about?"

"I couldn't help it. They had mouths like sewers, upset quite a few of the regulars."

"Did any of them get a room for the night, anything like that?" asked Gunn. It was a long way back to Sydney after all.

"No. In fact, I remember being relieved when one of them asked for a taxicab. I think it was your ginger-haired Irishman. He was going out to somewhere near Cabramatta, I'm sure."

Paddy Brady had obviously made quite an impression during his short stay in Cabramatta, a dusty village a few miles inland from the coast, and before long Gunn was directed to a run-down cottage a little way out into the bush.

It was not a bad little place for a gangster's hideout, all things considered, with whitewashed walls and a sloping galvanized iron roof. There were even a few hibiscus bushes in the border under the window, although the flowers appeared as dark as blood in the moonlight.

The front door was locked and the curtains drawn, so Gunn walked around back to the unkempt yard, finding the charred remains of a sizeable bonfire, an old shed and a few scrubby trees. Shining his torch through the rear window he could see a double bed with no mattress and little else. Gunn returned to the front and scratched his head.

"Can I help you?" came a voice, interrupting his thoughts.

He turned to see a hatchet-faced woman holding a gas lantern and a shotgun.

"I'm the owner of this residence," she added.

"Well in that case, I think you can, madam," Gunn flashed his badge and his most winning smile. "I'm Detective Inspector William Gunn from South Sydney."

"Oh, but you're Scottish," said the woman. "My daddy was a Scot. I can always tell by the accent. I'm Ada Harmsworth, by the way."

"You're a sharp one, Mrs Harmsworth," said Gunn, keeping his grin firmly fixed. "I'm looking for your tenant. A man by the name of Brady."

"I knew it," said the landlady. "I knew he was trouble from the moment I clapped eyes on him."

"Looks like Brady's left the place now?"

"Owing me a month's rent. And he stole half the furniture. Come in and I'll show you."

It was cool inside and smelled of floor polish, not the stale beer and old socks that Gunn had been expecting, although there was something else as well, a familiar odour that he could not quite place.

The cottage was almost completely bare, with no trace of anyone living there. Brady hadn't even left any washing up in the kitchen sink.

"There was a table and chairs, and a big wooden trunk over there," said Ada, pointing at the corner of the bedroom. "All gone. He even took the mattress from the bed."

Gunn gave the bed a push to test the springs. Brady had removed everything that would burn, he thought, remembering the bonfire in the back yard.

"And another thing, detective," said Ada. "He washed down all the walls in here with bleach. Even the floor's been scrubbed."

"Are any of the rags or brushes he used still here?" he asked.

"No," said Ada, catching at the look on Gunn's face. "Oh dear, I knew I should have reported this to the police sooner."

"And when did you say he went missing?" he asked.

"He promised to pay the rent he owed one Saturday, but I was away for the weekend at my sister's place. When we came back and it still hadn't been paid, I came straight up here on Monday morning and found it like this. That would be, oh, about three weeks ago now."

Christ, thought Gunn, the day before Janet Smith was supposed to visit her father. The same day that Brady spent hours drinking in the pub in Cronulla, probably pissing his rent money up the wall. But what had happened here later that night?

Whatever it was, Brady had then decided to have a spring clean before rapidly leaving town. Could it have been blood that he had been so desperate to wash off the floor and walls?

He pulled out the bed frame and dropped to his knees by the skirting board, shining his torch into the gap between the wood and the wall. Whoever had cleaned the cottage had done a thorough job but not thorough enough – there was a residue left in the crack, glistening and black.

Gunn crawled along the wall, finding more of the dried, flaky substance in every nook and cranny. He scraped his car key into a crack in the floorboards and examined the sample up close.

It was blood, he realised. Every last corner of the room held traces of dried blood. Suddenly, Gunn placed the unsettling smell in the cottage; he recognised it from the examination room at the morgue, the place where they cut up the bodies.

"I'd better take those keys off you, Ada," he said, hustling her out of the door and locking it behind them. "You probably won't have to worry about finding a new tenant for a while, either."

IV

Flashbulbs popped like strobe lights as the tall figure strode down the red carpet, a scrum of photographers and reporters fighting to stay alongside him as they fired off questions.

"Happy to be back in Sydney, Errol?"

"What did you think of the movie?"

"Will be a hit with the Aussie audience?"

"Show us your cutlass, Cap'n Blood!"

Eyes twinkling, the moustachioed star held up his gloved hands in mock surrender and turned to face the crowd outside the Palace Cinema on George Street.

"I thought it was a great movie," he said, "but then, I would say that wouldn't I? It's beaut to be back in Sydney and I'll be staying for a few weeks at least. And no, I can't show you my cutlass. Not with all these ladies present. There'd be a stampede!"

With that, Errol Flynn climbed into the limousine and was hurried away into the night. He was bound for a private party aboard a Cunard liner at International Quay, and then on, no doubt, to the willing arms of any one of a hundred or more nubile nymphets across the city.

Back in the lobby, Eddie Gattuso watched this bravura performance with undisguised fury, jealousy stirring the bile in his stomach. He had been looking forward to the Australian premiere of Captain Blood, a pirate caper in which Flynn – Sydney-born but raised in England – had his first starring role.

It was already a smash hit in the States and the studios were throwing offers at the film's young lead. Flynn represented everything Gattuso wanted to achieve, but he was realistic enough to know that on the world stage he would never be more than a small town thug.

To compound matters, Gattuso hadn't even been invited to the after show party on the cruise ship and he was left standing around the lobby like the rest of the nobodies, chatting about Errol the bloody great hero and his indecent tights. Blah blah bloody blah.

"There you are, Eddie. You okay, darl?" The blonde he had brought along tonight appeared at his elbow. She was a chubby Balmain girl who Flynn probably wouldn't look at twice.

Gattuso glared at her furiously, but she just shrugged and thrust one of the two cocktail glasses she was holding at him. He grabbed the martini and slugged it down in one go, spat the olive on the floor and then loosened his bow tie.

"Got to get this bloody noose off," he muttered, staring balefully around him. Several other high rollers, including a leading State politician, a steel magnate and a popular magician, had also been left out and were looking similarly insulted.

"What a brilliant movie, I thought it was just the best," said Gattuso's date, whose name he couldn't even remember. Over her shoulder, he saw the Daimler pull up at the foot of the red carpet. A concierge rushed over and gestured angrily to the driver to move on. "And what about Errol? I thought he was just the best too."

Gattuso pushed his empty glass into her hand. "Listen, love, I've got to go," he snapped. "If you ever feel like a root and Errol bloody Flynn's not around, just come by the pub, okay? I'm sure one of the boys will have yer."

He pushed through the crowd at the door, then walked straight down the red carpet to where Jack Mooney was waiting beside the car, looking about ready to tear the concierge's head off.

A few of the press boys were still hanging around, and much to Gattuso's delight somebody pointed a camera in his direction and a flashbulb popped. Some of the reporters wandered over, eager for a bit of entertainment.

"Did you enjoy the film Eddie?"

"Not bad, but I thought Captain Blood was a bit of a Pommy ponce."

"You not a fan of Errol's then?"

"Put it this way, he's no Bogart."

The pack laughed dutifully, and more flashbulbs popped as Eddie ducked into the car, but even Mooney looked embarrassed as he gave the concierge one last shove in the chest, got back behind the wheel and drove away.

"You okay, boss?" he asked, as they headed down through the city towards Chinatown.

"Bonzer Jackie," Gattuso grinned. "Never been better. That boy Flynn, by the way, he'll never make it. Can't act for toffees."

They cruised down towards the seedier end of George Street, bumping across the tram turning circle at Capitol Square, and began to climb the hill towards the Parramatta Road.

"Hey, listen to the latest from Big Al," said Eddie, after a while. He was returning to his favourite subject, Alphonse 'Scarface' Capone. "He's got one a' those board games in his cell. Monopoly, where you buy streets and build hotels on 'em."

Gattuso took out two cigarettes and handed one to Mooney, all the while shaking his head in rueful admiration. His brass lighter flicked briefly.

"So Al plays a game of this Monopoly every week with the screws. Only, instead of the toy money, he plays with $10 bills. If he wins, hunky dory. But if he loses, then he's actually slipping the screws a couple a' hundred each. No bribery involved, just a game."

Capone had been sentenced to ten years in jail for tax evasion in 1931, and sent to Atlanta, the toughest federal prison in the USA. However, he had the run of the place within months, and his cell was rumoured to have a full-length mirror, a typewriter, Persian rugs and a complete set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

"You know how the Big Feller stayed one step ahead of his enemies? I must have told you this one," Gattuso inhaled deeply, dragging the smoke into his lungs. He stared out of the window at the passing houses. "He had a spy network all over Chicago. Everybody from the newspaper boys to the city councillors, they were all working for him. If you crossed him, he knew about it that same day."

The two men were silent for a while, as the Daimler rolled through the slums of Redfern, the poorest neighbourhood in the city; its inhabitants, many of them Lebanese, Greek, Italian or Aboriginal, were nicknamed Rabbitohs as they sold wild rabbits door-to-door. But Gattuso and Mooney had left such hardships behind, and they were heading towards the gangster's safe house in the sprawling southern suburbs.

"You hear about that copper asking questions down the Cross?" asked Gattuso eventually, examining his gold cufflink. He breathed on the dull metal and then rubbed it on his trousers.

"No, boss," replied Mooney.

"Well, according to a bloke works for that old battleaxe Doreen Quigley he knew all about you-know-who. Now what do yer reckon the Big Feller would have done if a nosy cop was pokin' his beak in where it don't belong?"

Mooney did not reply, although he knew exactly what Capone would have done. Got one of his guys to take care of it, rather than do it himself. Shit always flowed downhill, he reflected.

"That's right," said Gattuso, more to himself than Jack. "He would've had him whacked. Just 'cos this is Sydney and not the States, don't mean we can't take care of a peeler if we have to."

##### Chapter Five – The Fifth Day

I

The sweat was running down Terry Cooke's back and he fidgeted on the wooden chair, trying to get comfortable. He drummed his fingers on the table, which was scarred with cigarette burns and scratched initials, and studied his watch. The second hand... ticked... around... oh... so... slowly.

Terry ran his fingers through his hair and massaged the back of his sticky neck. Then, coming to an instant decision, he jumped up, sending the chair skidding across the floor.

"To hell with it," he muttered. "I'm getting out of here."

"Thanks pal," said Gunn cheerily, flinging the door open and striding into the sweltering interview room, "but you don't have to stand up for me."

Alf Spiroza and a female stenographer followed him in to the room.

"Just stretchin' me legs," said Terry, settling back into his seat with a tortured grimace.

"Aye, I'm with you on that score," declared Gunn, sitting opposite him at the table. "These chairs are hard enough to straighten out Quasimodo's hump. Can we arrange a feather cushion for Mr Cooke?" He turned to the stenographer. "Or failing that, could you bring us all mugs of tea, love."

Gunn looked at Terry Cooke, who had obviously not appreciated the joke. Oh well, he thought, so much for trying to play the jolly copper, as he settled back into his usual grim-faced interview routine.

A short while later, mugs of tea steaming on the table and lit cigarettes curling smoke in the ashtray, Gunn got down to business.

"You wanted to tell us about Paddy Brady?" he asked.

Terry nodded, resigned to his fate as a police informant now. "Yeah, I read in the 'paper how you'd found his hideout down in Cabramatta."

"That's right," said Gunn, frowning up at Spiroza. Arthur Phillips had somehow got hold of another exclusive for the Tribune, with quotes from Ada Harmsworth and a picture of the cottage. The story had run on the front page under the headline: 'Coogee Killer's Secret Lair'.

"My place is not that far from Cabramatta, so as soon as I saw this I knew I'd better tell the cops 'bout what happened. Not that I'm a fizzer or anything."

"Might as well get it over with, son," Gunn said. "Just start at the beginning."

"I woke up about eleven o'clock...

"Blinding rays of sun are peeping around the special black drapes I had the missus run up. Bloody useless mare!

I roll over in me pit, pulling the covers over me head. Screw it, us cabbies are allowed a lie in – like anyone on the nightshift.

Nobody would bat an eyelid if a doctor, working at the hospital all hours, or a fisherman just home from the trawler, stayed in bed all the next day. But me? No chance mate, I'm a lazy good for nothin' bludger just 'cos I like my sleep, leastways according to the wife and her bloody mother.

I don't care though. Don't give a fourpenny fart to tell you the truth.

I'm awake now though. The bedroom is hot and stuffy, so I get up to open the window. It's a fair sizzler of a day, last night's rain completely gone, and the sky is high and white. A cockatoo is perched on the telegraph wires across the back yard, cleaning his feathers. He turns his head to look at me with a shiny black eye and then he's gone, away between the rooftops and the trees.

I yawn and rub my stubble. If I'm frightening away the birds, what the hell must I be doing to the customers?

Ten minutes later and I'm in the bath, a beer and a plate of Vegemite on toast on the floor beside me. Lux suds up to my ears and piping hot water on tap; thank God for Pyrmont Power Station, mate.

I wonder if anyone else in Sydney is having a bath at this time of day. Maybe just a few of the prozzies from the Cross, washing away last night's trade. All this hot water just for me and them. Now there's a thought. In the bath with a hundred Sheilas, all of them soapy and naked. I reach down under the water to shake hands with my co-driver when suddenly...

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG!!!

Somebody is hammering at the front door, almost bloody knocking it down. I've only just painted it as well, the bludger.

"Alright, alright, keep yer hair on for Chrissakes!" I yell. I stand up, water streaming off me. Oh well, there goes me morning ham shank. Woulda' made a right mess anyways, all a' them whores in the bath.

I grab a towel and charge out through the bedroom and onto the balcony, soap in my eyes and only just decent, so that whoever it is knows I was in the bloody tub.

The street is deserted. The veranda – all the terraced houses on our street have them – is cluttered with the bread knife's plants and all my fishing gear. I lean over the iron rail, the Sydney lace rusting and none too secure, and scan the pavement. There's nobody there...

...but the front door is open. And in my neighbourhood you never leave the front door open like that. There's a heavy wooden mallet by me feet, one I use for whacking big fish, so I pick it up and take one last look at the street. I could call for help, but nah, if there's some bludger downstairs, he's gonna get it from me, not the cops.

I go back inside and hear the radio blaring away in the kitchen. It could be the wife home from church, but she never comes home early on a Sunday, not with the meat raffle on at the club.

There's nobody upstairs, so there's nothing else for it. Down the stairs slowly, me heart pounding in me chest. One hand gripping the mallet, the other holding me towel in place, like a bloody Roman toga.

The front door is still open, and I leave it that way as an escape route. Whether that's an escape route for me or the burglar, I couldn't tell ya. Teeth clenched, I step quickly into the front room, ready to swing the mallet.

It's empty. There's our high-backed leather chairs, all worn on the arms, me cabbie's cap over the back of one of them, the Turkish rug all the way from Parramatta Road, a pile of newspapers, an ashtray and a whisky glass from me morning wind down.

Just the kitchen to go now. Probably the first place I should've looked, what with the radio being on in there and everything. If I'm not careful I'll give the kid – he's probably just a kid – a chance to run for it, and I don't want that now. Do I?

Then I notice the sideboard door is ajar. The silver spoons and stuff are still there, but me bottle of Jameson's has gone.

Bastard! Genuinely angry now, I swing around and there's a bloke standing right behind me. Straight off, he knocks the mallet out of me hand and it lands with a clatter on the floorboards.

Hells bells, this is no kid. First of all, he's big, way bigger than me. He's wide-eyed and panting too, this huge ginger-haired feller, a headcase if ever I've seen one.

And he's covered in blood.

Dried splatters of claret are all over his shirt and there's more on his trousers, smeared where he's wiped his hands on his thighs. He's wearing a clean jacket though, and he's got one hand tucked away inside it.

He could have a gun in there, or a knife, maybe the big carving knife from the kitchen. My bottle of Jameson's is in his other hand but, all in all, I reckon he can keep it.

"You a cabbie?" he asks. "Don't bullshit me. I already seen yer cab outside."

I nod, biting back the urge to tell him just to take it. I worked hard for that Rover.

"Well, get yer daks on then mate," he says. "I need a lift to North Sydney quick bloody smart."

And with that he pushes past me, dropping into one of the chairs and taking a swig of whisky. Now I get a better look at him, he's knackered. Takes it out of you, staying up all night murdering people.

"And seeing as it's a weekend, we'll call it double time."

The magic words.

Soon, we're heading north over the George's River Bridge and up towards Hurstville. I've shoes but no socks on; I've even forgotten to put me cap on, and I'm feeling strange driving without it.

The big feller can't sit still, he's hopping about in the back seat like he's got bull ants in his drawers. I sneak regular looks at him in the mirror and he's in a right old state. As well as the blood - if it is blood, I'm thinking now - he's covered in mud and branches and looks as though he's spent the night in the bush.

And he's still got his hand hidden inside his jacket, which looks so clean and out of place on him, I reckon he's lifted it from some bugger's Hills Hoist clothes line.

We're in Canterbury now, a rough part of town, and the bloke's getting even more nervy, swigging away from the Jameson's bottle. To make conversation, I ask what team he follows. I'm a Souths fan meself, but he just gives me a look to say what the hell are you on about?

Then he breathes out, long and hard. He's staring off into space, and he looks like he's seen the devil himself. Suddenly I'm worried that he's going somewhere to top himself, leaving me stuck without me double fare.

But we're heading to the north shore, nowhere near the cliffs at the Gap where most Sydneysiders go to throw a seven. Then we're in town, crawling up George Street. The bloke sinks lower into the back seat, although nobody on the packed pavements gives us a second glance.

Ten minutes later we're soaring up between the offices and factories and on to the bridge, the best feeling in the world as the city drops away beneath you. We're over to the north shore in no time, and the bloke tells me to go to a street in Neutral Bay.

I don't look around, because he's right behind me now, his whisky breath hot on the back of my neck. This is it, then, he's going to stab me right through the seat.

"Here's a fiver," he says, which is way, way more than double time. "You never saw me today, mate. Fair enough?"

It's not really a question. He gets out and slams the door. I let off the hand brake, find the biting point and drive slowly up the hill. In my mirror I see the bloke, still holding his hand in his jacket, go up to a big house and knock on the door. Then I'm around the corner and away.

All of a sudden I start shaking and I have to pull over to the side of the road. A car behind me beeps his horn, and I'm thinking I'm worse than a bloody woman, cutting the bloke up like that with no signal. But I can't stop shaking, even when I look around and see the five pound note there on the back seat..."

"And that's it," said Cooke, as he finished telling a shortened version of his tale to the two policemen. "I calmed meself down and shot through like a Bondi tram."

Cooke began patting his pockets for a cigarette. Spiroza did the honours and for a few moments the three men sucked down the smoke in silence.

"Terry," asked Gunn eventually. "Why didn't you report this to us before?"

Cooke frowned, as though he didn't understand the question.

"You know, the mad bloodstained bugger who broke into your house and forced you to drive him miles across town. There's a word for that sort of behaviour - kidnapping. Us coppers tend to frown on it."

"He didn't kidnap me," insisted Cooke. "He was a paying customer. And besides, I couldn't be sure it was blood on him."

"Could'a been tomato sauce, I suppose" deadpanned Spiroza, speaking for the first time.

"Yeah," Cooke began, before shooting a sour glance at the detective. "Listen," he sighed. "I just didn't think it was worth it. Could'a been a load of bull, a waste of your time."

"Very considerate," said Gunn. "In other words, you didn't want another visit from your paying customer. That sound about right?"

"No, I bloody didn't," Cooke agreed. "And besides, I'm here now aren't I? I came in as soon as I heard that press conference on the radio today. Hey, if there's nothing else is it alright if I get off?"

"Not yet pal," said Gunn. "We need to take a drive over to Neutral Bay first. You're going to point out the house that you took your fare too."

II

Long before cricket or even rugby league, Sydney's first love was gambling. It was in the city's DNA, going back to the early days when life or death under the burning southern sun was itself a game of chance.

The convicts had played 'pitch and toss', placing bets on the fall of two coins, and this basic but fiendishly addictive game was soon being blamed for endless brawls, stabbings and murders. It was banned, but not before taking a stranglehold that the authorities could do little to loosen.

By the start of the 20th century, the game – now known as two up – was still being played in taverns across Australia. It was especially popular with soldiers during the Great War and the Diggers continued to play on their return home, in open defiance of the law. As a result, two up's place in the national consciousness was sealed, with "Come in spinner", the traditional cry as the coins were launched into the air, becoming firmly embedded in the Australian vocabulary.

'Tommo' Thomson had done as much as anyone to bring this about. He had set up his first two-up school in 1907, one of dozens of such gambling dens in the city, but it had gained enormous popularity in the boom years of the 1920s, chiefly thanks to it's good-natured patron, who also happened to be incredibly handy with his fists in the event of any disputes.

Shortly before Saturday lunchtime, Tommo was standing at his living room window, looking towards the deserted row of shops at the foot of the hill. He may have been the gambling kingpin of the east side but for many years he had lived across the river in the North Shore suburb of Kirribilli, in a large wooden house with a view of the bridge.

Kirribilli had been a lively place when he had first moved here, but half the district had been bulldozed to make way for the bridge and the streets always seemed unnaturally quiet to him now.

Tommo was thinking, as he often did, about his impending retirement. He longed for the day he could leave the vomit-spattered streets of the Cross for good, and he had only stayed in the area for all these years because the cops were so easy to bribe and were usually as crooked as a dog's hind leg.

But somehow the locals had come to view him as the leader of their little community of ne'er-do-wells, the de-facto mayor of Kings Cross, and he was plotting the best way to announce his departure.

He was startled out of his daydream by the sight of two gaudily dressed women turning the corner into his road. There was Doreen Quigley, another broad and Jim Duxbury, a promising young boxer from the 'Loo Lads Club.

Marching up his tree-lined street they looked as out of place as a convoy of bounding kangaroos. Tommo sighed, although he was as puzzled as he was annoyed by such an unexpected visit. He flung open the front door before they could knock and bundled the trio into his back kitchen.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked. "I'll have the bloody neighbourhood committee on me back."

"Sorry Tommo," said Jim, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "They made me bring 'em."

"James," snapped the woman he didn't recognise, a five-foot firebrand with blonde hair, freckles and a low-cut dress that struggled to contain her enormous bosum. "What have I said about yer manners? Here, blow yer hooter on this."

She fished a handkerchief from her cleavage and mopped Jim's nose.

"Mum," the boy protested, his cheeks going scarlet with embarrassment.

Tommo blinked and shook his head, then stomped out to retrieve his beer from the living room window ledge, draining it in one gulp. What the hell was going on here? He returned to the kitchen and tried to regain control.

"Okay, Jim. Make yerself scarce, mate," he said, hoisting his thumb over his shoulder. Jim stood up, but Doreen Quigley shook her head firmly and he sat down again, looking as though he was about to cry.

"G'day Tommo," said Doreen. "This is Sally Quinn, you might remember her late husband, Donald."

Tommo placed her now, old Don Quixote's wife. He had died a few years ago, owing Tommo just shy of fifty quid but, after he saw his widow with a brood of sobbing kids at the funeral, he hadn't chased up the debt.

"Well," said Sally, her chin held high, "you was nice enough to let Donald's debt slide after he passed on and everyone says you are a decent sort, for a bloke who runs a two-up school anyways."

Tommo wasn't sure what to make of this compliment, but he nodded his head graciously.

"So Sally suggested that you might be able to help us, and I happened to agree," Doreen chimed in. "You've got your nice house here, and a tidy little pension put away no doubt. Yep, I reckon you've done pretty well out of Kings Cross over the years."

"Doreen, what the hell are you talking about?"

"I'll cut to the chase, Tommo. We want you to help us do something about Sharko."

Sharko. Not him again. The rumours about the mysterious killer had been flying faster, ever since the arm turned up in Coogee. And first Bill Gunn had come around asking questions, now this rabble was disturbing his peace and quiet.

"Doreen," he said, stalling for time as he tried to work out all the angles. "Don't tell me you believe that rubbish, love."

"It's not rubbish," snapped Doreen. "This has been going on for at least a year. There was another one, the same night they found the poor girl's arm at Coogee. Tell him, Sally."

"My pal Alice Chalmers, just a young kid from beyond the black stump, she just up and disappeared," said Sally, her eyes welling with tears. "She wouldn't have run off, Mr Thomson. He's got her, I know he has."

Tommo stood and retrieved four beers from the refrigerator, before twisting the tops off and handing them out solemnly.

"The cops aren't going to do nothing," said Doreen. "I know you sent big Bill Gunn up to see me but he doesn't care. So that only leaves you."

"What can I do, though, Doreen? I run a two-up school, not a bloody detective agency."

"If you won't do it for us, Tommo, do it for yourself," said Doreen. "Rat-a-tat Gattuso reckons he can protect us from Sharko if we pay him ten per cent. Like he can control him or something. Do you reckon he'll stop with us whores? Or will he come for the bookies and the two-up dens next, demanding more protection money so your punters don't get thrown to the grinners?"

Tommo stood up and stalked out of the kitchen into the back yard, feeling the sun beating down around him. He needed time to think. Doreen was bloody right, as usual. Protection rackets were one thing, but this was getting out of hand.

He wasn't sure whether Sharko was for real, but he was certain that Gattuso was behind all of it somehow. The Eye-tie had been the undisputed top dog in Sydney for more than a year now, which was around the same time that the stories Sharko had first surfaced.

Still, Tommo suspected it was just a tall story, cashing in on all the talk of killer sharks in the newspapers. He remembered stories of bunyips from when he was a young one, and reckoned that Sharko was from the same stable, a bedtime story for Sheilas and kids.

Most likely this was all be part of Gattuso's plan to control Sydney like his bloody hero Al Capone did in Chicago. Gattuso was telling everybody that if they didn't pay up, didn't stay in line, then Sharko would get them.

Tommo spat on the flags and stalked back into the kitchen, his eyes blazing. "Come on you lot. I'll run you back to the Cross. It's time we got back at this crafty bastard."

# III

Reg Holmes was hunched over a draughtsman's board in his office at the boatyard when his secretary buzzed him. He walked to the door and peered through a spy-hole into reception.

He saw two burly men in suits, chatting politely with Mavis, and breathed a sigh of relief. They must be the police, very much the lesser of two evils. At any rate, they were unlikely to burst into his office and shoot him in the head, or worse.

Suddenly, the larger of the two coppers strode over to the door and peered into the spy-hole.

"That you, Mr Holmes?" he boomed in a funny accent, Irish or Scotch or something. "I'm Detective Inspector William Gunn with the New South Wales Constabulary, and this is Detective Sergeant Alf Spiroza. Could we have a word?"

Reg was silent, and the bloodshot eyeball looking back at him narrowed slightly.

"That is you, isn't it Mr Holmes?"

"Yeah, it's me," said Reg. He opened the door and smiled weakly. "How can I help you officers today?"

"Good way to watch for door-to-door brush salesmen, I suppose," said Gunn, nodding at the spy-hole. "We've just a few questions to ask you, shouldn't take long."

"No worries," said Reg. His sleeves were rolled up and there were sweat patches under his arms, but when he summoned up the effort for a smile he seemed as welcoming as any dinner party host.

"Can I get you a cuppa? Or a cold beer?"

Gunn and Spiroza exchanged glances. They were both of the same mind when it came to the odd beer on duty.

"Aye, a couple of cold ones would be grand," Gunn said, examining the office. The walls of his office were lined with photographs of racing boats, many with a much-younger version of Reg at the wheel. A trophy cabinet stood in one corner, full of gleaming reminders of past glories.

They sat down around the desk and the boat builder triumphantly produced three beers from a cool box by the window. Then he opened a box of cigars, as thick as your thumb, beaming as proudly as if he had rolled them himself.

"Cuban," he said. "Romeo y Julieta. Why don't us fellows have a proper smoke?"

The men settled back contentedly in a growing pall of rich, blue fumes.

"Beauty," declared Reg, taking a swig of his beer. "Bet you're glad you called now, eh? So what can I do for you? Don't tell me there's been another robbery on the wharf. It's getting as bad as Balmain up here these days."

"No, it's not related to the boatyard," said Gunn. "It's actually connected with your house in Neutral Bay."

"Oh," said Reg. "But we haven't had any problems, as far as I know."

"That's good," Gunn said pleasantly. "Have you and Mrs Holmes been away on holiday recently?"

"Nooo, not recently. We went to Coffs Harbour at Christmas," Reg said. "Lovely place, Coffs."

"Lovely," agreed Gunn. "There's been a spate of burglaries around your neighbourhood and we're just trying to establish a pattern," said Gunn. "How often is your place left empty?"

"Not often," replied Reg. "I put in long hours down here, but we're lucky enough that my wife doesn't need to work."

"Indeed," Gunn said, puffing on his cigar. "Do you work weekends?"

"I don't have to do many seven day weeks these days, thankfully. We go out to the odd social thing at the weekend, but my wife and I are a very stay-at-home couple really."

Gunn inhaled a reassuringly expensive lungful and stared at Holmes through the pungent reek. This fellow was too cocky by half, he decided. It was time for one of his famous neck-high tackles.

"So on, let's say, three weeks ago on Sunday, you would have been at home all day?" he asked.

Reg's eyes widened in alarm. "Did I say that?" he began.

"I think you just did, Mr Holmes," said Gunn, smiling reasonably.

"You see," Spiroza said, cutting in, "we're working on the Coogee shark arm murder case and we've got a witness who puts the prime suspect at your house on that date."

"What?" spluttered Reg, coughing up cigar smoke.

"Aye, how about that?" added Gunn. "A reliable witness, a taxi driver, dropped a feller by the name of Paddy Brady off at your house. At about 2 o'clock in the afternoon. Ring any bells?"

Reg had gone a deathly shade of pale. "I don't know what you're talking about," he croaked.

"You should do," said Gunn. "You just told me you were home that day, and our witness watched Brady knock on your front door."

"I'm not having that," Reg said firmly, finally regaining his composure. "He never...Your cabbie must have the wrong house."

"Is that right?"

"I think I would remember a blood-splattered lunatic calling at my front door, don't you detective?"

"Who said he was blood-splattered?" Gunn sat forward and ground his cigar out in the ashtray.

"Didn't you?" Reg was turning paler than a Glaswegian's suntan.

"No." Gunn said coolly. He'd hooked the bastard, now it was time to reel him in. "Listen Mr Holmes, at the moment you aren't a suspect but if you keep lying to us then you will be. We need to know why Brady came to see you. Did he threaten you? Ask for money to get out of town?"

Reg was quiet for a moment.

"Paddy Brady," he murmured. "The name does sound familiar. Is that Paddy as in Patrick?"

No, Paddy as in bloody Alphonse Chevalier Brady, thought Gunn. "Now you're getting the picture," he said, as though speaking to a child. "Paddy as in Patrick."

"Let me see," said Reg, tapping his finger against his cheek. "I think I had a Patrick Brady working here as casual labour a few months back. I try to take on as many blokes as I can when I'm busy, do my bit for the economy. He was an Irish chap, as I recall."

"That sounds like him," said Gunn, smiling patiently. What a ham this guy was – unbelievable.

"But he was never at my house. I hardly even knew the bloke," Reg insisted. "Maybe he cut through the garden to a neighbour's place, you know, to use as a hideout. Maybe he was worried that somebody was following him."

This struck Gunn as an unusual thing to say. Brady had been worried about being seen in the taxi and now Holmes suggests, totally out of the blue, that he might have been followed.

"Or maybe he was coming to break in and rob the place," said Reg. "Oh jeez, he could've killed us both. It's a good job I was at home and scared him off."

"So you do admit you were at home that day?" Gunn asked, getting a bit tired of the whole performance.

Reg paused again. "No, I don't think I ever said that, detective," he offered carefully. "After all, we don't even know if it is the same Brady that worked here. I pay these blokes cash in hand, you see."

"How about your wife?" asked Spiroza. "Could he have been coming to see Mrs Holmes for something?"

"Not likely," Reg snapped, a flash of anger in his eyes. "My wife wouldn't have anything to do with that sort of a bloke, and neither would I. I don't know where you've got this cock and bull story from, to be honest. Some cab driver thinks he might have dropped somebody who looks like your man at a house that might not even be mine, and suddenly I'm a suspect. This is a bloody liberty."

Gunn shrugged, relieved that the man was finally showing some genuine emotion.

"I'm going to ask you to take a hike, detectives, while I get in touch with my solicitor," Reg said, but Gunn and Spiroza were already getting up and picking up their hats and suit jackets.

"You do that, Mr Holmes," Gunn said. "Thanks for the cigars, but I wouldn't go planning any trips to Cuba to restock any time soon. We'll see ourselves out."

### Chapter Six – The Sixth Day

I

The red-haired man stumbled as he was pushed into the main booking area of the stone lock-up in the centre of Alice Springs.

"This lucky bastard's goin' home, Freddy," said the sergeant, before slamming the iron door shut.

Fredericks looked up briefly from his prisoner records book. There had been trouble at one of the mining camps today, so they were clearing out the cells ready for the first wave of arrivals.

"Name?" said Fredericks, as the prisoner shuffled up to the desk.

"Roberts," replied the man, releasing a blast of alcohol fumes. He was a big man, huge in fact, and he spoke with a strong Sydney accent.

"Says Robertson 'ere."

"Yeah, that's right, Robertson," said the prisoner. "Paddy Robertson, from Melbourne."

Fredericks stared at the man, whoever the hell he was. He had been awoken at 2am from an alcohol-induced coma, but to forget his own surname? Unlikely.

Alice Springs was home to all manner of drifters, brawlers and ex-cons, but night after night, anyone thrown in the back of the wagon turned their pockets out for Walter Fredericks. What he didn't know about drunks wasn't worth knowing, and it was his view that a man who forgets his own name has given you a fake one to begin with.

On the other hand, the sergeant had said to turn him loose and Fredericks was not seeking any extra grief tonight. After all, whatever his real identity was, all the bloke had done was to get into a fight in a pub. It was hardly the crime of the century.

So he collected Roberts or Robertson's belongings and rattled them down on the booking counter. There was a set of car keys on a ring with a green leather fob, his bootlaces, a handful of betting slips and a brown leather wallet containing three shilling notes and a photograph of a pretty girl.

Robertson took the wallet and the keys and stuffed them in his pocket, then retrieved the laces and kneeled down to thread them into his boots, which were caked with red Outback dust.

"Just blowin' through are ya?" asked Fredericks.

The big man's knees cracked as he stood up. "Something like that," he said, before giving a cheery wave and swaying out into the night.

Fredericks walked into the squad room to put the kettle on before the first of the rioting miners arrived, not glancing at the notice board pinned with dozens of telegrams carrying the descriptions of wanted men from all over Australia.

Among the blizzard of mug shots was Patrick Brady, the chief suspect in the famous Coogee Shark Arm case and the same man who had just walked out of his lock-up.

Brady was so drunk it took him almost an hour to find his car, although it was still parked where he had left it the previous day before heading into town to put on a few bets. It was a Citroen Traction Avant with New South Wales plates, as rare as hen's teeth in Outback, and the dust ran an inch deep along the rear bumper.

The Traction Avant, popularly known as the 'gangster's car', was the world's most popular getaway vehicle because of a revolutionary suspension system that allowed it to escape at speed along even the bumpiest roads.

Brady rubbed the window with his sleeve and peered in at the rotting debris of his 1500-mile journey. He could see glass beer bottles and greasy food wrappers, empty tins of beans and soup, a sleeping roll and a pile of old newspapers on the back seat. The Sydney Morning Tribune, the Adelaide Advertiser, The Centralian – all carrying front page stories on the big murder case in Coogee.

Reluctantly, he opened the car door and stood back as the smell hit him like a wave. He had been planning on cleaning the Citroen once he reached Alice, but now he would just have to keep going as there was no telling when the police would realise their mistake and come looking for him.

Brady climbed in and reached for the glove box, feeling for his spare tobacco tin and the oily metal of his revolver. He rolled a smoke and, by the light of a gas lamp, emptied the bullets from the gun, checked the barrel and reloaded.

Once again, he tried to convince himself that the revolver was simply for his own protection. But thinking back to his last, terrible night in Sydney, it was hard not to be tempted by the idea of putting the muzzle in his mouth and pulling the trigger.

Eventually, as a grey flush began to creep up into the eastern sky, dimming the brilliant Outback stars, Brady replaced the gun, turned the key in the Citroen's ignition and drove on, northwards, determined to put still more desert between him and the cottage in Cabramatta.

II

Gunn stood at the rail of the police launch during the short crossing from Balmain East to Goat Island, home of the Sydney Harbour Police and the harbourmaster's office.

A sergeant was at the quay to meet him. "G'day," he said cheerily, shaking Gunn's hand. "I'm Ray Morey. Come inside and we'll get a cuppa."

They went through to a small office at the back of the building. The rest of Goat Island was a nature reserve and Sergeant Morey's window had a view of the tangled bush that grew around Sydney's shimmering, humid harbour.

Only the occasional mournful toot of a ferry broke the peaceful silence and Gunn wondered whether he should apply for a transfer. Sergeant Morey settled down across the desk.

"Right-o," he said. "What can we do you for you?"

"Well, we've got a possible lead in the shark arm case," Gunn began. "He's got a boat yard on Lavender Bay. Real tall poppy on the sailing scene and I thought you might know him. His name's..."

"Reg Holmes," finished the sergeant. "Don't tell me he's mixed up in all this."

"You could say that," said Gunn. "How do you know him?"

"He's a smuggler," Morey said. "Reg likes to think nobody knows about his little secret, but we've been on to him for years. We've just never caught him in the act."

"You're bloody kidding," Gunn said, whistling with surprise.

"Fair go," said Morey, obviously pleased with his information. "He's in it up to his eyeballs. Don't get me wrong, no drugs or anything. Just grog, furs, gems. High value stuff that isn't illegal, only Reg chooses not to pay the import tax."

"Has he ever been done?"

"Not yet," said Morey. "Like I say, he's fairly small beer and he isn't our number one priority."

"So how does he work it?"

"Clever, mate, clever. He builds motorboats for the rich knobs, right? And most of them never get them out of bloody second gear. So Reg's boats are moored up all over, and we think that a few of them are dummies, they've never actually been sold. They will be fitted with all kinds of hidden compartments. Now, with all the shipping that comes in and out of Sydney, there's never a shortage of merchant sailors who want to make a few quid by dodging the customs."

"Right," said Gunn, starting to get the picture. "So Reg goes out to meet the merchant ships out at sea and makes the pick up?"

"You've got it. Every now and again, off he goes – or more likely one of his boys – out beyond the four mile line, pitches up beside some ship and loads up with a hold full of booty the sailors throw overboard. The tars get a kickback and the losses are written off as wastage, and Reg races back to Sydney to sell the stuff on. To be honest, we'd never catch him in one of our old tubs anyway."

"Who does the fencing for him?" asked Gunn.

"Dunno, mate," said Morey. "Once he's back on land there's not a lot we can do. From what I hear though, he just gives a lot of it away dirt cheap to his high-flying pals. There were a few rumours that Eddie Gattuso had got involved, but then again he seems to be linked to everything that's going on these days."

"Holmes probably pays him protection money," agreed Gunn, thinking that the connections to Rat-a-tat were starting to stack up with alarming regularity. "Can I borrow your telephone?"

He called Spiroza at Surry Hills and told him to press ahead with the surveillance operation on Reg Holmes.

"The boat boys say he's up to his armpits in smuggling contraband for Gattuso's crew."

Spiroza whistled. "I knew that bloke was a larrikin," he said.

"Aye, well, he's also our best shot at solving this until Paddy Brady turns up so we'd better not spook him."

He cradled the phone and then asked Morey for one more favour, a lift across the harbour on one of his boats.

"No worries," replied the sergeant. "Where you headed?"

"Taronga Zoo," said Gunn.

Morey raised his eyebrows. "Just watch yourself around them lions," he said. "Remember what happened to poor little Albert."

Gunn waited at the railings near the ferry pier at Taronga Zoo, gazing out across the harbour from the northern shore. The wind had picked up and it carried the faint tang of eucalyptus from the nearby woods.

He was daydreaming about Evie Strathmore, whose call had brought him to this unfamiliar corner of the city.

"Detective?"

He turned to find her crossing the street towards him.

"Hello again," she smiled. "Phew, it's blowing quite a gale out here."

Gunn became horribly aware of just how windswept he must be. His hair felt as though it was standing on end and his eyes brimmed with tears.

"Aye, it's very refreshing," he replied, somewhat lamely.

Evie's dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, although a few strands had come loose and were whipping around her face. She was wearing rubber Wellington boots and canvas trousers, and the top two buttons of her white blouse were unfastened. Gunn had to rake his eyes upwards to stop himself from staring.

"You looked like you were miles away," said Evie, leaning her elbows on the railings and gazing out across the water.

"Just admiring the view," he said. "You wanted to talk about the Coogee case?"

"Well, yes and no," she said. "There was something else I remembered. A few months ago I did an interview with a reporter who was asking some unusual, about sharks getting a taste for human blood and so on. It never appeared in the newspaper at the time, but I just put it down to an overactive imagination."

"This reporter?" he asked. "It wouldn't be a chap named Arthur Phillips, would it?"

Evie nodded, surprised. "Yes, do you know him?"

Gunn raised his eyebrows. "You could say that."

"Well, I don't mean to imply that he's in any way involved but, you know, I just thought I should mention it," Evie said. "Anyway, I heard on the radio that you have a suspect."

"We do indeed."

"That's great news, it really is. Hopefully it will dampen down some of the hysteria out there, maybe even put a stop to this blessed shark cull."

"I don't have much pull with the mayor's office, I'm afraid," said Gunn.

Evie looked at Gunn with just a hint of a smile. "How are your sea legs, detective?" she asked.

"Call me Bill, please, and my sea legs are pretty good, I'd say. I survived the voyage Down Under at any rate."

"Fantastic, because I thought that perhaps you'd like to join us on a research trip. It should only take an hour or so."

Gunn was intrigued and, against his better instincts, he agreed to go along. As Evie led the way past the zoo gates, she launched into an impassioned speech about Australian ecology, ignoring Gunn's puzzled glances over his shoulder.

"We've already lost our largest land predator," she said. "The Tasmanian tiger is probably extinct, but we haven't learned a thing. Australia simply can't afford to lose any more of her natural heritage. Grey nurse sharks are native to Sydney and there has never been an unprovoked attack on a bather, yet if this cull goes ahead they will be gone forever within a few years. All because people are afraid of them; us afraid of them - how ironic."

"So what's the answer?" asked Gunn, wondering just what constituted an unprovoked attack. It seemed to him that just dipping your toe in the ocean could provoke the bloodthirsty buggers.

"First we need to understand them more," Evie replied, as she led him down a flight of stone steps to a secluded cove. "That's what we're trying to do here at Taronga."

They stepped out onto the pebble beach, where two men were loading equipment into a small fishing boat moored to the jetty.

"This is Ted Stokes, my colleague at the zoo's marine biology institute," said Evie. "And of course you've already met Culver Gale."

Soon, Ted was steering the boat out into the harbour. Evie disappeared below decks, leaving Gunn and Culver together at the rail.

"About the other day," Culver said. "I think we would both admit we got off on the wrong foot, am I right?"

Gunn grunted. "So what brings you along today?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Evie invited me," he replied. "I'm putting up some capital for her research programme and I enjoy seeing her incredible work first hand. She swims with sharks, detective. Nobody else in the world is doing anything like this. Have you heard of Yves Le Prieur?"

"Can't say I have."

"He was a captain in the French navy and he invented a portable air tank light enough to be strapped to a diver's back. A tube leads to a mouthpiece and delivers oxygen at the turn of a flywheel, allowing you to literally breathe underwater. Scuba diving, we call it. It's all the rage back in the States."

Gunn nodded, disliking the American more and more with each passing second, although for no good reason that he could put his finger on.

"Hey, I'm going to go get changed, okay," said Culver, seemingly oblivious to the lack of interest.

Gunn watched him go below decks, and then ducked into the wheelhouse alongside the man named Ted.

"Getting the scuba diving spiel, were you?" he laughed. "Culver's crazy about it."

"They're really going to swim with the sharks?" asked Gunn.

"Oh yeah, Evie's done it a hundred times and Culver's pretty experienced too. He was a member of this scuba diving club in Los Angeles called the 'Bottom Scratchers'. I reckon he should set one up over here, call it the 'Arse Ticklers'."

"What's your involvement with all this anyway?"

"I'm more of a traditional scientist, you might say. Grey nurse sharks have a bad press, because they're so inquisitive. Most folk panic when they see a fin, which in turn makes the shark panic. But they aren't overtly aggressive. They're more like dolphins, in fact, very social creatures."

Yes, but when was the last time a dolphin took a chunk out of some poor bugger's leg, thought Gunn. He said nothing, however, deciding he would need as many friends on board as possible.

"Don't get me wrong," continued Ted. "They're deadly hunters. They live on kingfish, so they have to be fast. When they accelerate their tails create a vacuum in the water that closes with a great slap, like an undersea sonic boom. Amazing creatures."

"Amazing," agreed Gunn, half-heartedly. They were out beyond Sydney Heads now, facing on-shore winds and a light swell.

A few minutes later, Evie emerged wearing a diving suit cut off at the thighs, the rubber hugging the enticing humps of her breasts, and the two men fell quiet, casting furtive glances at her backside as she bent over her oxygen tank.

Then Culver reappeared, also clad in a rubber diving suit, and as Gunn watched him place a hand on Evie's hips as she strapped the complicated network of gauges and tubing to his back, he realised why he had taken such a dislike to the man. It was jealousy.

Ten minutes later Ted cut the engine and began bustling about, lowering the anchor and double-checking the tanks, while Evie explained a little more about the research dive. They were a mile off Coogee, above an underwater reef that teemed with sea life, not far from the place where the infamous tiger shark had been caught.

Then she pulled on her face mask and within seconds they were gone, tumbling backwards over the side of the boat. Gunn watched them disappear beneath the inky water, leaving only a trail of balloon-like bubbles.

It seemed a long while before they returned, cold and exhilarated, full of the wonders of the reef. Ted poured brandy from a hip flask as Evie and Culver towelled themselves dry.

After a while, Gunn took his metal cupful to the stern rail, contemplating feelings that, like the air bubbles, were all of a sudden rising to the surface from some deep, dark place within him.

Evie joined him there as they entered the harbour, her cheeks glowing and her eyes sparking with life. Christ, she was pretty, he thought. Just like...well, just like Cathy. There, he'd admitted it.

"So what do you think?" she asked, snapping Gunn out of his reverie.

"About what?"

"About this crazy idea in the newspapers that sharks are starting to view us as their prey? Doesn't that worry you?"

"Should it?"

"When a shark attacks a bather it's usually because they have mistaken them in the surf for a seal, not because they are man-eaters. But any predator will become accustomed to a regular food source. Which, in this case, happens to be us humans."

"So you think somebody out there could be feeding them up with body parts?" Gunn ventured, thinking back to the horror stories about Sharko he heard from Doreen and the old soak in the whaler's mission.

"Most sharks are natural scavengers, as shipwrecked sailors throughout history have found to their cost. So, yes, if somebody put a body into the harbour then it is perfectly feasible that it would be be consumed by sharks."

"I have to say, Dr Strathmore, if you want to stop your shark cull going ahead you're going about it in the wrong way."

"Oh it's Evie, please," she replied with a heart-melting smile.

Gunn felt his mouth go dry and he struggled for words, eventually falling back on that old Glaswegian standby.

"Get you another drink?" he asked, waggling his empty tin cup.

"Just a small one," replied Evie. "Culver has invited me to some shindig or other later on tonight."

Gunn nodded and went in search of Ted's brandy bottle, his dislike of the wealthy American burning more intensely than ever.

III

A thunderstorm had broken across Sydney, sending the six o'clock swillers stumbling home much faster than usual.

The city streets were quiet, apart from a few working men rushing home late through the downpour, or well-dressed couples, sheltering under their umbrellas, on their way to dinner or a show.

Arthur Phillips watched the cars swoosh up and down York Street, splashing through the puddles. A quiet night for news, he thought, all the larrikins tucked up nice and dry at home. There wouldn't even be any highbrow stuff to report on, because most of Sydney's great and good were right here. And this shindig was hardly likely to get beyond the society pages.

Tonight was a black tie fundraiser and auction for the harbour bridge, and the state government had invited the deepest pockets in Sydney along to remind them how much they owed to the giant coat hanger.

The party was being held in the Grace Hotel, eleven stories of imposing grandeur right in the heart of the city. With over 350 suites, the Grace was said to contain the most comfortable beds in Sydney.

Not that Phillips would know about that, on a newspaperman's salary.

They were currently in the hotel's glittering ballroom, where the bar was probably raising enough money to make a serious dent in the state's mounting debt. The masses might have to stop their legal boozing at six, but the law didn't seem to apply in here.

Phillips remembered one particular government function in a Sydney public house a few years earlier. At six o'clock, or more like half past, the licensee had nervously approached a crowd of drinkers that had included the Prime Minister himself.

"Listen fellas," he had said, sounding understandably worried. "I've got to shut the bar. I could lose me licence here."

He hadn't even put his beer down, simply pointed up at the framed licensee's certificate up on the wall and said: "No worries, mate. Let me have that for a minute."

He'd called over the Attorney General, who had been standing nearby, listening to a sleazy story about a Hollywood film starlet, a beer in his hand too.

"Just endorse this for me," he commanded and the country's legal chief had signed it with a flourish. The certificate was soon hanging on the wall again, giving special dispensation to serve alcohol until midnight.

The Tribune had been desperate to get hold of it but by the next morning the altered licence had gone, and so the story became just another Aussie fable about crooked politicians and blokes who like a drink.

"Good weather for ducks," said a voice at Phillips's shoulder, the Dixieland accent as thick as slow-poured molasses. "That's what they say ain't it, Arthur?"

It was Culver Gale, the American oil tycoon. The story went that Culver was once a world player, as slick and powerful as the black gold that made his fortune, but now he was happy just to enjoy life Down Under, raising money for various good causes.

"Shithouse for us humans though, mate," Phillips grinned. He thought Culver was a rare breed, a wealthy Yank who hadn't let his millions go to his head.

Culver smiled at the reporter. "Is that the official weather forecast? Sydney soaked by shithouse weather? I heard grammatical standards were falling at your rag."

"You could find out if only your paw had taught you to read, you ignorant bloody hillbilly."

"I'm not a hillbilly, I'm Louisiana swamp trash. There's a world of difference," said Culver, before flashing his most winning smile. "And I'm a millionaire too. Did I mention that?"

Phillips just grunted, and drained the last of his whisky. Even if it was on expenses, the drink had cost him about three times as much as it did in his local, and he rattled the ice cubes pointedly.

"So what's this I hear about you getting into conservation, Culver?" he asked, when the American showed no sign of offering a refill.

"Let's just say it's a new passion of mine," said the American. "In fact, I'm glad you brought it up, because I wanted to talk some sense into you about this damn fool shark hunt you're running."

The Tribune's campaign had resulted in bulging postbags of letters claiming their one shilling bounty over the past few days, and every fish and chip shop within a hundred miles was now offering shark fillets on special.

"What can I say? It's the mayor who wants a shark cull, not us. Anyway, I expect it will all die down as soon as they catch this shark arm killer."

"I guess so," agreed Culver. "I just heard from Archie Barclay that Canberra wants the case cleared up quickly. It's bad for the wholesome Aussie image."

He pronounced Aussie to rhyme with Flossie and Phillips grinned, glad that somebody else had trouble with his accent.

"Barclay's here as well, is he?" he asked, craning his neck around the room, thinking of trying for a new line on the shark arm case. He couldn't see Sydney's police commissioner anywhere, but his eyes lingered on the curvaceous figure of Sybil Holmes, wrapped in a sequined gown and hanging tightly on to the arm of her reprobate of a husband, Reg.

Gale followed his gaze, then chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's get a refill before we talk some more," said the American, steering them both towards the bar. "The prices in here are criminal. Don't they know there's a Depression on?"

Across the room, in a booth of red leather seats, a group of men were huddled deep in conversation. As usual in Sydney, the law-breakers and the lawmakers were not far apart and Eddie Gattuso and several other 'businessmen' had been invited to the party.

The gangsters were attracting a few wary glances, however, and the other guests were obviously intrigued to see such a rogue's gallery in these refined surroundings. Many would have paid handsomely to know what they were discussing so urgently, too; a jewellery heist, a bank job, even a murder?

In fact, the conversation, like so many others in this city over the past 20 years, was about the great bridge across the harbour.

No sooner had construction started on the bridge, than the wool market crashed, plunging Australia into The Depression. Men had taken to the bush, walking the old wallaby track from town to town looking for work, for handouts, for any way to feed their families.

In Sydney the state government continued to pour money into the bridge, creating work for thousands and keeping the very worst of the hardships from the city's door. This had created a lot of hard feeling across the rest of the country, although at the same time Sydney's population had swelled by almost ten per cent.

Now it was finally finished and the state was almost bankrupt, but unwilling to ask for any more tax money to pay for the bridge.

"Who cares how long it took?" insisted Gattuso. "You got to look out for number one."

"They're eating crows in the Outback," protested Frank Thomson, who had reluctantly joined Gattuso's group at the table. "Least they should have done was put the bridge on hold until the economy picks up."

"Who gives a shit?" said Gattuso. "So the crow–eaters are starvin' in the dust. Screw 'em, they should build their own bridge.

"That's not right. They're just regular Aussies like us."

"Eddie's right," said 'Buster' Burnett, a bent Penrith property dealer. "We've got enough problems in here in Sydney, why should we do anythin' for them?"

Gattuso nodded, glowering at Tommo. The old boxer sighed inwardly; he hated being stuck with these pricks, but nobody else would ever have anything to do with him at these fancy dos. It was one of the many drawbacks of being the kingpin of illegal gambling in the city.

"Jeez fellas," Jack Mooney said. "I'm bored of the bloody bridge and bloody politics. It always ends in a ruck."

"So what should we talk about Jack?" asked Burnett, downing his brandy and soda.

"I don't know, how about the weather?"

The men cracked up. "The weather," laughed Gattuso. "Mate, you sound like my old Nan."

"Okay, okay, ya smart mouth mongrels," snapped Mooney, his short fuse burning. He knocked back his treble whisky in one gulp.

"How about the Sheilas?" suggested Burnett. "My missus has put the freeze on me again."

"Your missus has the freeze on you so often, she should be a fuckin'...penguin," said Mooney, the last shot going straight to his head. He giggled drunkenly.

"Come on Eddie, you're usually beating 'em off with a stick," pleaded Burnett.

"Okay, okay," said Gattuso. "How about a wager? Look around, pick any two-wheeler ya like and I bet ya I'll be rooting it later on tonight."

The men responded with a roar of appreciation and began stuffing notes into an empty beer schooner.

"Quiet ya galahs, everybody will think we've just hatched a plan to raid the Canberra mint," said Eddie, flashing his move star smile around the room.

Several of the men pointed out the curvy figure of Sybil Holmes, who glared back, forcing them all to look away.

"Not that uppity bitch," said Gattuso, catching Mooney's eye across the table, reminding him they had unfinished business with Reg Holmes.

"How about her?" he went on, nodding towards a brunette in a red dress. "Who is she anyway?"

"That's Evie Strathmore, mate," said Tommo. "She's the shark lover from Taronga Zoo, wants us all to go out and hug one of the bloodthirsty bastards."

"Great set o' ninepins on her though," said Gattuso, appreciatively.

"I've got it," cried Burnett. "The Olympic Sheila."

A tall and muscular blonde, a gold medal winning swimmer with powerful shoulders and eyes as blue as glacial ice, was one of several Australian sporting celebrities present.

"Look at them thighs," said Mooney, awestruck. "You could crush bloody walnuts with 'em."

"She can crush my nuts any time, mate," Gattuso replied. "After a night with me she'll be shipping water faster than the Titanic. Fellas, you're on."

He stood up and strolled over to the small knot of sportsmen and women, most of whom looked incredibly uncomfortable in their evening dress. Gattuso swiped a drink from a passing waitress, gave his cronies a wink and then stepped towards the Olympian.

Just then, a wry, fit-looking fellow in a green and gold blazer returned from the bar with a tray of drinks. Gattuso hadn't noticed him with the sports stars before, and his sudden appearance stopped him in his tracks.

"Here we go," said Don Bradman, the great Australian batsman. "Grab yourselves a cold one."

Everybody took their drinks and the small talk resumed, with Gattuso still standing on the edge of the group, smiling vacantly. The heroic Bradman was a living legend, a household name in every corner of the land, and Gattuso felt his confidence draining away.

After a minute or two, Bradman turned to Gattuso.

"Can I help you with something, mate?" he asked.

Gattuso was aware of people around them watching. It was one thing bullying his peers, or the Joe Schmoes who had the misfortune to stumble across his path, but this was Don Bradman.

"Just wanted to say good luck against the Poms," he said, weakly, before beating a tactical retreat back to his table.

"Didn't want to step on the Don's toes," Gattuso explained. "Take your fucking money back, the bets off."

The others just collected their notes from the schooner in silence. Even Buster Burnett was silent, with Mooney's bear-like paw clamped tightly on his knee under the table.

IV

Much later that night, Sharko sipped whisky from his glass and examined himself in the mirror in the bathroom of his hotel suite. He was still damp from the shower, with a towel wrapped around his waist.

His eyes had lost none of the fire of his youth, although his black hair was turning salt and pepper and his cheeks were a little saggy. Ancient scars marked his chest, and his arms and shoulders were still wiry and lean yet muscular. Yachtsman's arms, good for hauling rope and canvas sail. All in all, he thought, he was in pretty good shape.

He lathered shaving foam with a brush, spreading it thickly over his jowls. Then he ran the hot tap until more steam misted the glass, and held his cut-throat razor under the scalding water.

Wiping the mirror, he began to shave, slicing the stubble from his face with slow strokes of his wrist. He winced as he nicked his chin, and held the pearl handled razor under the tap to rinse. Blood rose in the foam, like a fresh strawberry in whipped cream.

"Darling, are you going to be much longer?" called a woman's voice from the other side of the bathroom door. "Only I'm really, really ready for you out here."

Sharko smiled. "Won't be long, sweetheart," he replied.

He finished shaving and peered through a crack in the bathroom door. The woman was reclining on the bed in a negligee, reading a magazine and chewing a fingernail, her bare legs tucked beneath her.

Sharko wondered whether she was turned on by all this luxury and romance, or was simply here for the money. He returned to the sink and splashed cold water on his face, leaving only the fresh blood flowing from his cut chin.

Then he rinsed the razor, turning the flashing blade carefully, and drying it off with two broad strokes on his towel, as though sharpening a vet's knife with a leather strop. The steel gleamed, sharp, deadly as the first cigarette on a cold, hungover morning.

Holding the razor behind his back, he clicked off the light above the bathroom mirror. As he walked into the bedroom, the girl's eyes glanced at the towel around his waist.

"Oh, darling," she said, sitting up and pushing her magazine to the floor, "Is that for me?"

##### Chapter Seven – The Seventh Day

I

Jack Mooney lived in an old house in Ultimo, a working class district of south Sydney. Not far away, the never–ceasing rumble of Pyrmont Power House, burning coal night and day to generate electricity to power the trams, the factories and the houses lucky enough to be on the grid.

Mooney had never got around to getting his place hooked up, however, and an oil lamp sizzled in the corner of his kitchen, casting flickering shadows on the wall.

Buster Burnett and some of the other boys had come back for a game of cards after the charity do at the Grace and when they left he had thrown the sash windows up to let out the cigarette fug. A cloud of fluttering bugs had found their way in, looking for an escape from the hot night air.

He stumbled over to the ringing telephone that had disturbed his sleep and picked it up.

"This better be good.." he growled.

"Jack," it was Gattuso. "We got a problem. He's only gone and topped one in the hotel."

"What? Which hotel?"

"The Grace, after that bloody party. Listen, we've got to get the body out. Can you get hold of your mate the night watchman and slip him a few quid, get him to take off for a few hours? I'll get some wheels and meet you at the back door."

"Boss..."

"Yeah, I know, but we need to do this thing tonight. And quickly."

An hour later, Mooney was pushing a linen trolley along the silent corridors of the Grace Hotel. He reached the lifts and descended four floors to the basement, before wheeling it along to the delivery ramp.

A delivery van from the Toohey's brewery, one of hundreds just like it on the city's streets, was waiting outside the empty night watchman's hut. Mooney pushed the heavy trolley into the back of the van and shut the doors.

Eddie Gattuso and the driver of the van were talking together out on the street, and at a soft whistle from Mooney the driver accepted a sheaf of bank notes and walked away into the gloom, his shoulders hunched and his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Gattuso and Mooney climbed into the cab of the delivery van and it lurched away, through the sleeping city towards The Rocks. They parked the van in a deserted alley, locked the doors and walked away, their hats pulled low and the collars of their overcoats turned up against the chill.

And by first light, as the dayshift workers began to arrive at the nearby factories and warehouses, the brewery van was already gone.

II

"More tea, love?" inquired Reg Holmes.

"Not for me, darl." Sybil smiled briefly, then returned to pushing scrambled egg around her plate with a fork.

Holmes poured himself a cup, added milk and sugar. "More toast?" he asked brightly, picking up the rack.

"I'm not really hungry, to be honest," Sybil snapped.

"Can I have your bacon then?" he asked.

Sybil just shrugged and stared out of the window, as Holmes scooped her untouched breakfast onto his own plate. The dishy detective was still sitting there in his car on the street outside, and she wondered if he would take a healthy appetite as a sign of a clear conscience.

The detective had arrived shortly after nine o'clock, just as Sybil had got up from her lie-in to make breakfast. She had returned early from the party the previous night, leaving Reg to carouse with his mates. God alone knew what time he got home, but he had at least had the sense to sleep in the spare room.

Reg had always been an early riser, and he was already up and off on one of his mysterious errands by the time she awoke. She had told the policeman as much too, when he had come to the door enquiring after her husband – he was a short and dark character with a twinkle in his eye, and he had introduced himself as Alf Spiroza. He had simply nodded his understanding, raised his hat and said a polite G'day before returning to his car to read the newspaper.

Reg had arrived shortly afterwards, bleary-eyed and reeking of stale beer and whisky, with some excuse about needing to check something at the yard. Needing a hair of the dog, more like, Sybil thought, as she had slapped the sausage and bacon onto the skillet.

"Why don't you just tell them what happened?" she asked now. Spiroza had returned to the house while she had been in the kitchen cooking breakfast, but Reg had practically slammed the door in his face.

She had been on at him to tell the truth, ever since they had identified Paddy Brady as the prime suspect in that horrible murder down in Coogee. Reg, on the other hand, was keen to pretend that nothing had happened.

"You've got nothing to worry about, have you?" Sybil went on.

Holmes took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, just managing to control his own temper, which was always worse when he had a hangover. "I've told told you..." he began, through a mouthful of fried food.

"Well if you won't, I will," declared Sybil. She stood up from the table. "I'm going out to tell that copper what happened."

Holmes swallowed hard and then banged his fist on his chest. "No, love," he said, coughing, but Sybil was already walking towards the door.

"Sybil, love, please," Holmes pleaded again. "I know what I'm doing. I can't have the police getting on to, you know, the other side of the business."

Sybil stopped and turned to look at her husband. The smuggling - which had helped bring them all this, the house, the cars, the holidays in the sun - had always been a taboo subject. She knew about it, of course, knew much more than Holmes thought too, but they had never talked about it.

Not even after Brady came to the house that terrible morning.

"They haven't got anything on me, love," Holmes went on. "I had nothing to do with that poor girl's murder, and the cops will work that out soon enough without me sabotaging everything we've worked for."

"They're going to find out about the smuggling anyway," said Sybil. Holmes flinched, as though the detective in the street outside could hear her. "Oh, come on Reggie," she said. "Of course they will. A woman has been murdered and they think Paddy did it. He worked for you for years, didn't he?"

"You don't understand..."

"I bloody do understand. This is serious, Reggie!"

"Exactly," Holmes stood up, walked across the room and took hold of his wife's shoulders. "That's why they won't care about my business. The cops have to catch a murderer, not just a bloke who occasionally dodges a bit of import tax. As long as I lie low for a while, there's no reason to get involved in this whole bloody mess. Just seeing my name in the papers could ruin me, Sybil love, don't you see?"

Sybil looked at him steadily with her easy gaze and lifted her hand to husband's stubbled cheek.

"But they know about Paddy," she said, gently. "The Greek detective said he came here after the murder. Why don't you just admit it, get it over with? Come on, how bad can it be? I'll stick by you, love, you know I will."

Holmes dropped his arms and looked like he was about to start crying. Then he stared up at the ceiling, breaking eye contact, and Sybil knew he was determined to tough it out, no matter what the cost to them. "Brady was never here, Sybil," he said. "And don't you go telling anybody he was either."

Holmes pushed past her and went upstairs.

Sybil knew he was lying. She had been sunbathing by the pool that morning and come inside for a drink. There had been crimson smears – she had initially thought it was red boat paint, and had been about to give Reg hell for it – on the banister rail, and she could hear raised voices from inside her husband's study

She went up to listen at the door but fled downstairs when she heard the sound of a chair being pushed back, deciding to wait in the hall to spy on her husband's mysterious visitor.

The study door slammed against the wall and somebody charged down the stairs. Sybil was wearing her black, two-piece bikini, a garment that could have got her arrested on some Australian beaches, and she knew she would grab the man's attention. She loved the effect she had on Holmes's business pals, the stuffy crowd from the sailing club, or the rougher types he knew from the boatyard.

But it was she who was stopped in her tracks. The man's hunted eyes reminded her of a rabbit in a snare, and he was streaked with blood from head to toe. Sybil felt goose pimples rise and prickle across her bare flesh. It was 90 degrees outside, but in the hall the air felt like ice.

She took a step backwards but the man marched quickly over to where she stood. "Keep this safe," he said, pressing something into her hand. "He doesn't know I took it."

And with that he walked out of the house. Sybil ran into the garden and when Holmes came out a few minutes later she was lying on her sun lounger, the prize that had been pressed into her palm already safely hidden. She pretended to be asleep, but behind the dark glasses her mind was taking her to places she did not want to go.

III

Evie Strathmore was in her office at the Marine Institute, reading the newspapers with a growing feeling of dread. Despite the fact that the poor woman whose arm had been found at Coogee had been murdered, and not killed by a shark, the public mood seemed to be turning vengeful.

The Tribune's shilling bounty for every photograph of a shark they had caught and killed was now being repeated in several other publications, and all of them carried editorials demanding the city authorities carry out a mass cull.

Much of Evie's work concerned grey nurse sharks, a threatened species that was native to the waters around Sydney. There had never been an unprovoked attack on a bather by a grey nurse, yet if the cull went ahead they would be extinct within a few years.

She sighed and reached for her morning mail, immediately noticing a telegram in amongst the letters.

Dr Strathmore (Stop) I saw you in newspaper (Stop) police don't care about us (Stop) Sharko killed Coogee girl and many more in Kings Cross (Stop) please help

The telephone on her desk gave a shrill ring, making her jump in her chair. It was probably Culver Gale, she thought, inviting her on yet another date to discuss her research funding. On a whim she stood up and headed out of the door.

Half an hour later, stepped off the tram at the foot of Bayswater Road in Kings Cross. The streets were bustling despite the sweltering midday heat and there was a tense, end of the holiday feeling in the air.

But amongst the sea of workaday faces, if you looked hard enough, were those still very much on the clock. Evie scanned the crowd, looking for some of the area's infamous prostitutes. Everybody seemed perfectly respectable, though, and she decided to try some of the quieter side streets.

Within a few minutes she came across a young woman standing under a white-barked gum tree.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for somebody who knows the area."

The woman fixed her with a blank stare, as Evie realised she probably wasn't as young as she'd first thought. "Really?" she asked, sceptically. "Listen, I'm not into other girls, if you know what I mean."

Evie coloured. "I just wanted to ask you about the man they call Sharko," she said. "I'll pay the going rate."

"You should be more careful about flappin' that mouth of yours," the hooker hissed, before hurrying away.

Evie walked on through the heart of the Cross, not quite knowing what to do next. She headed down towards Rushcutters Bay, magpies squawking above her in the trees, and wandered into a residential area, where small wooden homes with tidy gardens lined the sloping streets.

She was watching children playing jacks in an alley when suddenly she felt a sharp point digging into her back. The kids stopped their game and stared at her for an instant before running away. Evie watched the rubber ball they had been playing with quickly lose its bounce and roll to the gutter.

"Get down 'ere before I stick yer," growled a voice in her ear.

The blade jabbed sharply into her skin and a clammy hand grabbed the scruff of her blouse, propelling her into the alley. She could imagine, in blood-soaked detail, how easily the steel would slice into her kidneys.

"Who sent you?" growled her attacker, so close that his stubble grazed Evie's ear.

"Wha, what do you mean?" she asked, terrified.

"You stutterin' bitch," growled the voice. "If you're with Sharko I'm gonna kill you, that's what."

Evie was too stunned to say anything. She should be given a chance to talk her way out of situations like this. That was how it worked, her brain spluttered. You were always given a second chance.

Then there was a loud thump, a gurgling noise and suddenly the knife at her back was gone. Evie heard a body hit the ground – and not her own, she was pleased to note.

She turned to find Bill Gunn standing over an unconscious hood, an evil-looking kitchen knife lying on the ground by his feet.

A second man ran forward from the shadows, swinging a heavy leather cosh, and Gunn leapt out of the way, almost stumbling on the cobbles, but recovering enough to land a right handed blow on his opponent's skull.

The hood was off balance and he staggered slightly from the punch, and then doubled up in agony when Gunn swiftly kicked him in the groin. The big policeman finished him off by whacking his elbow on the back of his opponent's neck.

"Were they after your handbag?" he asked, breathing heavily.

"I don't think so," said Evie. "I think they wanted to kill me."

"Unlikely," said Gunn. "What the hell are you doing around here anyway?"

"I could ask you the same question."

Gunn grinned. "Didn't take you long to recover from the shock, I see," he said. "Come on, let's get the hell out of here."

He turned and walked back down the alley.

"Hey, wait," Evie picked up the kitchen knife and kicked her assailant in the ribs with all her might, then set off after the policeman.

"What about those brutes?" she demanded. "And this bloody great knife? They were going to kill me. Aren't you even going to arrest them?"

"What's the point? Robbers are ten a penny in the Cross these days," muttered Gunn, but he grabbed the knife by the handle and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Then he marched back down the alley and handcuffed the two groaning figures together.

He blew his police whistle and as they waited for some uniformed constables to arrive on the scene, Evie suddenly realised that she probably owed the detective her life.

"Thanks for that," she said sheepishly. "I'm still a bit shaken."

"How about I buy you a drink?" suggested Gunn. "I could do with one and I'm sure you could."

Evie watched the detective weave his way back from the public bar of the Empire Hotel on Darlinghurst Road carrying a schooner of beer and a gin and tonic. She felt very hedonistic, drinking in Kings Cross in the afternoon. And this would be her second one, the first having slid down rather too quickly while she explained about the mysterious telegram and her snap decision to play gumshoe.

"So what do you think then?" she asked as Gunn sat down. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "About Sharko?"

"I haven't a bloody clue," said Gunn, truthfully. "But if I was pushed, I'd say he's no more than a bogeyman, a story that has been going around in response to all the recent shark attacks."

"What about the arm at Coogee?"

"Murder victims have been thrown in the harbour before now, and probably eaten by sharks too. It doesn't mean there is a serial killer on the loose. The rest of her body could wash up on a beach tomorrow."

"I can't believe you are taking such a hard-nosed attitude. No wonder my telegram said the cops don't care."

"I'm just playing devil's advocate, that's all. At the moment there's only one murder that we have any evidence of, even if it is only an arm. I have to concentrate on that one."

"Wait a minute, you knew about this already didn't you? That's why you were asking all those questions on the boat, about somebody throwing body parts into the sea?"

"Oh, fer crying out loud," he said. "Right, drink up, there's someone I'd like you to meet."

Gunn was back in Doreen Quigley's cosy lair, sitting opposite Evie Strathmore at the wooden dining table that had been covered with rumpled underwear on his last visit. He was rather enjoying the bemused expression on the marine biologist's face.

"You were good enough to take me along for a day at your work, so I thought I'd return the favour," he whispered.

"You call this work, do you?" Evie replied, arching an eyebrow.

Doreen clattered three mugs of tea down on the table. "So who's this young lady again, Billy?" she asked, jabbing a cigarette in Evie's direction.

"My name's Evie Strathmore," she replied, colouring slightly.

"Dr Strathmore was almost turned into a human pin cushion, Doreen," Gunn growled. "All because she was going around asking about you and Sharko. Now why would anybody want to do that?"

"Maybe Miss Strathmore should've said who she was, instead of sneakin' about," Doreen said. "I told you we wasn't getting any protection from the peelers, Bill, so we've had to organise our own."

A pot of soup was bubbling away merrily on the stove, and Doreen ladled some of the thick broth into two bowls and plonked them down on the table.

"Sorry," she muttered, as she retrieved two spoons from a drawer. "The boys don't know no better sometimes."

Evie smiled graciously and tasted the soup, but Gunn eyed his bowlful suspiciously.

"You ungrateful bugger," she cried. "Eat up, I've not bloody poisoned it.

"Whose boys, Doreen?" Gunn asked. "Gattuso's?"

Doreen lit another cigarette and sat down at the table. "Oh, I suppose I might as well tell yer," she said. "They're with Tommo."

"Oh, Jesus," Gunn sighed, putting his head in his hands. "This gets bloody worse."

"He only got involved last week, after you gave me short shrift about investigating Sharko," said Doreen.

"We still don't know that this isn't a fairy story though. Still sounds more like Gattuso and Tommo playing silly buggers to me."

"Sharko's for real, and everybody knows it except the bloody coppers," said Doreen. "Mums are scaring their kids with him, sayin' Sharko'll get yer. He's no fairy story, mark me. Now what are you goin' to do about it, Bill?"

Gunn was rattled. It wasn't the old scrapper's style to get involved with something like this without good reason. He would have to go and have a word with him, they couldn't have hoods stabbing every stranger who wanted to get his leg over in Kings Cross.

He looked up to find both Doreen and Evie watching him expectantly. Now he had two bloody women getting on at him to investigate the bigger picture.

"I'll see what I can do, okay?" he said. "Doreen, if you hear anything else call me at Surry Hills and we can set up a meeting. But first I'll need to have a word with Tommo and get him to call his mob off. I don't want to be arresting you and him for conspiracy to murder now, do I?"

"Good on yer Bill," said Doreen.

"Now, how about I give you a lift home, Dr Strathmore?"

Evie insisted she wanted to return to the zoo, so afterwards Gunn simply carried on a few miles to the seaside at Manly for a meeting he had arranged with Alf Spiroza. It was another unbearably humid day and he was relieved when the rainstorm arrived in the early afternoon, bringing with it a powerful wind that bent and buffeted the tall palm trees along the esplanade.

Gunn walked quickly from the ferry terminal to the Manly Hotel, where he ordered a rum and ginger ale – known as a 'dark and stormy' - in tribute to the weather. The welcoming lounge and the glowering grey skies outside reminded him of Scotland, but he did not want to go down that route today. He tried to force himself to think over the case instead.

"G'day Bill," said Spiroza, when he arrived at the Manly Hotel ten minutes later, shaking the rain off his hat and finding his partner standing by the bar, staring morosely out of the window.

"Are you alright, mate?" he asked.

"Aye," replied Gunn, sadly. "What can I get you?"

"A beer would be grand, ta."

"So, any movement from that little weasel yet?" asked Gunn, after they had retired to a booth in the corner of the snug.

"Late start this morning," said Spiroza. "A neighbour said Reg and Sybil were at some fancy party in town last night."

"Humph," Gunn was not impressed.

"Yeah," said Spiroza. "And it gets worse, mate. Guess who else was at that piss up? Only Archie Barclay."

"Bloody figures."

Sydney's police commissioner was a yachting buff, forever boring the pants off anybody who would listen about his pride and joy, a tub called the Sir Robert Peel.

He and Holmes were both members at Mosman Sailing Club and if their suspect knew the chief, it was going to make his life even more difficult. Then again, Gunn knew the boat builder was mixed up in the Janet Smith murder, right up to his barnacle-encrusted backside, and if he thought a quiet word with Barclay was going to put him in the clear then he had another think coming.

"Come on, Snapper," Gunn declared, downing his drink. "Let's go and pay a visit to the pullover around the shoulders brigade."

Mosman Sailing Club was in Middle Harbour, surrounded by steep hills and some of the wealthiest homes in Sydney. Hundreds of yachts and pleasure boats were moored at the marina, although many of them never even left their berth.

The club secretary was unable to shed any light on Reg Holmes, other than confirming his membership. The barman wasn't much use either, or any of the quietly hostile drinkers.

"This place charges like a wounded bull," said Spiroza, surveying the prices. "No wonder everybody buys Reg's smuggled hooch."

They spent another fruitless hour walking around Middle Harbour in the heavy rain, questioning the yachties sitting out the downpour in the bars and cafes. But nobody seemed to know Reg and Sybil all that well, or if they did they weren't keen to admit it.

The bay was divided neatly in two by a long spit of land, with a swing bridge across the narrow channel at the northern end. Gunn heard a bell ring and turned to see the bridge being slowly lowered back into place, allowing three cars, a brewery cart loaded with beer barrels and a dozen or more pedestrians to get on their way. The bridge keeper waved them through and then returned to his hut.

"Let's go and have a word," said Gunn. The bridge keeper had a youthful air about him, but the deep lines on his face gave away the fact that he was probably well over 60. Gunn made the introductions and asked where he could find Reg Holmes's boat.

"Well, I could take you to it," said the bridge keeper, puffing contentedly on his pipe. "But you'd get pretty wet. It's sunk out in North Harbour."

"When did that happen?"

"Two or three weeks ago," said the bridge keeper. "Hit a floatin' tree or somethin'."

"You don't say. Who was on board at the time?" asked Gunn.

"It was just Mr Holmes, and he hopped straight into a dinghy. Between you and me though, I heard the insurance won't pay out. Mr Holmes spent a lot of brass on her too, so he's powerful unhappy."

"Why won't they pay out?" asked Gunn.

"Who knows?" said the old boy, shrugging. "He's a good sailor, but if you go out in the middle of the night you're always taking that risk."

"Did he often take the boat out in the middle of the night?"

"Sometimes, I guess, but it's not all that unusual. Sometimes that's just when the tide and the weather are right, or when the fish are bitin'. Why, what are you fellows gettin' at?"

"Just trying to get a picture of him," said Gunn. "Do you keep a record of who goes in and out of the harbour?"

"Nope, nothin' like that, folk are free to come and go as they please. I should go and raise 'er up," the old boy said, nodding at the bridge.

"Who lifts the bridge at night?"

"Bridge is closed between ten and six, but folk can just moor up on the other side of the Spit. Now you come to mention it, Mr Holmes's boat was there quite often in a morning."

Gunn nodded, his brain whirring. "Thanks pal," he said. "We've kept you long enough."

The bridge keeper loped off towards his cabin, responding to the frantic gestures of a waiting yachtsman with a drawled shout of, "Hold yer horses!"

"That puts Holmes out on the water, in the middle of the night, not long after Janet Smith's murder," said Gunn, as they hurried back to the car. "He could have dumped the body parts for Brady."

"Then deliberately sunk his yacht to wipe away any evidence," said Spiroza.

Gunn smiled. "Sounds like a theory to me. I don't care if the bastard is Barclay's favourite sailing buddy, I'm bringing him in."

IV

The 1930s had so far been a golden era for Hollywood. Claude Rains in The Invisible Man, Katherine Hepburn in Little Women and King Kong, launching the Hollywood action picture from the spire of the Empire State Building.

But when The Public Enemy, starring James Cagney and Jean Harlow, was released in Australia in 1931 Eddie Gattuso had been locked up in Long Bay jail. It had taken him several months and almost 50 pounds to arrange a private screening in the guardroom.

He was released just in time for Scarface, Howard Hughes' Capone flick starring Paul Muni and George Raft, and still went into a cold sweat at the thought of missing that picture.

How much more punishment could one man take?

Eddie was paroled in 1932 and he stepped out in the chilly June wind, turning his face to the watery sunshine. He had served two years, the only serious time he had ever done, for his part in the armed robbery of a Campbelltown bank, and he was determined never to do anymore.

Not that life inside had been too tough. Eddie was already a rising figure in Sydney's underworld when he went to prison, with a reputation for ruthless cunning and random, stomach-looping violence that he had not earned lightly.

During his time in Long Bay, Eddie and his mob on the outside had been able to gain control of a lucrative gambling operation, and he still had control over his old protection rackets and a percentage of all the goods that disappeared from the Balmain wharves.

The gangland infighting that had engulfed Sydney left the way clear for Eddie to muscle into Darling Harbour and the Rocks, and finally to tap into the rich seams of lust-driven lucre being made in Kings Cross.

All he needed was an edge. And he found it one night shortly after his release from prison, walking on the dunes near the refugee camp at Bondi, the Pacific breakers roaring in his ears. The night he met Sharko.

The Daimler lurched down the secluded dirt road to Sharko's shack, pulling up in the chaotic and cluttered yard. Gattuso shook his head and tutted with disapproval. "Looks like a croc dodger's hovel up north," he muttered.

Soon, Sharko appeared from around the corner of the house dragging a sack, a heavy one judging by his awkward steps. He emptied a bundle of gore-stained bedsheets and clothing onto a spluttering fire in an old oil drum, before tipping on a liberal splash of gasoline and sending a rocket of flame into the sky with a violent whoomph.

"Afternoon," said Sharko. "What can I do for you this fine day?"

"Need to ask you a favour, blue," said Gattuso. "Got to stop killing so many people."

A choking, acrid smoke began to fill the yard with the foul, abattoir tang of roasting fat.

"I love a good fire," said Sharko, inhaling deeply. Through the heat and the smoke his face took on a demonic glow. "You know, Eddie, your hero Big Al Capone used to dish up free Thanksgiving dinners to the poor folk in Chicago. Maybe you should do the same in Sydney, stop the people eating rabbits. No meat on a rabbit."

Fireflies rose from the flames, crackling and popping around Sharko's head.

"Not that sort anyway," he added with a cackle.

Gattuso felt his temper rise. The psycho was taunting him, taking the piss out of him, calling him a cheapskate. Capone made 100 million bucks a year, he could afford to give away a few turkeys and pumpkin pies.

But he bit his tongue and swallowed the bile, knowing that if all went to plan he would soon be rid of Sharko.

Gattuso looked over at the boat in the creek. It reminded him of some famous old painting, the trees and the water lit by the bright glow of the late afternoon sun.

Suddenly, the water seemed to bulge. Gattuso stared as a slate-grey dorsal fin emerged, cutting through the shallow creek like a knife across the stomach, before disappearing as fast as it had arrived.

Gattuso blinked, putting it down to a trick of the light. He wasn't having any of this claptrap about Sharko being able control the sharks, but the sight had unnerved him. The bloke gave him the creeps, no doubt about that.

"Pretty impressive, huh?" Sharko's eyes, reflecting the fire, were fixed right on him, as though he knew what Gattuso had just seen, exactly what was going on his mind.

"What?" Gattuso was rattled.

Sharko raised his eyebrows. "The view," he said, chuckling again. "I assumed that was what you were gawking at."

Gattuso said nothing.

"Hey, I'm glad you're here. Could you give me a lift? I haven't got my car and we can talk business on the way."

Sharko nodded over at a low block of outbuildings, where Gattuso saw the burned-out shell of the brewery van. He shrugged and as the fire began to burn down, they walked together back to the Daimler. The reassuring clunk of the door; the feel of the leather seats; the gleam of the oak dash; these things always put Gattuso at ease and he quickly shook off the horrible unease that had crept up on him talking to Sharko and seeing that...thing in the water.

"So, where we goin' then?" he asked, as he gunned the car back up the hill away from the creek.

"Take the back road towards the city," said Sharko. "What did you want anyway?"

"We need to talk about your little performance on Friday night," Gattuso replied. "First you land us in it with the Smith broad. You were supposed to take care of Paddy Brady, not his bloody girlfriend. Now you're killing whores in a five star hotel."

"So what do you expect me to do?" asked Sharko, sounding more than a little put out. A sulking serial killer, Gattuso thought. Now he'd really seen it all.

"Just what I asked you to do," he snapped. "Stop killing people for a while."

"I'll do my best. But listen, what are we going to do about Brady? I told you what happened, he never showed at the cottage or I would have taken care of him as well."

"Don't worry about Paddy," said Gattuso. "He's no more problem than a mozzie. I can just reach out and swat him."

"Speaking of irritations," said Sharko. "Some copper called Bill Gunn has been asking some awkward questions around the Cross. He's like a fucking dog with a bone."

"Gunn? Is that the Pom?"

"Nah, he's Scotch. Anyway, I want him taken off the case. Permanently."

"Are you sure about this?"

"He wouldn't be missed. From what I hear, old man Barclay would probably throw a damn party."

"I'll think about it," replied Gattuso. "But much as I'm enjoying our little chat, where the bloody hell are we going?"

Sharko directed them deeper into the suburbs, heading towards a range of low, bush-covered hills. "Do you have any idea why I do what I do?" he asked quietly.

Gattuso was taken by surprise by the honesty behind the question. Then he remembered he was the boss of Sydney and he could say what he liked to whoever he liked.

"Because you're a murderin' pervert," he said. "You get a kick out of it, you like screwin' girls then cuttin' 'em up. Why you chuck 'em to the sharks, I haven't got a fuckin' earthly, but there you go. You're a sicko."

Sharko smiled indulgently. "I remember a flood one spring when I was a boy. All sorts of things came floating along through the fields. Dead cows, painted fences and trees, whole woods of 'em sailing out to sea. The farmers and sharecroppers, there was nothing they could do to stop it. It was power, Eddie. I could feel it even as a boy, the raw power of nature."

Sharko pointed to the side of the road by a small wooded area with few houses. "Pull over here," he said. "We're going take us a little walk, there's something you got to see."

The Daimler bumped off the road and onto a muddy grass verge. Sharko climbed out of the car and set off into the woods, with Gattuso following. The sun was sinking low towards the distant Blue Mountains and Gattuso patted his jacket pocket, feeling for his gun.

"This a nature ramble?" he yelled. "Never had you down as a Boy Scout."

But Gattuso watched his step carefully as they went deeper into the bush. These hills were full of funnelwebs, the world's most dangerous spider, hiding in holes in the soft, sandy ground, as well as eastern brown snakes, red-bellied black snakes, eastern tiger snakes and death adders lying hidden in the leaf litter.

Sharko was unconcerned as he barged on down the stony path, continuing with his story. "Man thinks he has tamed Mother Nature, but that's horse shit. She has tamed us. We can't control droughts or floods; can't stop snakes, spiders, crocodiles or sharks. Does that not make you angry?"

He led them further into the bush and the sounds of the city – a distant hubbub of traffic and church bells, wirelesses on a million kitchen windows – were slipping away now, replaced by the snap and rustle of the wilderness.

"Nah, me neither," said Sharko, when he didn't get a reply. "Until one day something happened that started me thinking. Nature can fuck us over any time she wants, but what if I could turn the tables? What if I could, even for a second, control nature? That sort of power, well, phew, that'd be something, I thought."

A new noise could be heard now, a high-pitched squeaking, growing louder and louder as they walked, like a hundred mice caught in a trap. Or a hundred thousand.

Gattuso looked up into the trees, expecting to see a colony of flying foxes but there were none, the branches green and verdant against the pink sky.

"So I decided I would try and control nature, and that's why I do what I do. Sure, maybe I like screwin' girls and choppin' 'em up too. But that's nothin' compared to the feelin' when you have nature in the palm of your hand. The natural world, everything that ever flew, fought or fucked, right there in your grip. Eddie, I've gotta tell ya, it's something else."

Then the world exploded, a dark storm bursting forth from out of the ground behind the grinning fiend, streaming into the evening sky, turning it from blushing peach to thundercloud black in an instant.

Gattuso's ears were filled with white noise. Things whizzed past him in all directions, flying beasts, bumping and grazing his head, spewing from the earth as though fleeing from a roaring furnace.

Bats! Gattuso had been here before, he realised, the cave in Gordon where the millions of flying foxes in Sydney roosted during the day. They flew each evening at dusk, swarming across the city to feast on the fig trees that grew in every park and on every street corner.

It was like being inside a whirlwind. And there, in the midst of the chaos and confusion, was Sharko, standing tall as the flying foxes poured all around him, like a torrent that he had personally conjured up from hell.

Then Gattuso blacked out, either struck on the temple by one of the giant bats or because his exhausted brain gave in under the sensory overload. When he came to it was dark. The bush around him was silent but seething. There was no sign of Sharko, so he struggled to his feet and pushed his way back to the road, terrified of stepping on a snaky e or a funnelweb.

His Daimler was right where he had left it, without even so much as a flat tyre. How had the bludger got away from here, he wondered. As ever in his dealings with Sharko, right back to that strange and horrific night on the dunes north of Bondi, he was left with the unsettling impression that this had all been a figment of his imagination.

V

From Stokes Hill Wharf the city of Darwin looks like a tropical fortress high on a rocky bluff. Anybody arriving by sea must follow a path that leads up a winding stone staircase, cut deep into the rock and offering cool, damp shade from the burning sun.

Once the visitor arrives on the plateau, the fortress becomes a pleasant country town, swept by the breeze that slides in from the Timor Sea every afternoon. Darwin is cooler than the rest of the Top End, the tropical half of Australia's Northern Territory.

Relaxing on a bench outside the town hall or browsing the shops along Smith Street, you could be forgiven for thinking you were in Wollongong or Ballarat, instead of just 100 miles or so from Java.

That is, if you ignored the giant fruit bats, the hundreds of dragonflies in hues of red, yellow or blue, the coconuts lying in the gutters or the crocodiles, deadly box jellyfish and tiger sharks lurking in the harbour.

Flowers bloom all over Darwin, wreathing the city in purple and scarlet, as the cyclone-weary Wet gives way to the fuse-bright months of the Dry. Each year around the end of March, life in the town became a whole lot sweeter.

Darwin retains a curiously Asian flavour, like a tablespoon of cumin in an Aussie meat pie. The night markets on Mindil Beach serve rice and black beans, bird's nest soup, and Thai fish sauces. For the brave there are delicacies like deep-fried grasshopper and shots of snake's blood.

As well as the shrewd Chinese and Thai traders, the town is home to Japanese pearling fleet owners and their divers from Malay or Borneo, even a small community of Afghans, cameleers whose parents and grandparents helped settle the vast Outback.

In the Pioneer Hotel on Mitchell Street, a group of six Timorese pearl divers were loudly celebrating their good fortune on the horse races, broadcast live over the wireless from Rockhampton.

They were a jovial group who chain-smoked pungent roll-ups whilst drinking whisky or, in some cases, endless cups of hot tea. They wore bright patterned silk trousers and white vests, further decorated with jewelry and colourful bandanas.

The bets had been flying thick and fast, although several of the white men in the bar had not fared as well as the Timorese, who had become more and more triumphant with each race. One of them, a pot-bellied fellow with a goofy grin and a shell necklace, had to be restrained from dancing on the tables.

One large white man at the bar, a burly Irish character with red hair, tired eyes and terrible sunburn, seemed particularly irritated by the group. The bartender had instantly recognised him as a newcomer to the Top End, haunted by mosquitoes and lack of sleep.

After dark the sea breeze swung off shore and Darwin became steamier than it had been at noon. There was no six o'clock swill in the Territory, and a popular way to avoid sweating into your mattress for hours each night in a futile search for rest was to drink until you passed out.

The Irishman swore under his breath and muttered. "Look at them. Like a troop of bleeding monkeys."

He had introduced himself as Brady, a Sydneysider who had travelled north to look for work in the mines. The bartender, polishing a glass, said nothing.

"Where'd you say they were from again?" asked Brady, slurring slightly. He'd been in the Pioneerer for four hours now, drinking steadily and moaning about Darwin; the mosquitos, the heat, the lack of decent pies, the number of "Abos" and "chinks".

The bartender had borne it all with good humour. "Timor, mate," he said wearily. "Give 'em a break. They're here to work, same as you. Just celebrating a win on the gee-gees, that's all."

One of the Timorese, a short, tough-looking man with a silk, flower-patterned shirt unbuttoned over his vest, wandered over for another round of whisky and ice water.

"Hey," said Brady, reaching over and grabbing a handful of his shirt. "I reckon I know how you got so lucky on the horses. Look at this clobber. You're a jockey!"

The white blokes at the bar roared as the Timorese man pulled away, glaring at Brady.

"A jockey, mate," he hooted. "You're about the right size too, ya midget!"

The short man glanced back at his friends, then broke into a wide grin.

"A jockey," he said. "You a funny fellow, mate. Hey, can I buy you a drink?"

"At least he's not too shy to put his hand in his pockets," Brady said to the barman. "Go on, I'll have another beer."

The Timorese paid for the drinks, then walked back to his friends, all eyes following him now. Brady seemed to have put him in his place, but you never knew.

Then the goofy character with the shell necklace stood up and began performing a passable jockey impersonation, his cheeks puffed out, one hand wielding an imaginary whip and the other wiping sweat from his brow. The whole group cracked up, several of them almost falling off their stools with the hilarity of it all.

"Hey my mate," called the short man. "You too fat to be a jockey!"

"Martha," yelled the barman, reaching under the counter for his Gunn & Moore cricket bat as Brady's stool clattered on to the wooden floor. "You'd better get the coppers out here love.

### Chapter Eight – The Eighth Day

I

Archibald Barclay's office was on the top floor of the police headquarters on MacQuarie Street. The building was a former British Army barracks, just north of Hyde Park, and it retained a military atmosphere, a lingering reminder of stiff upper lips. At least, that was what Gunn thought as he stood awkwardly to attention while the commissioner signed off some papers.

"At ease, Detective Inspector," Barclay said at last. "Have a seat."

Gunn lowered himself into a chair and waited.

"You'll have heard the latest dispatches from the Territory?" asked the commissioner, stroking his thickly waxed moustache and raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, sir. Paddy Brady was picked up in Darwin last night."

"It's going to hit the news stands tomorrow, so they tell me, after which the glare of publicity will inevitably fall on your investigation, Bill. Are you ready to charge Brady with Janet Smith's murder?"

"Not yet, sir."

Gunn outlined his suspicions about Reg Holmes, from his links to Eddie Gattuso to his nocturnal boating excursions. Barclay harrumphed a couple of times, but otherwise failed to react with overwhelming delight.

"So where are we going with this?" he asked, scowling.

"Bring Holmes in," Gunn said. "Give him a proper interview."

"Why?" Barclay asked. "He has no reason to cover for Brady."

"I think he does. Brady must have been involved in the smuggling – he was no working Joe, labouring in a boat yard for a few quid a week. So maybe he threatened to blackmail Holmes unless he helped him cover up the murder. Those body parts had to get out to sea somehow – what better way than on one of Holmes's boats?"

"It's one theory, but there's not one shred of evidence to support it," Barclay said. "In fact, I think you're barking up the wrong tree. Now that he's finally been caught, I want to see Patrick Brady on trial for this murder and I want it to happen soon."

The commissioner sighed and Gunn realised that, despite all his progress, he was still about to get bumped from the case. He elected not to mention anything about his growing suspicion that a murderer was stalking Kings Cross, killing maybe dozens of unfortunate souls without raising so much as a whiff of police suspicion.

"This has been the most high-profile murder in the city for years. I'm under a lot of pressure to get it cleared quickly, without it causing any further embarrassment to Australia."

Pressure from where, Gunn wondered – from the state governor? The press? Even the prime minister himself? Or was it maybe just a pal at the yacht club?

"I think the investigation could benefit from some new blood, some new ideas," Barclay was saying. "So I've decided to bring in Sid Worth and Henry Mulligan from here at Macquarie Street. You'll still be very much part of the team."

"With all due respect, sir," Gunn said. "I'm certain Reg Holmes is very much involved with this murder and I don't think we can cover that up."

"We aren't covering anything up," snapped Barclay. "I don't know what your agenda is, but I don't care for it one bit."

He sighed and continued in a more reasonable tone. "Please don't interpret this as a slight on your abilities, Bill. You did well to get us to Paddy Brady, but I think you are making this case much more complicated than it need be. It starts and finishes with Brady, and Worth and Mulligan will be concentrating their energies on gathering evidence against him. You would be well advised to do likewise, instead of looking for conspiracies where there are none."

Gunn couldn't believe it. This joker Holmes must have some oomph, getting his name removed from the frame as comprehensively as that.

"What about the smuggling?" Gunn asked again. "The bloke's a bloody crook."

"As far as I'm concerned, the matter is closed. I don't want to hear another word about it. Besides, the decision on what to do with Holmes rests with Sid Worth now."

Gunn saw spots dancing before his eyes. He fought against his rising fury, but as usual, his temper won hands down. "Your pal Reg must have given you some bloody good whisky," he snapped.

"What?" spluttered Barclay, catching Gunn's drift. "I didn't quite hear that, Detective Inspector."

"Really? I said it loud enough."

"Right, I've had it with you, you insolent bugger! You'll be mucking out the horses in the police stables come tomorrow morning, mark my words!"

II

Evie Strathmore was on her way to La Perouse, a bleak peninsula on the northern shore of Botany Bay. It was named after an 18th century explorer who had briefly claimed Australia for France, without realising that Captain Cook had already planted the Union Jack a few miles up the coast.

The area was now home to a government camp housing many of Sydney's fifty thousand or so Aboriginals, and Evie knew the so-called Blackman's Camp as one of the saddest places in the whole of the Lucky Country.

She had been summoned by an odd telephone call from the police, who wanted her help with a murder investigation. Somebody had been slashed to death the previous night with a knife made of shark's teeth, a common Aboriginal weapon, and the detectives wanted her help identifying the type of shark, the age of the teeth and so on.

Presumably, with all the wild talk about killer sharks and bodies being thrown into the sea, they simply wanted to ensure they were following up every possible lead. But still, the police had never sought her help before and now suddenly she was being consulted on two separate murder investigations. She thought back to her mysterious telegram about Sharko – 'cops do not care' – and felt a shiver run down her spine

The tramlines did not run as far as the camp, so Evie drove down from the city in one of the university's staff cars. There were several reporters on the scene at the La Perouse Hotel when she arrived, as well as a dozen or so policemen. A cordon had been strung around the blacks-only bar – the so-called 'animal bar' – and a sign in the yard warned: 'No Drunkeness, No Spitting, No Fighting'.

Evie had been a passionate campaigner for Aboriginal rights at university, angered by their treatment at the hands of the egalitarian Australian society that most folk were so proud of. Occasionally, you would see an Aboriginal in the street, sometimes drunk or sleeping rough, but usually just going about his or her business. And sometimes you saw Aboriginal kids with white families, part of the government's new policy of 'assimilation'. But for the most part, it was easier just to forget about Australia's original inhabitants altogether.

However, murder was murder, even in Sydney, and today the spotlight had fallen on this dusty camp down on the shores of Botany Bay. The bay itself was as flat as a salt pan this morning, while the smelly chemical works that crowded the northern shore added a pang to the proceedings.

Evie approached a friendly-looking constable, identified herself and asked for the latest. "Flamin' Abos," he replied. "Like animals, the way they carry on."

"What happened then?"

"Dunno. Probably a fight over grog that got out of hand. Could be it was some sort of tribal justice thing."

"Tribal justice? What makes you say that?"

"If one of 'em has committed a serious offence, like rape or murder, the top Abos can punish him. Cut the tendons in his legs, cut his back with a machete, beat the daylights out of him basically. Could have gone too far this time."

Evie grimaced and asked the constable where she could find the detective in charge. She fervently hoped it would be Bill Gunn, but when she walked into the pub she found two plainclothes men she did not recognise.

"Can we help you, miss?" asked one of the men, giving her a hungry leer. He was a tall thin man with greasy blond hair and he was chewing a wad of tobacco.

"I think I can help you, actually. I'm Dr Evie Strathmore from Taronga Zoo's marine biology institute, you requested my assistance to identify the shark teeth on a murder weapon."

Greasy Hair shot his colleague a puzzled glance, mouthing the word 'Zoo'. "Nobody here asked for your help, love," he said, turning back to Evie with a grin.

"Yeah," said the second detective, a big lump with the jowls of a well-fed butcher. "We're lookin' for an Abo, not an escaped lion."

Greasy Hair sniggered. "Somebody must have got their wires crossed, Dr Strathfield," he said.

"Strathmore. But I was called at my office, told to come straight down here?"

The Butcher shrugged his shoulders. "Somebody's pullin' yer leg," he said. "It happens."

"Hang on, weren't you involved with the Coogee shark arm thing?" asked Greasy.

"I was the one who cut it open after it died."

"Right." Greasy turned to the Butcher and whispered: "That was Barclay's idea, remember?" "I think MacQuarie Street might be starting to see you as good publicity, Dr Strathfield

He turned back to Evie. "Listen, sorry if we got off on the wrong foot there. I'm Detective Inspector Sid Worth, this is my partner Henry Mulligan. Now you're here, you might as well come on through and take a look."

Evie was ushered through the saloon style swinging doors into the whites-only bar. It was hardly a hive of activity. In fact, there was just one other policeman in there, a uniformed constable interviewing the well-fed white landlord over a couple of schooners of cheap beer. Mulligan went over to join them, leaving Worth to beckon Evie into a corner.

"I think MacQuarie Street might be starting to see you as good publicity, Dr Strathfield," he said. "You know, call you in as a consultant on a nasty job like this or Coogee, let the press boys lap it up."

"So it's nothing to do with my professional expertise then?" Evie said sarcastically. "Because I was under the impression that nobody in the New South Wales Constabulary knows Buckley's about sharks, despite the city's mounting death toll."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," replied Worth, smirking once more and stopping by a table containing a fearsome collection of knives, hammers and axes.

"These were all been recovered after the beano last night," he said.

"I thought it was a punishment beating gone wrong?"

"One of the journos tell you that? Jeez, the imagination on those guys."

Worth picked up a wooden knife, about ten inches long, with six jagged teeth embedded along one edge, more like an artefact from a Bronze Age burial ground than a pub brawler's weapon.

"We think this is the murder weapon, found it in the bushes out the back," he said. "They tell me the Abos use 'em instead of metal blades."

Evie carefully took the knife from him, running a finger along the yellowing incisors. There were smears of blood on the handle, but the teeth themselves were clean.

"We reckon the killer must have wiped it off, probably on his shirt, before chucking it. What do you think?"

Evie nodded. "These are tiger shark teeth," she said, feeling a strange rumbling of fear as she held the knife up to the watery light filtering in through the grubby window. "You can tell from the grooves along the cutting edge."

"I thought so," said Worth. "Scavengers, yer tigers, they eat anything. They can bite through an oilcan if they take a mind, to it. Me, I'd say the white has better teeth for a knife. Sharper, more pointed, like a lion's fangs."

He took the knife from Evie and put it back on the table.

"Hundreds of years old, some of these. Worth quite a bit too."

Evie nodded. "How do you know all this?" she croaked, dry-mouthed. "About sharks, I mean?" Through the window she watched the last of the press corps driving away in a spray of pebbles and dust.

As she spoke, she felt a movement behind her and a hot, beery breath on the back of her neck. A hand clapped her on the shoulder and she wheeled around to find Mulligan looming over her. "Fishin'," he said. "Scissors loves his fishin'."

"I bloody do, Henry," said Worth, breaking into a broad grin. "Caught a bloody great mako shark last year. Six foot long if it was an inch. I told you we aren't all as ignorant as your pal Bill Gunn."

Evie smiled politely, backing out towards the door. She decided that now was not the time to bring up the subject of Sharko. "Well, it's been nice meeting you chaps, but if you don't need me anymore I should be getting back."

"You take care now," called Greasy, giving her a little wave and a leer.

Evie stumbled out into the fresh air and walked back to her car on jelly legs, running over the encounter in her mind as she accelerated away in a trail of dust. The telegram had planted a seed of doubt about the police, she thought, leaving her feeling spooked and paranoid. Those two coppers were just a couple of ordinary dumbos, surely? Lots of Aussies knew all about sharks, they were just another fish to be hauled out of the sea and barbecued.

Still, she knew that she wanted to speak to Gunn, and fast.

III

"G'day Mr Mooney." The youth, a cap pulled low over his eyes, was eating an apple in the alley by a greengrocer's shop opposite the Woolloomoolloo Lads Club.

"G'day mate," said Jack 'The Loony'. He may have been a gangster, but he was an Aussie gangster, and therefore all the usual standards of Aussie mateship applied. Sydney's villains were a close-knit bunch, apart from when they were dispatching each other to the morgue at an alarming rate with guns, knives, clubs, bats, broken bottles and sharks.

Jack ducked in through a side door in the alley and trotted up the stairs two at a time.

"G'day Glenys," he said to a woman behind a table at the top of the stairs, reading a pulp romantic novel and chewing gum.

Glenys Calderbank was a fierce old bird, and she had worked at Tommo's two-up school for years, guarding the game room like a squawking magpie protecting her nest.

"Mr Mooney," she said, giving him the fish eye over the pages of her book. "Tommo said you can go straight on through. His office is the third door on the left."

Jack moved on without a word. Eddie was right, he thought, this was exactly the reason why Tommo was such a pain in the arse. Leaving a message to say he was "allowed" to go through, like he was some bloody errand boy. He felt like chucking Glenys down the stairs, then bursting in and beating the piss out of the old bastard, just for the hell of it.

He stuck his head in the game room and play stopped as everyone turned to look at Jack's furious mug, causing him to feel much better as he soaked up the fear and tension he created.

"Get on with it then," he said. "I'm here to help Tommo arrange his next crack at Joe Louis, but you blokes never heard it from me."

There was a ripple of half-hearted laughter. Still, the ice was broken and the players went back to the serious matter of handing their hard earned pay over to Tommo, one wager at a time. Jack walked down the hall and through the third door on the left.

"Knock knock," he declared, then stopped dead, surveying a poky room that was unmistakably the bathroom. The old boxer himself was lounging in a leather-bound chair, as though preparing to address the board of the National Bank rather than lurking in a Kings Cross shithouse.

"G'day, Jack," he said, looking up and rising slowly from the chair. "I got those tickets for Eddie."

He gave Jack two tickets for the premiere of Top Hat, the latest Hollywood hit starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. It was showing at the Palace the following week.

"Huh," Jack grunted, stuffing the tickets in his pocket.

"Not a fan, eh?"

"Bloody Pom fairy. I don't know what Eddie sees in these pictures. Gimme a footy match any day."

Tommo grinned, then lifted the rubber plant on to the floor and gestured to the toilet lid. "Here, make yourself at home and have a cold one. Cheers."

"Yeah, cheers."

Jack, still not happy, perched on the hard dunny lid and sipped his beer. He often got the feeling that Tommo was somehow taking the piss out of him. The old buzzard must have been pushing 60, but he squared his shoulders and cocked his chin as though challenging the world to knock him down. His weary yet defiant expression made it seem as though he was studying Jack from his stool across a boxing ring.

"So what's up Jackie?" asked Tommo. "Couldn't Eddie have got somebody else to come and fetch the tickets?"

"Yeah, that's not the only reason I'm here, Tommo," Jack was frustrated. "Eddie wants a meeting, somewhere nice and quiet. Get all the boys together to talk business. He's not happy about all these fizzgigs running around town."

"Couldn't agree more, mate," said Tommo, smiling at Jack's use of the Sydney slang for a police informant. His boss would have used a Yank word like rat or snitch.

"Anyway, Eddie wants to make sure the message is getting through. Anybody turns fizzer, we cark the bastards."

"Right you are," said Tommo, wondering what point Eddie was trying to make. Had his long-standing arrangement with Bill Gunn finally come to light? It was doubtful, but still he suspected this visit would be connected to the rapidly disintegrating wall of silence surrounding Gattuso's supposed new bogeyman, Sharko.

"There's more, Tommo," Jack swallowed some beer. "Eddie thinks you're off your game a bit. He doesn't want any heat from the cops, not now we've got so much action in the Cross."

"Bullshit," said Tommo. "I'm sharp as ever. I keep the coppers well paid down here, so I always get plenty of warning if anything's going down. Eddie knows that. Hell, I tip him off about raids."

"Yeah, but these are rough times and the Cross is getting rougher. All those old rozzers you've been paying off for years are retiring," Mooney said. "Maybe its time for you to do the same, before your old ticker gives in."

Tommo glowered at Jack the Loony, a fearsome brawler and multiple murderer thirty years his junior, and fought the impulse to smack him on the jaw.

"Now we've even got these bloody vigilantes, 'sposed to be protecting the girls but really they're just threatening folk and stirring up trouble. You know anything 'bout that Tommo?"

"Nope."

"The Cross is our turf now and anybody who sticks their nose in gets it bust for 'em. So if you do hear who's runnin' those boys, you tell 'em to back off or they're goin' to be shark bait."

This was no idle threat, Tommo knew, but he still reckoned any hit would more likely be at the hands of Jack the Loony here than some mysterious bunyip. Jack had personally bumped off at least three blokes that Tommo knew of, and if he had got away with those murders what was to say there weren't others?

What if he was Sharko?

Still, Tommo wasn't going to give up his two-up school to Gattuso without a fight. "You go back and tell the organ grinder I'm not going anywhere," he said. "And in future, if he wants to threaten me, come and do it himself."

"Eddie might just take you up on that offer," Mooney said, pleased that Tommo was getting worked up but missing the significance of the organ grinder crack. He thought it was maybe some kind of racial thing. "Him or someone else anyway."

"Who, this bloody Sharko?" Tommo snorted. "Be Captain Blackbeard gonna come and visit me next. Was there anything else, or are you going to piss off and leave me alone?"

Jack stood up and slapped the empty bottle on the desk. "Keep your hair on, Tommo. One last thing, you haven't seen that old mucker of yours lately have you? The Jock copper?"

"Not lately, no," said Tommo.

"You used to train him, I heard?"

"Yeah, so what? That was years ago," Tommo said. He thought of Gunn's visit the other day, on the trail of Sharko, and alarm bells began ringing in the back of his mind. "If I do see him I'll be sure and pass on your regards," he added.

"You do that, mate. I'll be off then."

Jack the Loony walked out, leaving Tommo wondering what the hell he was going to do. It wasn't good for a bloke, all this pressure. He grabbed another Tooheys and wandered through to the game room, where the steady flow of coins and notes into the house kitty soothed his spirits as it always did.

IV

Later that afternoon, Gunn and Spiroza were in the Strawberry pub in Surry Hills, a short walk from 'B' district headquarters, where Gunn was working steadily on his Tooheys while devouring a large meat pie smothered in tomato ketchup.

"Hungry, Bill?" Spiroza asked.

Gunn belched in response before washing down the last mouthful with a huge gulp of beer, just catching part of a muttered observation from Spiroza on Scottish cuisine.

"...better than a flamin' haggis," he was saying with a chuckle.

"Have you ever tried one, Snapper?"

"No."

"Well, dinnae knock it then, you bloody savage."

Spiroza shook his head sorrowfully, before standing up to make his way to the crowded bar. Gunn drummed his fingers on the table, trying to forget about his suspension. Barclay had relented on his threat to send him to the police stables, but instead he was on gardening leave until further notice.

It could have gone a lot worse, he reflected, but on the other hand seven days was not a great run on what could have been the biggest case of his career. And besides, he didn't even have a garden.

"You ever go in the sea, Alf?" Gunn asked when his colleague returned with two schooners of iced beer.

"Nah, mate. I'm not the greatest swimmer," replied Spiroza. "Then there's the rub-a-dubs and the footy and the sheilas. I reckon there's better things to do in Sydney than muck about in the bloody sea."

He paused for effect. "Especially when it's full of bloody sharks."

Gunn laughed. "Can't say it appeals to me either," he said. "In fact, I doubt many folk will fancy a dip now."

"You'd be surprised," said Spiroza. "This isn't the first summer there's been a big panic on because of sharks, and it won't be the last. Come next January everybody will be splashing around in the surf again like nothing ever happened."

Gunn shook his head and took a long drink of beer. Ever since they identified Janet Smith, the case had charged headlong towards Brady and Holmes and Gattuso – and Gunn had allowed himself to become sidetracked from investigating Sharko. He had never even broached the subject with Spiroza, reasoning that they had enough to do without chasing more shadows.

Perhaps he had also been afraid of ridicule but now that he was effectively washed up on the force anyway, what the hell did it matter?

"Hey," he said. "Let me tell you a wee tale about what else has been going on these past few days..."

Spiroza listened politely, but he did not seem convinced. "Sounds like a ghost story," he said. "I just don't believe Sydney has its own Jack the Ripper runnin' around."

"Aye, maybe, but I bet if the Ripper had tidied up after himself nobody would've heard of him, either. I just can't shake the idea that we haven't even scratched the surface of this case. What if there's killer out there and we are letting him slide?"

"I reckon you should take some time off, mate. Go up the coast, or to the Southern Alps. You'll love it, it's freezin' down there. Barclay will see sense, he knows you're one of his best men."

Gunn nodded and got up to take his turn at the bar, returning to find Spiroza sitting with a thoughtful expression on his face.

"I just remembered somethin'," he said. "A while back Bert Cross was telling me about an inquest for some poor girl from up beyond the black stump. She comes to Sydney and ends up on the game in Kings Cross, usual story, and then took a dive out of a tenement window near Moore Park, four floors up."

"I think I remember it," said Gunn. "Wasn't she an addict?"

"Well, yeah, most likely. The uniforms found a used spike by the window," said Spiroza. "But Bert said old Doreen Quigley was there at the coroner's court, claiming the girl had been terrified of some bloke. Called Sharko."

"That must have been the girl Doreen was telling me about," said Gunn.

"Yeah, well, Bert thought it was hilarious at the time. 'Not more bloody sharks', he says. I remember thinkin' this character could've been her pimp."

"Or her killer. Come on Snapper, this is more important than keeping Barclay sweet."

"Jeez, Bill, you're worse than the wife for naggin'. I'll see if I can dig out Bert's crime report on the dead girl, okay?"

"Thanks Alf. There should be records from all these reports Doreen says they've made too. Probably filed under d for dustbin but you never know."

"You never know. Hey, how about one more for the road?"

"No ta," Gunn said, breaking into a smile. "I've got a date at the funfair, believe it or not."

The grinning face loomed towards him, wide-eyed and thick with circus make-up like a jester on amphetamines. The giant clown's head seemed to be howling with laughter as it swallowed up hundreds of happy folk, chewed them up and spat them out, their heads spinning and their pockets empty.

Gunn shuddered. When the statue that marked the entrance to Luna Park started to seem more like some terrible guardian at the gates of hell, it was time to call the funny farm.

As a young child, he had felt the same way about the laughing policeman at Blackpool Pleasure Beach. Perhaps that was where he got the idea to join the force, he thought now, some sinister mind control from a revolving clockwork bobby?

"Cheer up Bill, you've got a face like a wet Wednesday," complained Evie. "If I'd known you were going to be such a grouse, I would have suggested we meet somewhere more fitting. Like a cemetery."

"Sorry," Gunn smiled and shook his head, then crooked his elbow for Evie to take and they were swept into the clown's grinning mouth along with the rest of the early evening throng.

He had to admit that Luna Park, the new funfair built at the water's edge in the shadow of the bridge, had a vibrancy about it that restored his spirits. Perhaps it was the oily rattle of the mechanical chains, the screaming passengers, the sweet smell of candyfloss, which all reminded him of gleeful times as a little lad on his summer holidays in Blackpool.

They rode the rollercoaster, the dodgem cars and the waltzer, which made Gunn feel ill but had Evie screaming with delight, her darkly shining hair whipping around her face. Afterwards Gunn bought two bags of roasted chestnuts and suggested a walk down to the water, hoping to let his stomach settle. As he watched the lights twinkling across the harbour, Gunn felt the strange sensation that he was becoming detached from reality.

It was not a pleasant feeling, and it only got worse as Evie told him about her run-in with the two detectives Sid Worth and Henry Mulligan at La Perouse.

"Do you know them?" she asked.

"Aye, I know them alright. Fact is, they'll probably be replacing me on the shark arm case come tomorrow morning. They're as bent as nine bob notes. Sid Worth's known as 'Scissors' 'cause he's cut up and stuck together so many confessions."

"So what if they're connected to Sharko somehow? I can't tell you what a hungry look that man Worth was giving me."

"That's just Scissors being his usual charming self. Nah, I don't believe they're involved with the murders. Worth and Mulligan are not above the odd bribe but nothing like this."

But even as he spoke, Gunn thought back to his conversation with Alf Spiroza in the Strawberry. Could somebody from within the police be covering this up?

Evie looked as though she was about to speak, but then she suddenly nodded towards a ramshackle old shed decorated with howling green ghosts and red-eyed werewolves.

"While we're on such a scary subject, let's go on the ghost train," she said with a wicked grin.

Eddie Gattuso folded his newspaper and sauntered around the back of the ride to a fire door that was propped open by a wooden stool. Jack Mooney was sitting on the stool and nursing a carbine machine gun, an unconscious ghost train employee tied up and gagged in the shadows behind him.

"Here they come," said Rat a tat, pulling on his balaclava. "It's the fucking witching hour."

The carriage clanked into motion with a jerk, causing Evie to grab hold of Gunn's arm and hold on tight as they rolled towards the entrance. He felt light-headed again, and wondered whether it was from fear or stress – or possibly, just maybe, the long-buried stirrings of an altogether more powerful emotion. He did not want to say it, even to himself. Even thinking of the word made him far more terrified than any ghost train ever could.

Then ghouls howled and lightning flashed and the carriage suddenly surged forward, sweeping them inside the house and into total darkness, the doors clacking shut behind them.

They found themselves travelling along a book-lined corridor beneath a high window, a full moon shining brightly behind Dracula's castle. Cobwebs brushed through Gunn's hair and a false panel spun around, revealing a yellow-eyed butler holding a flickering candlestick.

There was a scream from far-off in the depths of the house, and the butler spoke in a hollow, disembodied voice.

"Welcome... to murder mansion! We've been expecting you."

"I don't like this," Evie whispered. "How can they let little kids on this ride?"

"Don't be scared, babe," Gunn replied in a macho American voice. "I'll look after you."

Just then, with killer timing, a rubber bat dropped from the ceiling and dangled on a string before Gunn's face, causing him to jump.

"My hero," Evie said, laughing.

They clacked through another set of doors, into a long tunnel with cells running along either side. It was cold in here, as though somebody had left a door open, and Gunn suddenly felt apprehensive.

"This is more like it," he said uncertainly.

A shadow loomed on the wall ahead that seemed out of place in a haunted house, more like something from a James Cagney picture. Then, from out of the shadows, a man in a trenchcoat and a fedora stepped out onto the side of the track, holding a machine gun.

Evie screamed, as a flash of light revealed the man's face beneath his hat to be nothing more than a pair of eyes in a black void. "Say your prayers, copper," he said, with a thick Sydney accent, levelling the gun barrel right at Gunn's chest.

But in the split-second before he pulled the trigger, a heavy cell door swung open and knocked the gunman off his feet. A deafening burst of gunfire filled the tunnel as a model mummy was shoved out into the path of their carriage with a terrible howl.

Evie screamed and the carriage lurched on quickly, the mummy retreating at the last moment, allowing them to pass within inches of the gunman, who was sprawling on his backside at the edge of the tracks.

Gunn stared helplessly, realising that the shooter was wearing a balaclava and also, in the same instant, knowing that he had seen the eyes before somewhere... The man took aim again just as Evie pushed Gunn down into the narrow foot well and dived on top of him, bullets zinging off the carriage and sending sparks flying as they burst through the double doors at the end of the tunnel.

"Are you okay?" coughed Gunn, finding his voice at last. He raised his head as the carriage slowed again in a laboratory full of bubbling chemicals and flaming Bunsen burners.

"Fine, I think," replied Evie.

"Grand. Come on, there's a door," Gunn said, pointing towards the back of the lab. They leapt out of the carriage, but the display was cluttered and progress was painfully slow. Gunn helped Evie climb over a wooden bench, spilling a rack of test tubes full of different coloured liquids, when out of the corner of his eye he saw the double doors swing open again.

"Hurry up, he's coming," he yelled, flinging himself over after Evie and landing in a heap on the floor.

The shooter ran in and opened fire at the carriage again, strafing blindly as he walked up the track before finally registering it was empty. He stared at the shredded leather seat and dented ironwork for a moment, and then glared furiously around the darkened laboratory.

"The creature is...alive!" boomed an echoing voice. The figure of a white-haired scientist began to gyrate as thunder rolled and a flash of brilliant light dispelled the gloom.

"Go, go, go," hissed Gunn and they scrambled towards the door, just as Frankenstein's monster reared up into life from his slab.

The shooter spun around and opened fire, the hail of bullets tearing into the green-skinned model and knocking his head off at the neck bolt.

Just then, the next carriage arrived in the laboratory carrying two teenage boys, who took a moment to take in the scene of carnage before them - the smell of cordite, the smoking ruins of the display and the gangster clambering up from the track - before leaping out and running back the way they came.

Gunn and Evie reached the emergency exit door and tumbled out into a corridor lined with timber beams and wooden framework. Gunn grabbed a loose plank and tried to wedge it under the door, before giving up and running down the passage.

"Hey!" Footsteps echoed in the bowels of the ghost train. "Get back here, yer ruddy bastards!"

A bullet - a single shot, this time - whizzed past their heads. Evie reached the corner first and turned to safety, but Gunn glanced back over his shoulder to see another balaclava-clad villain in hot pursuit.

Then the door from Frankenstein's lab swung open again and the first gunman emerged, his coat covered in dust and dirt. He barged into the other hood, knocking them both off balance.

Gunn just had time to dive around the corner before another burst of gunfire tore into the wall, churning out white plaster dust and wood chippings. At the end of this next corridor the sounds of the funfair flooded in like a cavalry charge, and seconds later they were outside.

Gunn turned and slammed the heavy wooden door shut behind them, before fleeing through Luna Park with Evie at his heels, his mind numb and his breath coming in ragged, wheezing gasps, the evil laughter from the ghost train still ringing in his ears.

Chapter Nine – The Ninth Day

I

Sydney Morning Tribune

#### SHARK ARM SUSPECT HELD

MURDER suspect Patrick Brady – the most wanted man in Australia – has been arrested following a riot involving up to 50 desperadoes in a public bar in Darwin.

Brady, 32, from Canterbury, was apprehended following a violent clash on Saturday evening with police, local men and a group of immigrant workers in the Northern Territories capital.

New South Wales Constabulary want to question Brady about his involvement in the events that led to Punchbowl woman Janet Smith's arm being discovered inside a shark at Coogee Bay Aquarium last month.

Detective Inspector Sidney Worth, newly assigned lead officer on the case, confirmed that Brady was the chief – and so far only – suspect in the murder. He said the New South Wales force had already applied to have him extradited from the Territories and he could be back in Sydney within a fortnight.

Brady's days as a fugitive finally came to their dramatic and violent end in Darwin yesterday, thanks largely to heroic local police officers. Brady had been drinking heavily in the Frontier Hotel, reputed to be the most unseemly dive on Darwin's notorious Mitchell Street.

An altercation with a large group of immigrant workers began, and a large number of local men joined the fray. When the police arrived, they found Brady in the thick of the fisticuffs.

Northern Territory chief of police Charles Pilkington said: "Our officers were on the scene very quickly and acted to quell the disturbance.

"My men, up on seeing a hefty Irish fellow throw several punches indiscriminately, leapt up on the offender and wrestled him to the ground, before placing him in the cuffs.

"He was taken to Darwin police station, where routine background checks confirmed that we had, in fact, apprehended the notorious fugitive Patrick Brady."

A total of 11 men have been arrested in connection with the brawl. Brady was due to appear before Darwin magistrates this morning for the start of extradition procedures to bring him back to New South Wales to stand trial.

Evie Strathmore got out of bed, slipped off her nightgown and quickly dressed in a pair of Levis Strauss denim trousers and a cotton blouse. She didn't put on any underwear, which was secretly one of her favourite parts of her early morning routine.

She walked into the bathroom, where she brushed her teeth and washed her face in cold water. Then she took a fresh towel from the rack and went downstairs.

Evie paused outside the living room, listening to the soft snores from the other side of the wall. She pushed the door open slightly but recoiled at the alcohol fumes wafting from within. There was a snort like that of a constipated porker, and Evie heard her settee springs creaking under duress.

Not wanting to investigate any further, she picked up the bag containing her swimming gear from the hall and let herself out of the house into the damp morning air, which was already warming quickly under the first rays of the sun.

She walked down Dolphin Street towards the beach. The groundskeeper was cutting the grass on the Oval and a few other people were out and about, walking their dogs or just taking a stroll. There was a game of tennis already in progress at the club, and Evie recognised a young doctor from the surgery up at Randwick Spot, hitting back and forth with a pretty blonde girl. Evie briefly wished she'd taken the time to fix her hair, but then told herself off for being silly.

At the seafront the palm trees were casting long shadows in the sun, which was still low over the ocean on the eastern horizon. Evie loved this time of day, and couldn't understand people who stayed in bed until seven or eight. She felt guilty for not waking the slumbering Bill Gunn and seeing if he wanted a dip. After all, a swim always cured her of a hangover.

The sea was quite rough this morning and there was a lot of brackish weed washed up on the beach, which meant a cold surge had come up from the Southern Ocean, bringing with it the icy chill that always sent swimmers running and shivering for their towels.

Evie did not want to fight through the cloying tendrils of seaweed in the water, so she walked on to the park above the cliffs at the southern end of Coogee Bay and scrambled down the stone-carved stairs to Watson's Pool, the city's only all-female swimming baths.

She went into one of the wooden changing huts and emerged in a blue bathing suit, covering her torso from her hips to two inches below the shoulder blades, as per the city regulations. She snapped on her rubber cap, tucking in any loose strands of hair, then fastened her goggles over her eyes and dived into the bracing salt water.

Evie was a good swimmer and she set a quick pace right away, cutting up the lanes in a languid front crawl. The sea flushed right over the wall into the baths at high tide, meaning it was always fresh and clean and clear. She could see the rocks at the bottom, decorated with anemones and limpets.

The pool was busy, as it had been for weeks, packed with early morning swimmers who were reluctant to brave the sharks. Evie hoped that nobody thought she was afraid of going into the sea

As she swam, she finally allowed herself to think back over the terrifying events of the previous night at Luna Park. Gunn had insisted on escorting her back to her house and sleeping on the sofa. The neighbours would have been scandalised but she had not been inclined to turn him away.

He had then proceeded to polish off most of the solitary bottle of Scotch in her drinks cabinet, while she sipped at one large dram in a crystal tumbler and jumped at shadows in the corner of her living room.

They had listened to the radio until it ended at midnight, and incredibly it seemed that all the shooting had not been noticed amid the noise and chaos of the funfair. But one thing seemed certain now – there was a killer on the loose in the city, and whoever it was he somehow knew that they were on to him.

Evie climbed out of the pool, shivering as she dried herself with her towel. It had been good to have Gunn there last night, and she had felt reassured by his burly presence – despite the fact that it was being with him that had put her in danger in the first place.

She wondered whether she was falling for the man. He was quite good looking, she supposed, in an unkempt sort of a way, and he was a decent sort, with a dry sense of humour and a certain rough charm. He had told her that he was a widower and that his wife had died many years ago in Scotland, but had refused to say any more. In that instant, Gunn had looked more like a little boy lost than a tough police detective and Evie had wanted to give him a hug.

Perhaps that was it, she decided, perhaps she was confusing concern with a romantic attraction. And besides, until the killer was caught it was vital that their relationship remained on a strictly business level.

She checked her watch and suddenly remembered that she had an appointment this morning. Culver Gale was due to pick her up at nine and escort her to a concert in the Domain.

In many ways the American tycoon was the polar opposite of Bill Gunn; he was rich, suave, frightfully right wing and darkly handsome. She also didn't really believe he gave a tinker's cuss about protecting the marine creatures of Sydney.

A colleague at the university lived near Culver on Rose Bay, a wealthy suburb just a few miles east of Kings Cross. The neighbour said he was a keen sport fisherman, often going out on his expensive boat to hunt for shark, marlin and tuna. That meant his only reason for investing in her conservation work was the fact that he was attracted to her.

It was insulting, immoral and disgusting, but still she couldn't help finding it rather flattering. He was a successful man, a high-flier in world business, and he had recognised her potential as a scientist.

And besides, Culver had already promised to donate the money, which amounted to only a miniscule part of his vast reported wealth. So whatever happened between them was strictly personal and not connected to the grant. It wasn't like she was, you know, prostituting herself in any way.

Was it?

Refreshed and tired and with a pleasing ache in her muscles, Evie walked back along the beachfront. The plaza was busier now, with delivery vans pulled up outside many of the shops. The bakery on Coogee Bay Road was open and Evie went in and bought two French croissants and a loaf of fresh bread, as well as a bunch of bananas, some cheese and ham from the delicatessen and fresh milk for coffee.

She was looking forward a pleasant breakfast with Bill, and then giving him the push off as soon as she could. She wasn't really frightened any more; in the glorious morning sunshine, the horrors of the previous night seemed distant, even impossible.

But when she got back to the house the detective was nowhere to be seen. He had thrown back the curtains in the living room and opened the window to let out some of the stench. The room was now airy and virtually fresh, and felt very empty.

Evie was surprised to find herself disappointed, and she ate her breakfast alone in the kitchen, feeling rather lonely. The doorbell rang and she nearly jumped out of her seat. She felt a chill run down her spine, but quickly put it down to the cold water and not all this talk of killers and sharks and bodies.

She tiptoed through to the living room and looked out of the window. To her relief, she saw it was only Culver, here early to pick her up. He was dressed in a cream suit with a cheery red handkerchief in his top pocket and a wicker picnic basket swung from the crook of his arm.

Culver was undeniably good company, but nothing had happened between them so far. She had enjoyed the fundraising ball at the Grace Hotel, but he had been so busy mingling that they had barely spoken all night. Before the band had even finished playing she had bid him a fond but firm goodnight with nothing more than a kiss on the cheek.

However, she had accepted his invitation to a day at the races at Randwick later this week. He had tickets for the Champions' Enclosure, where fine food and wine would be in plentiful supply all day, and Evie suspected that he would finally try to go to bed with her that night.

And she had to admit that she was tempted to let him. She knew her professional reputation was that of a tough ball-breaker, but it was the only way to get ahead in a man's world; as a student, back in the roaring Twenties, she had been regarded as something of a raver. Sometimes, usually while stuck in her office cataloguing some sub-species or other she had collected out on the reef, Evie rather missed those wild days.

Besides, Culver Gale had been linked with several women since arriving in Australia, all of them more famous and more beautiful than her (she was happy to admit it too, although she also felt they were not that much more beautiful), and she knew any fling with the American would be just that. A fling.

She smiled as she walked to the front door, wondering if she should tell Culver about Sharko. He had often remarked how Australians were obsessed with their villains, with bushrangers like Captain Thunderbolt or Ned Kelly, just as Americans were transfixed by the crimes of Pretty Boy Floyd or John Dillinger. He put it down to the inferiority complex of two young nations, looking enviously back at Europe with its millennia of history.

He would no doubt be tickled pink to hear all about this latest Australian bogeyman.

II

The flip of a coin and the cry, "Come in spinner!"

A dozen anxious faces watch it rise into the air, shining under the electric light. The gamblers inch forward as it falls...and comes up heads! Instantly, the smoky room is filled with clamour and noise.

Tommo was sitting on a wooden stool by the bar, a schooner of Tooheys Dark on the go and a cigar – a rare indulgence – burning in the ashtray. Business was booming these past few days, perhaps a result of the unease that had gripped the city ever since Janet Smith's arm had turned up, as though Sydneysiders saw it as an evil portent, a sign of yet more hardship to come.

Hah! Tommo chuckled silently at his own far-fetched imagination. More likely his good run was just one of those things, nothing more, nothing less, but he offered a silent toast to the dear, departed tiger shark all the same.

Then he spotted Glenys Calderbank, looking unusually worried as she picked her way through the punters in the game room, gathered around four separate two-up tables.

"There's someone here to see ya, Tommo," Glenys said, with a twisted look on her face that meant only one thing. Trouble.

Tommo frowned, mulling over the possibilities. Eddie Gattuso, Jack Mooney, perhaps even the Quigley woman again. Hell, he thought, he would rather face Sharko than Doreen.

"It's Bill Gunn, and he's madder than a sack a cut snakes."

"Bloody hell," said Tommo. "I'd better go. Get Spud from outside to keep an eye on things up here."

Tommo asked the barman for two fresh bottles of Tooheys, then reluctantly ground out his cigar in the ashtray and went down to his makeshift office in the bathroom.

Gunn was sitting in Tommo's own leather chair, his feet up on the desk lid above the enamel bath, flicking through a copy of 'Rugby Leaguer' magazine.

"Tommo," he cried, hurling down the magazine and nodding at a King Kong movie poster on the wall. "Big improvement on last time I was here. I must say I admire that monkey's taste. Fay Wray, what a woman!"

Tommo smiled and handed Gunn one of the beers. "You make yourself comfortable," he muttered, perching on the toilet lid.

"Sorry, granddad," said Gunn, starting to rise. "I forgot about your lumbago. Here, you have the easy chair."

"Nah, I wouldn't want you to break the dunny," replied Tommo. "You know, Jock, you're starting to remind me of your mate the gorilla up there."

Gunn laughed. "Not as hairy though," he said, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Mind you, I'd happily wear a monkey suit if it meant getting my hands on the lovely Miss Wray. Slainte."

"Yeah, whatever that means."

They clinked bottles and swigged down the beer.

"You're not your usual miserable self today, Bill. You been on the happy pills?"

"Just making small talk but, hey, I know you're a busy man so I'll get right to the point. You have to call off your vigilantes around the Cross."

Tommo shrugged. "I don't know what you mean, mate," he said.

"Come off it, Doreen Quigley has told me all about your arrangement. I have to say its very public spirited, appointing yourself as Sydney's moral guardian, but perhaps it would have been better if you'd told me the truth from the start."

"So I guess Doreen filled you in about Sharko too?"

"She did, but I'd love to hear your take on it."

"He's supposed to be a killer, a Jack the Ripper type. The girls are all petrified of him and the cops don't want to know, so I've put the word out that if anyone catches the bloody mongrel, I'll make it worth their while."

"Don't blame the cops, you chancer. Everybody knows the cozzers on the Kings Cross beat are paid a bloody fortune to look the other way. Mostly by you, Tommo."

"That's right, but they come to me for the cash and not the other way around. And I pay up so my two-up schools aren't raided every weekend, not for some sick freak to murder at will."

"So you do believe he's out there then?

"Maybe, maybe not. The bloke could still be a fairy story."

"Don't bullshit me Tommo, you know there's more to this than a scare story as well as I do," Gunn's eyes bulged. "I only found out about this guy last week and yesterday I had some bastard taking pot shots at me with a Tommy gun. Whatever is going on here, it's connected to your pal and mine, Eddie Gattuso."

"Jeez, Bill," Tommo stood up and walked to the door, opening it and scanning the empty hallway. "Keep your voice down will ya?"

He stuck his head out and yelled up the stairs for two more beers, then returned to his seat with a sigh.

"I suppose you're going to find out one way or the other," he said. "He's been...hang on."

There was a knock at the door and 'Spud' Newton, one of Tommo's regular heavies, stuck his head in to ask if everything was okay.

"No worries, Spud. Just make sure there's nobody hanging around outside the door. Okay, where was I?"

"Gattuso."

"Right, well the word is that anyone who stands in Eddie's way is going to have to deal with this heavy psycho from the States."

"Sharko's a Yank?"

"Yeah, that's one story anyway. Some people reckon he's minding him for Al Capone. What makes it worse, seems like he's been keeping his pet monster from going hungry by letting him loose in the Cross."

"Has anybody actually seen him? How do we know that Sharko isn't just a figment of Gattuso's imagination?"

"Nobody's seen him, but plenty of folk have ignored his warnings and just disappeared. Why do you think so many top men have decided to retire to the Gold Coast this last year? Gattuso's the king of Sydney now, mate, and nobody can bloody touch him."

Gunn nodded. The more he thought about it the more it made sense. Why would Eddie Gattuso take the risk of covering up for a serial killer? Not just to squeeze a few shillings protection money out of the girls in the Cross. No, Sharko must be working for Gattuso as an enforcer, the deadliest weapon in his already formidable arsenal.

"So how does Reg Holmes, that bloody boat racing lunatic, fit into all this?" he asked.

Tommo sighed again. "What am I doing?" he asked. "I'm turning into a bloody fizzer. You know about Reg's little sideline right, and that Brady worked for him as muscle on the smuggling runs? Well, the word is that Brady was skimming off the top of Gattuso's cut."

Gunn's brain was working overtime. That would explain why a hard case like Paddy Brady had run all the way to Darwin. He wasn't scared of being tried for murder, he was scared of not being tried for murder and having to face up to Gattuso and his bogeyman. Also, it meant that he was in serious danger of being snuffed out the moment he got back to Sydney.

"So, what are you lot going to do about all this then?" asked Tommo.

Gunn snorted. "As far as the brass are concerned, Janet Smith's murder was a one-off and they are determined to see Paddy Brady swing for it. I'm off the case, pal, suspended until further notice, but if there's going to be an investigation into Sharko, you're looking at it. With your help, of course."

"Course," agreed Tommo, with a weary shake of his head. "I need a proper bloody drink." He grabbed a bottle of Bundaberg rum from his desk drawer and began to fill Gunn in on the gangster's summit meeting in a few days' time.

"We could work something around that meeting," said Gunn, his eyes gleaming. "This could be the chance we need to get to Sharko."

"That's just what I thought you'd say," said Tommo. Perhaps he had been right about the arm being a bad sign after all.

III

"Lovely vessel. A real beaut," Reg Holmes cooed, holding the framed photograph of the Sir Robert Peel at arm's length.

Commissioner Barclay's brows bristled. "Put that down," he snarled, and Holmes nervously clattered the gold frame back on the desk. Gunn's words had stung Barclay more than he cared to admit. It wasn't simply the brazen cheek of the man – after all, this wasn't boarding school; personal opinions were allowed in the New South Wales constabulary, sometimes even encouraged.

No, it was the insinuation that he, Archibald Barclay, a man so straight a broom handle would feel inadequate against him, would be swayed by this two-bit swindler who just happened to be a member of his sailing club.

And not for much longer either – Holmes was going to be out on his ear after an emergency general meeting of the committee that Barclay himself would be chairing later this month.

The truth was he had barely even spoken to the fellow in all the years he had been at the club, let alone taken any of his damned bottles of cheap Scotch. When it came to whisky, Barclay knew better than to buy the stuff from an oik like Holmes, duty free or otherwise, for Christ's sake.

So he had summoned him here to his office, to try and talk some sense into the man, make him give up Patrick Brady in exchange for a degree of leniency when the spotlight turned – as it would – to his involvement in smuggling.

And now Holmes sits there like an old school pal, pawing over his personal photographs, addressing him as "Archie" and slumping in his seat like a sack of potatoes.

Barclay wondered for the first time whether Gunn's punishment hadn't been a touch harsh. Any sane bobby would want to get this unsavoury character locked up for a stretch, he decided.

Even so, there was no doubting the fact that the Scotsman had been way off the mark. Any pressure to get the Coogee Shark Arm case tied up quickly, and there was plenty of it, was coming from far higher up than this malingering specimen.

Now that Brady had finally been captured, everybody from the Prime Minister down, it seemed to Barclay, wanted the case closed rapidly. And if Holmes were to be swept under the carpet, it would be for political reasons only. There was enough interest in the case as it was, without a sleazy boat racer and his glamorous wife becoming embroiled as well. Now, if only Barclay could make him play along with the official version of events, then the scoundrel would be in the clear, for the time being at least.

But Holmes, when he wasn't desperately trying to change the subject, just couldn't – or wouldn't – seize his chance to escape any charges.

"Mr Holmes," Barclay tried again. "We are prepared to accept that you were not directly involved with Janet Smith's murder. But we also know that Brady was at your home on the morning of Sunday, January 7th. Two of your neighbours have now backed up the testimony of the taxi driver. A bloodstained Irishman is not a common sight in Neutral Bay on the Sabbath, wouldn't you agree?"

Holmes opened his mouth to speak but the words wouldn't come. His eyes frantically scanned the office, searching for a distraction, and landed on a sailor's chart of the west coast of Scotland, a part of the world Barclay was determined to visit when he retired. He stood up, walked over to the map and began, "Ah, the graceful Clyde..."

"Will you sit down and shut up!" roared Barclay, leaping to his feet. "This is a murder investigation, Mr Holmes. I've brought you here so you can explain to me what Brady was doing at your house that day. Because we are going to find out one way or the other, when the bugger is deported from Darwin. But if you'd rather speak to one of my men in the interview room, then that's just grand with me too."

Holmes's face was now the colour and texture of damp clay. He stared at Barclay, as though imploring him to understand some inner anguish, and said: "He was never at my house, commissioner. There must have been some mistake."

Barclay sighed. "Listen, if Brady threatened you or tried to extort money out of you in any way, then we need to know. What I'm saying is that, strictly in the interests of justice, we would be willing to overlook any, erm, leverage Brady may have had over you. Any criminal acts that he may have been aware of."

Holmes was quiet, seemingly deep in thought, and Barclay thought he had finally got through to him. He'd had to practically offer the man immunity from prosecution, but he seemed to have got through.

"Are you saying that you know about it?" Holmes asked eventually. "About all of it?"

"Yes," Barclay said, "I'm afraid we do."

"Then why have you let this go on for so long?" Holmes said in an anguished tone.

What the hell was he talking about? The man was clearly insane, thought Barclay. "I'm referring to your own, shall we say, offshore operations, Mr Holmes," he said. "You see, we know all about your little smuggling ring. We know Brady worked for you, and quite frankly, we don't care. But we need Brady."

"Oh," said Holmes, disappointed as he realised the police really didn't know the full extent of what he had got himself involved in. "I'm not sure I follow you, commissioner," he added. "I'm no smuggler. Come and search the yard if you like, but you've got Buckley's of finding anything illegal there. I may have employed Brady as yard labour but I know nothing else about the man."

"That's your final word on the matter is it?" asked Barclay. "You realise if we find out you're lying, you'll be looking at a charge of conspiracy to commit murder?"

"Yes," said Holmes, apparently resigned to his fate. He seemed strangely pleased for a man who had managed to talk his way out of a once-in-a-lifetime plea bargain with the Australian government and into a long jail sentence.

"This Brady character," he said. "Has he mentioned my name at all?"

"No," sighed Barclay, "but why would he, Mr Holmes? He was never at your house that day. I think you'd better take yourself along home now, before I take you up on that offer to search your yard."

Holmes nodded and left the office as quickly as he could. After he was gone, Barclay poured himself a steadying measure of Laphroaig and sipped it thoughtfully for a few minutes. Then he pushed the intercom button on his desk and asked his secretary to send in Detective Inspector Sid 'Scissors' Worth and his partner, Detective Sergeant Henry Mulligan.

They were ambitious men who never questioned their orders and could be relied upon to toe the official line, unlike wild cards like Bill Gunn. They occasionally got a little brutal with prisoners in their care, and liked to make sure they had plenty of evidence against anybody they believed was guilty, but this was a tough city and it needed tough men to police it.

"Enter," he called, when the knock on the door came scarcely a minute later. The two detectives were as keen as mustard.

"How did it go, sir?" asked Worth.

"Holmes is not going to play cricket," said Barclay, "so we will have to nail Brady without him. However, we do need to know just what they were up to, so as to avoid any more unpleasant surprises when this comes to court."

"With all due respect, sir, I think it's pretty straightforward," said Worth. "We know Brady was in hiding from Eddie Gattuso over an unpaid debt. Seems to me he just buckled under the pressure, took it out on his girlfriend and killed her. He needed money to get out of town so he ran to his former boss, simple as that. We don't need to dig any further."

"Grand," said Barclay, rubbing his hands together briskly. He wondered how he had ever allowed that damn fool Gunn and his hunches near this case? "How is the extradition procedure coming along?" he asked.

"Steady," replied Worth. "The jungle bunnies up in Darwin reckon that Brady is terrified of being brought back to Sydney. Strange, considering he's been in and out of Long Bay jail half his life."

Barclay frowned. This bloody case just refused to close properly.

"Well, we've got the inquest into Janet Smith's death in a few days' time, so we need Brady back here so we can go for a committal immediately afterwards. Work towards that date, will you?"

"Yes sir."

"And Worth, one more thing. Mr Holmes might be under the impression that I was going to turn a blind eye to his smuggling activities. Given his reluctance to help, that is most certainly not the case. You should pay him a visit in the morning."

IV

Gunn climbed the spiral staircase inside the concrete pylon at the southeastern side of the Harbour Bridge, panting as he eventually stepped out onto the lookout platform.

He had always liked it up here. Scottish and Italian stonemasons had built these enormous art deco pylons, and hundreds of Scots, English, Welsh and Irish labourers had worked on the bridge, as well as Lebanese, Chinese, Jews, Portuguese, Greeks and Brazilians. The contract for the steelwork had even gone to a company from County Durham.

But despite the foreign labour most of the 15,000 construction jobs went to Australians. The Iron Lung, they had called it, as the project breathed life into the whole of the state during the worst years of the Depression.

Today the pylon lookout was one of the most popular tourist attractions in Sydney, as Gunn had already protested. But, as any good secret agent knew, busy public places were the best venue for clandestine chats.

Gunn found Doreen Quigley was already on the roof. He lit a cigarette, walked over to join her at the rail and marvelled at the view across the harbour, the light reflected from the water making the city seem impossibly sharp and clear.

"You look knackered, Bill," said Doreen.

"Rubbish, I'm fit as a fiddle."

Doreen was gazing down over the edge of the pylon at the dizzying drop to the shoreline at Dawson's Point far below.

"You ever hear about the workman who survived a fall from up there?" she asked after a while, nodding up at the top of bridge. "He throws his hammer the moment before he hit the water, then goes into the splash it made. They reckon it saved his life somehow. Broke both his legs and he'll never walk again, but he's alive."

"They call it surface tension," said Gunn, peering over the edge. "If you ask me, nobody would survive that drop."

"Yeah," said Doreen. "But if it was true, I reckon he was a Queenslander. We're a lot tougher than these city boys."

She took out a hip flask, glanced around to make sure nobody was looking and then took a swig and offered one to Gunn. The policeman knocked back a shot of neat Bundaberg rum – another Queensland export – then proffered a cigarette in exchange, lighting another for himself from the stub of his own smoke.

"I think there's been another victim," Doreen Quigley said. "She wasn't one of mine, she was one of these so-called high class call girls. You know the type, see 'em in five-star hotel bars in the city, they all think the sun shines out of their you know where."

"Get to the point, Doreen."

"Right, well she went to some glitzy party the Grace Hotel on Friday night and hasn't been seen since. The word is that she's been killed by Sharko."

"Do you know her name?"

"Not yet, darl. She was from out of town. Europe, I think. Called herself Stella. As soon as I find out more, I'll let you know."

"What about this party?

"Check the newspapers. But I've been told Eddie Gattuso was there, for one thing, as well as that bloke you lot have been chasin' for the Janet Smith murder."

"Paddy Brady?"

"No, the boat racing feller."

"Reg Holmes? How did you know we were interested in him?"

"I've got my sources, same as you. By the way, just in case you didn't know, he's up to his armpits in half the contraband whisky that comes into Sydney."

"Aye, we know," replied Gunn. "We just don't care about that either."

"Yeah, well, maybe you should think on that a little," said Doreen.

"What are you getting at?"

"I've been giving this a lot of thought. I mean, everybody knows Sydney's cops aren't exactly the Untouchables – no offence, Bill – but the bluebottles've been slower than old Drongo on this one."

"So you think the killer could have friends in the constabulary?" asked Gunn.

"No, that ain't what I'm sayin' at all," said Doreen. "I'm sayin' he could be in the constabulary." Then she blew Gunn a kiss and walked away towards the stairs.

Gunn watched her go and then turned back to the postcard view of the harbour. It was stunning but if he craned his neck down he could see the Rocks, the city's oldest neighbourhood, a haunt of sailors from every nation, where booze and blood flowed freely down the alleys. Not 30 years before, an outbreak of Bubonic plague had led to the formation of rat gangs, and they had caught more than 100,000 in just a few months.

He only needed to catch one.

Doreen had told him to check the papers, but he decided to go straight to Pitt Street and the Grace Hotel itself. It was amazing what doors a police shield could open, even a spare one that had been tucked away in a sock drawer for the past five or six years.

Half an hour later, he was standing at reception in the lobby of the Grace, smiling politely as the duty manager handed over the guest list for the bridge fundraising ball as though it were the Holy Grail itself.

"As you can see, it's a veritable who's who of Australian society," the manager was saying.

"Right," said Gunn, flipping through the stapled sheets of paper. Names jumped out at him with alarming regularity. For a start, there was Eddie Gattuso, Jack Mooney and even Frank Thomson, along with half a dozen other leading criminals. Reg and Sybil Holmes were there too, as well as Archibald Barclay himself. Hell, even Don Bradman had been there, although Gunn decided he could probably rule him out. If the murderer was on this list then it hardly narrowed down his field of suspects.

"Can I get a copy of this?"

"Of course. Darlene, could you take this up to the gals in the typing pool and get them to run off a copy? While we're waiting I should show you this too. Got a great write up in the Tribune."

Gunn took the newspaper clipping and began to read...

SYDNEY society was out in force last night at a glittering Harbour Bridge fundraiser for over two hundred guests at the swanky Grace Hotel on York Street.

Australia and New South Wales batsman Donald Bradman, currently preparing for the Test series against South Africa later this year, was the guest of honour.

Joining him were fellow sportsmen and women, Australian stars of stage and screen, radio personalities, business leaders, landowners and political heavyweights.

The evening was the latest attempt by the State government to raise much-needed funds for the bridge, which despite the undeniable benefits for the city remains a considerable burden on its finances.

A raffle, the highlight of which was a signed Australian cap signed by Mr Bradman and a cricket bat signed by the rest of the national team, raised over three thousand pounds.

Unfortunately, a bat signed by the Ashes-winning England team that recently completed the already-infamous 'Bodyline' tour failed to attract any bids.

Other items on offer included a signed programme from Dame Nellie Melba's latest sell-out operatic spectacular in Paris and an all-expenses-paid trip for two to the Melbourne Cup.

Gunn read the first few paragraphs of the story, but he was much more interested in the byline. Arthur Phillips.

"I didn't see this name on the list," he said. "The reporter?"

"There were a number of journalists here, I believe. We don't normally include them as guests."

"I see. Was there anything, ah, strange that sticks in your mind from that night?"

"Strange? How do you mean?"

"A fight? A scream? Something unusual in one of the rooms?"

"What exactly are you investigating, detective?"

Gunn glanced around the lobby and then leaned in conspiratorially. "A jewellery heist," he said. "A lady has reported some gems stolen, says she last had them right here in the Grace."

"My goodness!"

"Exactly. Now, its important that you help me out here, as quietly and as quickly as possible, and perhaps we can resolve this situation before these vultures in the press get wind of it," said Gunn, brandishing the newspaper clipping.

"Well, now you mention it, there was one thing."

"Go on."

"One of the guests ran off in the middle of the night, taking all the bed linen with him. Even the mattress. One of the big linen trolleys was missing the next day, but our night watchman didn't see a thing. Now that was a mystery, but we just assumed he'd had an accident of some kind."

"I see. Was there any blood in the room, anything like that?"

"No, it was completely clean. But what does blood have to do with a jewellery theft."

"Just covering all the angles, sir. Could you tell me the name of this mystery guest? I take it he didn't pay his bill?"

"The room was paid for in advance, detective, in cash."

"How about his name, then?"

"Well, this is all rather irregular..."

Gunn waved the report from the newspaper again, sending the duty manager scurrying behind the reception desk. He opened a heavy leather-bound ledger and ran his finger down the list of names until he found the one he was looking for.

Gunn walked over as the manager placed the ledger before him on the counter, his finger highlighting a familiar name. A very familiar name, in fact.

"Errol Flynn," read Gunn, shaking his head. "That's all we bloody need, eh sir? A criminal with a sense of humour."

### Chapter Ten – The Tenth Day

I

Most mornings the boat yard brought comfort to Reg Holmes, the bustling activity providing a welcome diversion and the smells of sawdust and paint and oil acting as a soothing balm on his frayed nerves.

But today it was all just so much clatter and stink. Reg brooded, trying to navigate a route through his own impossibly stormy waters. But there didn't seem to be one at the moment. If this was a boat race, he would have fired the rescue flares and abandoned this sinking ship long before.

Detective Inspector Sid Worth's car turned into the boatyard, ready for a surprise search of the premises, keep the heat up on this Holmes character. His first thought was that it was surprisingly tatty and run down for the headquarters of a top racing firm and boat builder. Holmes must spend all of his cash somewhere else.

But as the car careened across the cobbles, a lorry suddenly backed into their path. The uniformed constable behind the wheel slammed on the brakes and spun the steering wheel, sliding the battered police Ford Mark Five to a halt a couple of inches from the flatbed trailer.

The trailer was stacked high with wood, but for an instant it looked as though the load was going to stay intact. Then, as Scissors was reading the words "Dunlop, Birmingham, England" on the lorry's rear tyre, there was a short, yet bracingly heavy, shower of timber onto the police car's roof.

Scissors forced open the passenger door, pushing a drift of two by fours onto the ground with a musical clatter.

"Yer flamin' idiot," yelled the lorry driver, climbing red-faced and annoyed from the cab. "Tearin' around like a blue-arsed fly!"

Worth was about to reply, when the appearance of the uniformed constable from the car took the wind out of the driver's sails. He wasn't about to give in that easily though, and he began remonstrating in a sulky tone about the tangle of lumber he was going to have to reload.

Reg looked out of the window, watching the timber lorry reverse across the yard. He saw the black car screech around the corner and slither to a halt, before the lorry dumped half of its load onto the roof.

He cursed, thinking of the insurance claims he would have to fill in, before noticing the tall man, who was unmistakably a copper, emerge from the car. In his bleak and depressed state, Reg decided that he was about to be arrested for murder.

It would be his word against Brady's, and the prosecution would nail them both. Then the gallows, or life in prison, short as that may be with Gattuso's contacts, and the eternal stain against his good name, convicted of chopping a poor woman to death and feeding her to the sharks like horsemeat. God alone knew what else might come out after that, what other crimes might be discovered and put in his name.

Reg pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk, fished out all the papers and prised up a false base. In the hiding hole was his old pistol, the subject of many a morbid fantasy as he lay awake at night, praying for the first sliver of light to peep through the curtains.

He dropped the weapon in his jacket pocket and walked briskly out of the office, down the stairs and out of the rear door of the factory shed. He jogged down to the water's edge, where a newly-built speedboat – named the Tasman Torpedo – was moored at the quay, loaded with a full tank of fuel ready for its first open water test run.

The Torpedo was a picture of sleek and powerful beauty, and Reg thought about just taking off, blasting all the way across the sea to New Zealand.

No, it would never work. He stepped into the boat, adjusting effortlessly to the slight pitch and roll of the lightweight craft. Then he braced himself against the wooden running boards, lifted the ancient pistol to his temple and fired.

'Scissors' Worth was barking orders to the lorry driver, to the constable, to everybody in sight, when he heard the crack of the gunshot. They all froze as the shot echoed around the yard, followed by a faint splash from the direction of the harbour.

Scissors was the first to react. "Damn and bloody blast it," he yelled, breaking into a sprint and leading the headlong charge across the cobbles.

Guns will rust and ruin with age, falling into disrepair if they are not cleaned regularly as the internal workings clog with dust and grease. Bullets too, especially those made in a hurry during the Great War, have an even shorter shelf life, becoming softer and more brittle over time.

Reg had bought his pistol seven years before, from a Welsh sailor on one of his earliest smuggling runs. When the sailor had pulled his gun on him that night, just beyond the four mile line off the New South Wales port of Wollongong, Reg had been sure he was about to be killed. But as it turned out, it was just a very clever sales pitch. If you want to sell your gun, the best way to convince the buyer that they need one is to point it at them.

The Taff had said it was a Luger, a German pistol from the war. Reg didn't care, didn't know the first thing about firearms, but he had bought it nonetheless and the Luger had spent every night since locked in his secret drawer. For a long time, in fact, the thing he had most liked about his gun was that it gave him an excuse to use the ingenious hiding place.

So now the neglected old gun didn't jam altogether – it was from the German Empire, after all - but it did misfire. The bullet, slow and off-centre, hit Reg's skull at an angle and slewed across his forehead, digging a shallow and bloody trench as it went.

The blow knocked him unconscious and he fell backwards into the water, landing with a heavy splash like a barrel of French export brandy thrown overboard at the dead of night, a sound Reg had heard more times than most people.

As he tumbled, his leg caught the mooring rope, tangling around his ankle and keeping him half-afloat. The cold brought him around with a start. He felt his forehead burning as though he'd swum blindly into a swarm of jelly stingers, and he coughed up a mouthful of leaky diesel and seawater.

Was he alive or dead, he wondered? He had just pointed a gun at his own head and pulled the trigger, but it seemed that his brains were still inside his blessed noggin, and not blown out across half of Sydney Harbour. It must be a sign, he thought. Reginald Lloyd Holmes would live to fight another day.

He heard shouts from the yard, and saw a crowd running towards the quayside, led by the tall policeman.

Reg remembered his awful predicament with the police but in his current euphoric state, it seemed more like a challenge to be met head on than a burden to be slipped from his shoulders. He grabbed the mooring rope and yanked it free, allowing himself and the Torpedo to quickly float away from the wharf on the ebb tide. Another sign!

He hauled himself up in to the boat, dragging himself straight into the leather driver's seat, blood pouring from the wound on his head but feeling good, all his old racing instincts clicking into place.

Reg checked for keys, shutting his eyes so as not to jinx his run of good fortune. There they were too, already in the ignition for the test run later that day. Under other circumstances, Reg would have had the bollocks off anybody who left the yard's pride and joy, one of the fastest boats in Australia, loosely moored and with the keys still in.

But today he just praised the Lord and fired her up, the V8 engine roaring into life. He pushed the throttle, lifted the front end and zoomed away from the quayside in a churning splurge of noise and spray.

Behind him, the uniformed constable leaped from the quayside like Jesse Owens but missed the Tasman Torpedo by a country mile, landing in its wake with an enormous splash.

Sid 'Scissors' Worth watched him flail around in a ridiculous manner, his helmet slowly sinking beside him. The yard workers were hooting with delight and yelling encouragement at the constable, as Scissors turned and stalked back across the yard to find a telephone.

From Lavender Bay Reg raced quickly towards the deep water under the Harbour Bridge. It was a gleaming bright, beautiful day, just the ticket for a new beginning, for escaping his troubles and starting anew.

Why hadn't he thought of this before? Reg shook his head ruefully, sending a spray of blood across the windscreen and pealing church bells of pain ringing across his brainpan. He touched his forehead gingerly, his hand coming away wet with blood. It was running down his neck, staining his white shirt, he noticed. Maybe he hadn't been so lucky after all.

Reg eased up the throttle, the Torpedo a bucking bronco as it slowed to a halt, and checked his reflection in the mirror. His face was a red mask of blood, and for one terrible second Reg thought he had blasted the top of his head clean off and survived, like one of those poor bastards you heard about at Gallipoli or the Somme.

But on closer inspection, he saw the damage was only superficial. There was nobody in pursuit yet, so Reg reached over and scooped up clean water to wash out the cut, feeling the sting above his eyebrows tracing the bullet's bizarre arc. He searched in vain for a bandage and then used a screwdriver from the on-board toolkit to tear off the left arm of his shirt, which he wrapped around his head.

As well as the gash, he had a whopper of a boiled egg coming up and the makings of a monumental bruise, as well as ringing in his ears, slight double vision and shooting stars across his eyes. But Reg decided to treat these as a volley of euphoric fireworks, instead of evidence of possible brain injury.

Climbing back behind the wheel, Reg spotted the pistol lying in the belly of the speedboat. Best buy he ever made, he thought, gunning the engine once again. God bless that Taffy!

The Tasman Torpedo was built for speed, that was the priority, but she was tough as well, ready to withstand the towering waves of the sea she was named after. However Reg knew he would never reach New Zealand, not even on a full tank of fuel.

The chimneys of Balmain and Birchgrove were belching smoke away to the south, and as he cut across the wake of the Balmain ferry he saw the bridge looming ahead of him.

This was the narrowest and also deepest part of the harbour, a full 26 fathoms down to the bottom. As he approached the giant coathanger he could make out some pedestrians along the rail. Some were waving their hats and leaning out over the side to wave, as they often did with any passing speedboat.

But Reg interpreted this as another good sign, and felt a turbo-charged burst of adrenaline. They were cheering for him. He could do it. He felt like he was seeing the city for the first time, his city, the low green hills and islands, and boats, dozens of them in the wide blue waters of the harbour.

He could race right through, blast out between Sydney Heads and race away along the coast. Once he was far enough from civilisation he could moor the Torpedo in a creek and go bush for a few days.

Then maybe, just maybe, he could make it away from Australia. Stock up with diesel and away we go. It was possible, hell, anything was possible after what had just happened today. Suddenly Reg imagined himself on a Pacific island, surrounded by melon-breasted and smiling young women, with grass skirts and loose morals.

Two police boats roared out from Circular Quay, a man with a bullhorn screaming at him from the prow. But his words were lost in the wind as Reg pushed the throttle forwards, standing in his seat as he shot underneath the bridge and out from its colossal shadow.

Pinchgut Island, also known as Fort Denison, loomed up out of the water. It had once been a prison within a prison, and a convict named Francis Morgan had been hanged here for murder early in the last century. Reg had always admired the killer's breezy last words, stepping up to the gallows one fine and sunny day, probably not altogether unlike this one. As he raced past the rocky outcrop, still embroiled in his strange and wonderful high, he boomed out Morgan's benediction: "Well, it certainly is a fine harbour you have here!"

He was out into open water now, buffeted by the choppy waves and Reg stuck close to the southern shoreline, watched by hundreds of curious faces in the parks and beaches as he ploughed resolutely along. There were at least four police and customs boats on his tail now, but Reg was keeping them at a steady distance without ever opening the throttle and using up his valuable fuel supplies. He coasted along, past Clark Island and Point Piper, Shark Island and Steel Point, past the parks and the trees and the gardens, already picturing the wide seas ahead.

Then he saw the blue and red lights of two more police boats approaching quickly from Middle Head. Reg was the better racer though, and he opened up the throttle and cut across towards Chowder Head, hoping to leave his pursuers trailing in his wake.

But then another coastguard clipper rounded Middle Head and bounced across the waves towards him. His pursuers had fanned out across the harbour, and the boat at the northern edge had cut furlongs off the distance between them. He was slowly being surrounded.

A huge steamship was heading into port from the open sea, two tugboats guiding and cajoling it through the channels. Reg turned towards the ship, which bellowed a sonorous warning from its foghorn. It was a Union line vessel, maybe six or even eight thousand tonnes, and although it had dropped to a fraction of it's full speed it was still ploughing ahead too quickly for it to stop in anything less than half a mile.

Reg was sure he could make it though, putting the bulk of the steamer and its formidable wake between him and the police and those speedy coastguard clippers. He bounced on and on, and then with an eye-widening surge of adrenaline, he swung the wheel and turned right under the bows of the ship, using the momentum of the boat to accelerate through the turn.

The steel hull loomed above him, and for a second Reg thought he had mistimed the manoeuvre and he was going to hit the sheer black wall. He felt like a spider in a bathtub, scuttling desperately but unable to get enough traction to climb free.

Then he burst clear of the steamer, shooting completely out of the water, his propellers whizzing in fresh air as the Tasman Torpedo leapt to safety.

Reg turned and looked up to see white-clad merchant seaman rushing to the rail, staring down at him in wide-eyed disbelief. He cut along the side of the liner, all the police out of sight now and the coastguard vessel ahead facing in completely the wrong direction.

He boomed onwards, the water becoming more and more choppy as he approached the open sea. He was aiming for South Heads, as close as he dared to the waves crashing on the rocks. The mile-wide mouth was the most dangerous place in the harbour, the water shallower here than anywhere else downstream of the bridge, and the rambling Sow and Pigs rock shoal that guarded the entrance had claimed dozens of boats as low in the draught as the Torpedo.

But Reg knew the tides as well as anyone and he was confident of making the ocean now, already calculating how far to the north he should go before pulling in to hide.

"Turn the boat around! I repeat, turn the boat around!"

Reg stared wildly around but saw no other boats anywhere near him. Then he spotted a knot of onlookers gathered on South Heads, but they were all clad in khaki army fatigues and they definitely weren't cheering and waving their hats in the air.

Sydney was well defended against an attack from the sea, with five cliff-top fortresses placed at strategic points around the city. The two largest were at the at the harbour mouth on North and South Heads, each armed with batteries of long-range anti-shipping guns.

"This is the Australian Defence Force," came the voice again, booming down from the cliffs. "Turn the boat around. We have our guns trained on your vessel. If you attempt to leave the harbour, we will open fire."

Up on the headland people were running to watch the action, most of them day-trippers suddenly involved in something much more exciting than admiring the view. Reg had been up to South Heads many times himself and he knew the rocks were bristling with long-range artillery that could blast him out of the water with ease.

He spun the wheel and turned the Torpedo through 90 degrees, sending a curve of spray into the air as he turned away from the guns and headed north, right into the heart of the deadly rock shoals.

A huge wave hit the Torpedo and Reg braced himself as the bow burst out of the water, the boat landing with a jarring slap. What was the point? He would surely flipped over by going parallel to a running sea, or have the boat's hull ripped open on the Sow and Pigs.

And even if he made it across the harbour mouth he still had to get past the gun battery at North Heads, located above the quarantine station for new arrivals to Australia.

He cut back inland, racing headlong towards the police and customs boats that were strung out ahead. But as he prepared himself for a final glorious dash, the charge of the light-headed brigade, his concussion and blood loss got the better of him.

Reg passed out over the Torpedo's wheel and the boat slowly ground to a halt, rocking to and fro on the ocean swell as the authorities closed in.

II

Eddie Gattuso was sipping a whisky and water in the public bar of the Hollywood Hotel, chuckling over the racing pages of the papers.

"Drongo was dead last again," he said. "Bloody hell, he is some horse. The stable boy put enough dope in him to stop a camel and he still finished the race. But we cleaned up alright."

Jack Mooney laughed, shaking his head. "What a scam. I can't believe we're getting away with this one."

"That's Aussies for ya, mate. They love a loser," Gattuso chuckled. Drongo had all the attributes of a great racehorse, but they had been doping him for months now, cleaning up on the bets people were still waging on him. The racing public had taken the horse to their hearts and Gattuso had inadvertently created a national hero. It was a great story, and it killed him that he could not boast about it.

"We should make a movie about this caper," he said.

Mooney nodded but said nothing, thinking 'Not another bloody movie lecture'.

But Gattuso just chuckled again, then glanced over his shoulder, making sure nobody was listening. "So, what did you want to tell me, Jackie?"

"I spoke to a bloke yesterday at the track," said Mooney. "Frank Petrov?"

"Bulgarian Frank. Yeah, I know him. Runs European Sheilas, dirty as anything. He pays his dues, so what?"

"Well, turns out it was his niece or cousin or some such relation who the fuckin' fish finger did in the other night," said Jack. "He knows she was at the Grace Hotel with a client and nobody's seen her since. And he's starting to get suspicious."

Gattuso sat in silence, working the angles. Bulgarian Frank, a hot-tempered Slav with a dozen guns on his crew, was not a man to be crossed lightly, but he could be kept quiet for now.

On the other hand, Sharko was becoming a loose cannon. How long before he murdered a real citizen? Then the cops would have to get involved, and the whole grisly tale would be dragged out into the open.

It was time to get rid of him, but that only left one question - how?

Then he remembered the summit meeting in a couple of days time, and that old beer barrel Tommo getting all shirty about a couple of prozzies getting knocked off, like they were his best mates or something.

What if Tommo got to meet Sharko face to face? He might even do him in on the spot, or die trying. That way if the police did get involved the trail would lead straight to everybody's favourite gambling racketeer, Uncle Tommo. It could be put down to a straightforward slaying, two high-stakes gamblers falling out over a bad hand or a hidden ace.

Tommo wouldn't say anything about Eddie's dark secret, and besides, who would believe him if he did? Once the fish finger was out of the way, it would be Tommo's word against Eddie's. Neither of them were exactly star witness material, let's face it.

Eddie smiled, the neon lights above the bar flashing on his face. Who needed Hollywood, he thought? At moments like this he felt like the star in his own real life movie.

"Here's what we're gonna do, Jackie," he said.

III

Gunn was stretched out on his threadbare sofa in his sweltering row house in Surry Hills, just a few streets away from the station. He had never been suspended from duty before, even back in Glasgow as a wild young recruit, when he frequently turned up for work still half cut from the previous night. But now he found he was glad of the time it gave him to mull things over, mentally working through the increasingly complicated case.

He was thinking about Paddy Brady. The murder at the Grace Hotel – if there had been a murder – meant that he could not be Sharko, as he had been thousands of miles away in a Darwin jail cell at the time. Besides, Brady was a well-known face on the streets of Kings Cross and Gunn doubted he had the guile to evade police notice for all this time.

However, he was certainly capable of murder, especially when blind drunk, and he could easily have killed Janet Smith. Perhaps he had heard on the grapevine about Sharko's method of getting rid of bodies and decided to copy it?

The other possibility was that Sharko himself had been responsible for the Coogee Shark Arm murder. But why? It had been very different from his other slayings. What was it that Tommo had said? That Rat-a-tat Gattuso had Sharko "on a leash" and was using his reputation to threaten the other villains in the city.

He knew Brady owed Gattuso money, so what if Sharko had actually been coming for him? Only Brady wasn't there – he was out drinking in Cronulla – and the killer found somebody much more to his taste; Janet Smith, just back from her waitressing job in the city, perhaps a few sheets to the wind herself.

Brady could have stayed out most of the night and got home to find Janet already gone, but the bedroom stained with blood and gore. He would have known he would be the prime suspect so he cleaned the cottage and burned the evidence in the back yard, before running straight to Reg Holmes.

Why? To warn him? Or to confront him over the murder that he knew the boat builder had committed? He checked his watch then climbed from the sofa and stretched. Ignoring the complaints from his back, he picked up the telephone and dialled Alf Spiroza at the station.

"Yeah, who is it?" Spiroza asked, sounding annoyed.

"It's Bill. Can we talk?"

"Okay, just a minute. Let me take this in the back room." There was a click and a brief buzz, before Alf came on the line. "Bloody Scissors has got me running around like a blue-arsed fly."

"Sorry Snapper, but I need to talk to you about something. It's the case, I think it goes a lot deeper than we ever thought."

"Don't tell me you're still working it? Barclay will have your guts for garters."

"Screw Barclay. What's happening with Reg Holmes?"

"You mean you haven't heard? He only tried to top himself this morning, but he bloody missed! Left himself with a great gash across his head and then took off across the harbour in one of his speedboats. The entire harbour police and coastguard couldn't catch him."

"They've got him now though?" asked Gunn.

"Yeah, caught him near Sydney Heads. He's in hospital now and he's going to testify against Brady, so we're all busy typing up reports for Barclay. Scissors agreed to put the whole thing down to the mental strain Reg has been under, so he's going home as the star witness as soon as he's feeling better."

"I'm sure he's dirty on the murder," said Gunn. "But here's the thing; I don't think Janet Smith was the only one."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't say now, Snapper. Can you follow Holmes when he's released, off the clock? I don't want Scissors or Barclay to know about this."

Spiroza exhaled heavily. "They reckon sleep is over-rated anyway," he said.

Gunn cradled the heavy telephone receiver just as his front door buzzer rang. He got up and walked to the window, where he was surprised to see Evie Strathmore standing in the street outside.

He glanced around his living room; an empty bottle of whisky had rolled under his sofa after he'd fallen asleep last night, and several coffee mugs, dirty plates and cereal bowls were piled on his dining table. Without another thought about inviting her in, he pulled on his boots, grabbed his hat and dashed downstairs to meet her.

"Hello," she said, as he stepped out of the front door. "I was looking for you at the station. They said I might find you here."

"Grand," said Gunn. "I was meaning to call you. I was just going out for a walk, care to join me?"

"Glad to."

"Listen, I'm sorry about Sunday night. It wasn't very professional to allow you to get mixed up in all this. You could have been killed."

Evie waved his apology away. "You probably saved my life," she said. "Shall we go somewhere for a cold drink? I'm parched."

Gunn thought this sounded like an excellent idea, but as they walked towards the city centre Evie passed several pubs before selecting a milk bar near the railway station. These places were all the rage these days, but Gunn could honestly claim that he had never been in one before. He looked out of the window, through the wobbling heat haze rising from the street and at the distant General Post Office building, the tallest in Sydney, soaring high above the rooftops.

Surrounded by all this mirrored glass and stainless steel, he was horribly aware of his unshaven chin and red-rimmed eyes. He had called in the Strawberry for an illegal after-hours drink the previous night, before starting work on the bottle of whisky when he had arrived home.

"Ach, I feel old," sighed Gunn, as Evie returned with two penny milkshakes.

"Well, you don't look it," she replied, smiling. Gunn checked her face for sarcasm and, finding none, suddenly became even more acutely aware of how attractive she was.

"You're just being kind, I know I look like death warmed up."

"Well, it almost worked," said Evie, laughing. "Okay, I agree, you look terrible. And old."

Gunn shook his head, but he couldn't stop himself from grinning. He slurped down some milk shake, enjoying the vanilla flavour and feeling the thick ice cream ease his heartburn.

"We never had anything like this in Glasgow," he said, appreciatively.

"How long have you been in Australia?" asked Evie.

"More than ten years now," he replied. "But before that I was in the States for a few years."

"So Glasgow might be full of milk bars now," Evie said. "Don't you ever miss Scotland?"

Gunn looked out of the window at the searing glare of the Australian summer. Although their table was in the shade, a shard of sunlight was falling on his bare arm and he could feel the heat on his skin. It would probably be raining at home, or snowing, or both; the sleet pouring down on the cathedral and the infirmary and the necropolis behind, soaking Cathy's grave as the grass grew high and wild around the headstone...

"No," he replied, and to his surprise found himself blinking back tears. "No, I'll never miss that bloody place. Sorry, the sun is going in my eyes."

Evie looked away politely. "I've been thinking some more about Sharko," she said.

"So have I, and I think that perhaps you should take off for a while until I can catch this guy."

"No, wait. You said before that you had been unprofessional, but I think you've been anything but. This monster is killing women and feeding them to the sharks, for God's sake. And you're trying to catch him on your own? Somebody's got to help you, so why not me?"

Gunn smiled. "So what did you want to tell me, partner?"

"You told me about the witness, the old man in the whaler's mission, who said that he'd seen somebody throwing body parts in the harbour?"

"That's right. Near Bradley Head, as quiet a spot as you could ask for."

"Well, I don't believe him," said Evie. "There are plenty of sharks in the harbour, especially at this time of year, but to devour a whole body you would need a group of sharks in a feeding frenzy. That means chumming the water, creating noise and commotion, which would attract attention even in the dead of night out by Bradley Head."

"So, you think he's throwing the bodies in somewhere else?"

"Exactly, there are plenty of other saltwater estuaries that are teeming with sharks along this coast. And unlike Sydney Harbour, they don't have a million or so people living around them."

"Right. But it would have to be within a couple of hours drive from Sydney, because he wouldn't want to risk travelling too far with a body."

"Still, that leaves you Narrabeen Lagoon, Botany Bay, Pittwater or even the Hawkesbury."

Evie bit her lip, suddenly looking a little uncertain.

"What is it?" asked Gunn.

"Oh nothing. Anyway, there was something else I wanted to tell you. Last year I did an interview with a newspaper, about shark nets and so on, how to stop bathers being injured. But the reporter was asking many of the same questions you were, about sharks getting a taste for human blood and so on. At the time, I just put it down to an overactive imagination."

"This reporter?" he asked. "It wouldn't be a chap named Arthur Phillips, would it?"

Evie nodded, surprised. "Yes, do you know him?"

Gunn raised his eyebrows. "You could say that."

The reporter kept cropping up when you least expected him, whether it was sneaking into the shark autopsy or snooping around the Grace Hotel. Gunn wondered whether he should add a third name to his list of suspects.

### Chapter 11 – The Eleventh Day

I

The Strawberry was heaving with lunchtime punters in town for the start of the racing festival at Randwick, all of them consuming schooners of beer and hot meat pies like they were going out of fashion.

Gunn had been forced to use his most menacing stare to acquire a relatively quiet table, where he had filled Alf Spiroza in on the latest developments in his hunt for Sharko. But the Melburnian seemed more concerned about his partner's career.

"Barclay's goin' to shit when he finds out you're still workin' the case," he said.

"Not if I hand this bastard to him on a plate, he won't.

"I still reckon you're barkin' up the wrong tree, mate."

"What about Janet Smith? Or the girl who died at the Grace? You know we've hardly scratched the surface of this case."

"Brady's going down for Smith and until there's another body, that's your lot. Come on Bill, use your loaf."

"Just because there are no bodies, it doesn't mean this isn't happening, Snapper. There are too many people telling me the same damn thing."

"Who? Tommo, Doreen Quigley, some Pommy reporter running around stirring up rumours? None of this would stand up in court and you know it."

Spiroza sighed and took a long draught of beer. "Maybe you're all buying into the same ghost story," he added. "These are strange times."

"There's a killer out there, and you and I know it ain't just Paddy Brady working on his own. This all comes back to Reg Holmes and Eddie Gattuso. What if Rat-a-tat's putting this scare story around to cover his own arse? He likes the girls, right, and we know he can get pretty rough with them? What if he's gone over the top once too often, got a taste for it and this is how he explains them going missing?

"Now you're talking sense, Bill."

"Glad to hear it."

"But you can't take down Gattuso while you're suspended. Why not take a long weekend? It's Janet Smith's inquest on Monday and Barclay will be happy as Larry once that's done. Get back on the force and then we can start lookin' into all this other stuff."

"As it happens, I was thinking of getting out of town tomorrow."

"Yeah? Why do I not like the sound of this?"

"There's a meeting up in the Blue Mountains with Gattuso and the other crooks. They're going to decide what to do about Sharko and I promised Tommo I would keep an eye out. Strictly a watching brief, but I'd appreciate it if you could come along."

"Christ on a bike," sighed Spiroza. "Where and when do you want me?"

II

The sun was hammering down on Randwick racetrack and many of the punters in the paddock were sweating more heavily than the horses. Eddie Gattuso and Jack Mooney shouldered their way through the crowd to the VIP area, where an official demanded to see their passes.

"There's no admittance without a ticket," he said.

"Play the game, mate," said Gattuso. "You only let us through here five minutes ago. We were checking out the parade ring."

"I haven't seen you two before at all today," said the official. He nodded at Mooney, adding: "Especially him, I'd remember his mug anywhere."

Gattuso sighed and glanced around quickly.

"Loony, show him our pass, will yer?" he said.

Mooney stepped forward and nutted the man in the face, causing a spray of blood and snot to explode from his nose.

"Let's get you out of here, mate," said Gattuso, his voice full of mock concern. "Stand back everybody."

Mooney grabbed the stricken man around the shoulders and led him towards the pavilion, several racegoers giving them wary glances but most totally oblivious to what had just happened. They went in a side door and Mooney flung the official onto the concrete floor, before Gattuso kicked him visciously in the chest.

"Held, dolice!" he yelled, spraying blood from his mouth, so Gattuso kicked him again. He took a gun from a holster underneath his jacket and pointed it in the man's face.

"You leave the peelers out of this," he said. "Now, tell your boss you're crook as Rookwood cemetery and you're goin' home for the day. And next time, when Eddie Gattuso wants to go through to the bar, you fuckin' well stand aside, got it?"

"God id," spluttered the official, nodding quickly.

"Good. Now come on, Jackie. Let's go and have a drink."

Gattuso replaced the gun in the holster and they stepped outside into the blazing sun.

"How is that poor man?" asked a lady in a wide-brimmed pink hat.

"He'll live," Gattuso replied with a grin. "Gets these terrible nose bleeds from time to time."

They walked into the champagne bar, where Gattuso spoke to several faces from the dodgier side of the national racing scene. By the time the next race began, dozens of punters from the paddock had moved, unchecked, into the VIP area and were helping themselves to glasses of chilled champagne.

Gattuso and Mooney went out to the viewing platform and borrowed a pair of binoculars from the young wife of a Brisbane advertising executive. As Gattuso chatted up the girl, his Hollywood smile on full beam, Mooney scanned the crowd through the glasses.

"See 'im?" Gattuso asked eventually.

"Nope," Mooney said.

"Excuse me," Gattuso said to the giggling, half-drunk girl. "We're looking for my friend's mother. She's forgotten her reading glasses, so she'll not be able to see a thing."

He snatched the binoculars from Mooney.

"What a nice thing to do for your mother," said the girl.

Mooney glared at her, then nodded. "Yeah, she's blind as fuck," he said.

"Oh," the girl coloured prettily, then pointed at somebody over Mooney's shoulder. "I say, there's Dorothy. I shall have to go and say G'day. So nice to meet you both."

Gattuso watched her go, then lit a cigarette and returned the binoculars to his eyes. "Blind as fuck? You're a real smooth talker, Jackie," he said, chuckling. "Hey, wait a tick. Who the hell's this?"

He was looking towards the grassy bank at the far side of the track, where hundreds of punters had gathered away from the home straight crowds. "Look's like we might have to take a bit of a wander," said Gattuso.

They walked over towards the paddock, past the champagne tent where a red-faced and shirtless young man was comatose under a table. Two older men, swaying slightly, were pissing up against the pavilion wall. By the unguarded VIP gate, a gaggle of elderly women were clucking in disgust at the disorderly scene.

"The standard of clientele has gone right down the Swannee this year," said Gattuso, giving a huge hoot of laughter as he walked away.

The horses thundered around the corner, sending clods of grass and black, loamy earth flying in the air, as though a hundred golf club hackers were teeing off at once.

Evie couldn't tell the jockeys apart in the blurred, noisy maelstrom that charged past her, just yards away on the other side of the rail, and she had no idea which one she had asked Culver to stake her penny on.

Culver Gale leapt up and walked quickly down to the track as the horses rounded the final corner, his face tense and excited. Most of the other people on the hill joined him, although Evie noticed several groups, drinking and chatting merrily, who paid no attention to the horses whatsoever. She wished she were sat with them, instead.

With all the sun and champagne she was feeling drowsy and she stretched, arching her back and reaching above her head. She had pins and needles in her legs, and her bottom was damp and, no doubt, covered in squashed grass.

Then Culver returned, smiling, and plonked down onto the grass beside her. He reached for the ice bucket and recharged their glasses with champagne.

"What a race," he enthused. "The track is running real heavy today."

"Did you win?" asked Evie.

"Yes, ma'am, but it was close as a peep."

"How about my pick?" Evie asked, not really caring.

Culver made a sympathetic face. "Not your day, I'm afraid."

Then his face suddenly clouded. "Excuse me one second," he said, and wandered off to speak to two men who were walking towards them from the direction of the paddock and the pavilion.

The men looked like thugs, in their expensive suits and fedora hats. One was a brute, a real bruiser, but the other was dark and fairly handsome. He was clearly the leader of the duo, smiling and gesturing as though he ruled the world. Evie thought she recognized them both from somewhere, but she couldn't put a name to the faces.

Culver hurried back up the hill to her, his face apologetic. "Awful sorry about this Evie, but these gentlemen need to speak to me about some business. Would you excuse me for ten minutes or so?"

"Of course," Evie said. "I feel like a walk anyway. I'll be back soon."

She set off up the course towards the paddock, the clean grass smell becoming mixed with a headier scent of sweat and beer and frying meat and onions. Evie stopped near one of the bookmaker's stalls and examined the runners and riders for the next race. It was the Randwick Cup itself, and the men at the stall were taking fistfuls of money.

She decided to place her own bet this time. Culver was so bloody smug, with all his talk about the ground and the form and the jockeys. Without really thinking about it, she found herself at the front of the queue.

"Yes, love?"

Evie looked again at the board, her eye drawn to a name she liked. "Fun And Frolics, please."

"To place or to win?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you want to bet on the horse winning, or finishing in the first three places?

"Why, to win of course. I'm sorry, I've never done this before."

"You don't say. How much?"

Evie fumbled in her purse, and pulled out a pound note. Flustered, she thought that the bookie might be offended if she asked for change, and so she handed it straight over.

"Good on yer, love," he said, winking. "Pound to win on Fun And Frolics."

Evie found herself propelled, politely, to the back of the crowd once more, clutching her betting slip and wondering if she could really afford to bet half a week's wages on a horse race.

She walked on through the paddock, watching the people and soaking up the atmosphere. Despite living barely a mile away from Randwick, she had never been to a meeting before. It was fun, she decided, but not really her cup of tea.

When Evie got back around to the picnic the two thugs had gone and Culver was, inevitably, studying the race card. He seemed distracted, however, and not at all his usual self.

"Ah, there you are, Evie," he said. "I looked all over for you, but I couldn't find you anywhere. I'm afraid I've had to put my own bet on the race. It's due to start any second."

"That's quite alright," said Evie. "I had a nice little walk to the paddock. I even managed to put a wager on myself, thank you very much."

"They're off," yelled a man over to their right.

Culver managed to hold her eyes for almost a full second, before leaping to his feet and rushing to the rail. The noise from the crowd began to build as the horses reached the back straight, and this time Evie felt a definite connection to the baying mob. She had, she realized with shock, bet a pound on this bloody nag.

As the horses approached the turn, Evie walked down to join Culver at the rail. There was nobody ignoring this race, she noticed. The horses thundered past, spraying them with a fine splattering of dirt, and Evie found herself yelling encouragement.

She lost sight of the racers on the home straight, but the noise from the crowd built to a crescendo and then died away into a satisfied rumble to tell her that the race had finished.

"Who won?" she asked Culver.

"Damndest thing," he said, looking truly upset at the result for the first time. "Some mule called Fun and Frolics. Mine was nowhere, I'm afraid."

Evie smiled. "Never mind," she said. "Just not your day, I'm afraid."

III

Reg was released from hospital in the North Shore in late afternoon, and immediately took a tram down to the Manly Surf Lifesaving Club. At the club, his head pounding from the bullet wound, he drank a beer in the members' bar and passed the time of day with the barman.

Alf Spiroza, who had followed him there in his gleaming Austin roadster, waited outside. His glass empty, Reg made a call from the club's telephone and then strolled out into the late afternoon sun.

He entered the marble cool of the National Australia Bank and, despite attracting some alarmed looks with his bandaged head, he was shown to a desk behind a frosted glass partition, emerging shortly afterwards and shaking the manager's hand.

Reg had another drink in the Manly Hotel on the Corso, and ate a large rump steak with new potatoes, green peas and gravy. Spiroza had a pickled egg and a cold beer, watching his target from across the public bar.

He then headed up the tree-lined street to the ferry terminal and caught the Coniston over to Circular Quay. He stood on deck the whole way, as though he had never seen the scythe-bright Sydney light before.

At the busy quayside, swamped by the after-work crowds, Reg began to walk a little faster. He set off up Pitt Street at a terrific pace, before suddenly ducking down an alley through to George Street. He called into Dymock's book store, caught the lift up to the third floor, then ran down the stairs to the lobby and out onto the street.

He charged away up George Street once again, not stopping until he reached Woolworth's, where he walked in one door and straight out of the other. Reg tried the same trick in Grace Brothers on Castlereagh Street, before emerging, pale and breathless, on Elizabeth Street across the road from Hyde Park. He hopped on a tram going to Central Station, just as Spiroza stumbled out of the department store into the shade of the tree-lined street.

Reg watched as the detective receded from sight, the thrill of losing his police shadow soon replaced by a familiar sense of brooding distress and an intense, rasping pain across his scalp. The euphoria he had felt on the harbour had gone, leaving only the cold certainty of his impending doom.

He had been left with no choice but to agree to testify against Brady, a move that had cheered the tall detective no end and apparently left him free to check out of hospital any time he liked. Peering glumly out of the window and reflecting on the twists and turns of this incredibly strange day, Reg did not see Alf Spiroza get on another tram almost immediately behind his own.

Reg got off at the station, along with most of the passengers, and wandered glumly under the railway arches on Hay Street. The buildings around here were stained black and often shrouded in steam from the chugging locomotives above. He crossed the road to a small park, walking against the flow of the commuters, and for an hour he did nothing but sit on a bench and stare into space.

Eventually, just as the street lamps were coming on for the night, a hollow-cheeked Chinaman wearing a long black coat and a cloth cap appeared and sat down on the bench.

Reg immediately stood up and walked away, heading back across the park towards the city. The Chinaman picked up a well-padded envelope that had somehow found its way onto the seat, slid it into his coat and set off towards the crowded alleys and markets of Chinatown.

Spiroza, waiting in the darkness under the railway arches, let them both go. The Chinese Triad gangs in Sydney ran numbers and protection rackets, but only among their own community. Outside Chinatown, they stuck to opium trafficking, forgery, and – occasionally – murder for money. He decided they could rule out the first option, meaning that Reg was probably either getting himself a false passport in order to flee the country, or arranging to have someone killed.

Either way, Gunn's hunch about the boat builder had been right.

IV

After the final race, Evie and Culver walked arm in arm across the centre of the racetrack towards the pavilion. Thousands of people were wandering in all directions, some jubilant, some downcast, almost all of them tipsy as newts.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but who were those two men you spoke to earlier on? You've been awfully distracted ever since," said Evie.

"I suppose I have. To tell you the truth Evie, I feel pretty damn ashamed of myself. I used to gamble an awful lot of money on the horses when I was back in the States and, well, that was one of the reasons I left..."

He tailed off, looking thoroughly miserable.

"Its none of my business," said Evie. "I shouldn't pry."

"Yes, it is your business. I should have told you this before, but I thought I had it licked. I haven't gambled much since I've been here in Oz, especially not in the past few months since I met you Evie."

Evie felt a chill come over her skin. The more layers she peeled back from Culver Gale, the more problems and neuroses she discovered. He certainly was not the carefree playboy of popular legend.

"Did you lose a lot today?" asked Evie, wondering if Culver's visitors had been an illegal bookie and his hired muscle.

Culver smiled. "Enough to remind me why I gave up in the first place," he said. "Hey, while we're on the subject, did you ever pick up your winnings?"

"Oh! I'd completely forgotten."

"You should go. I'll take these things back to the car and then come around and pick you up by the front gates."

Evie walked back to the bookmaker, who scowled as he handed over 34 crisp pound notes. The man on the neighbouring stall laughed and said, "He thought you'd forgotten, love," as he winked at Evie.

She tucked her windfall carefully inside her purse and hurried away, mindful of the bag snatchers and stick-up artists who were said to haunt the Randwick track. Suddenly, the happy throng pouring towards the gates seemed entirely more threatening.

To make matters worse, Culver was taking ages to arrive. She was still waiting outside the main gates half an hour later when most of the other racegoers had long gone. Some of the men leaving the pavilion began to cast curious glances in her direction, which she found no more than a little disconcerting at first. Then she noticed the other women standing in the shade of the trees farther along the street. They were touting for business, she realised with a start.

"Hell's teeth, Culver," she hissed furiously and immediately set off to walk home the couple of miles or so to Coogee.

Just at that moment, a man shouted: "Hey, fancy seeing you here!"

Evie was about to give the pervert a piece of her mind when she realised it was Bill Gunn, jogging across the road from the park.

"I didn't know you followed the sport of kings," he said.

"I came with a friend," replied Evie, primly.

"You know, it's none of my business but this isn't the best place to wait around after a race day. Why don't I walk you up the hill?"

"It's not necessary, really."

"I'm going that way anyway," he said, not wanting to let on that he had been prowling the well-known pick-up strip for any signs of Sharko. "How about I keep you company until your friend arrives?"

"Well, okay then. That would be very nice."

They wandered up towards the Spot at Randwick, where cafes and milk bars clustered around the junction at the top of Coogee Bay Road. The new Charlie Chaplin film was playing in the Randwick Ritz and they discovered they had a mutual love of the little comedian.

"Let's go and see it," suggested Gunn. "Come on, I owe you from the milkshake."

"Last of the big spenders," joked Evie, mindful of the king's ransom tucked away in her handbag.

It was dark when they emerged from the cinema and they set off towards the tram stop discussing the film. As they approached the green outside the hospital, Gunn suddenly felt uneasy. He became aware of somebody following close behind them and stopped, just as two more men stepped from the shadows under a spreading white gum tree. All three were now heading in their direction.

Gunn looked back towards the Spot, where dozens of people were still milling around, and then at the Royal pub, which was closed but undoubtedly still held at least half a dozen drinkers. It was barely nine o'clock and they were in the middle of a busy neighbourhood, but this trio of jokers did not seem to care.

The man who had been following them was hugely fat but powerfully so, with a gleaming cannonball of a head on his colossal shoulders. Without any further warning, he pulled an iron bar from his jacket and thumped Gunn on the shoulder. Evie screamed as he dropped to his knees like a marionette with one cut string.

A second assailant, a weasel-faced character in a dirty vest, rushed over and punched Gunn on the side of the head. He fell sideways into the hedge and Weasel Face kicked him on the bridge of the nose, forcing him further into the sharp tangle of branches.

The third man grabbed Evie, his hand clamped over her mouth, and her eyes wide with shock as Cannonball stepped toward the hedge and raised his iron bar. Gunn realised that he knew the bald man as one of Gattuso's enforcers, and the fact that he had not bothered to disguise his identity meant only one thing; he was not supposed to survive this encounter.

He was lying on his back in the bush, with no obvious way of escaping the coming blow, but he lifted his legs and kicked out in desperation when Cannonball came within range, thudding into his flabby midriff. The blow only pushed him further into the hedge, but as the iron bar came down it became tangled and stuck so that Gunn was able to grab hold of it and haul with all his might.

The huge mobster fell on top of him and they both tumbled backwards right through the hedge and into a garden. Gunn was up on his feet first, scrabbling around for the iron bar in the darkness until Cannonball reared up out of nowhere and tried to grab him in a bear hug. Gunn ducked and slipped onto his backside, putting his hand down on the bar by sheer chance.

As Cannonball moved closer he swung the weapon into his right knee, hearing it give way with a sickening crunch. The big man toppled over in agony and Gunn brought the bar down across his broad back two more times for good measure.

A scrawny head stuck itself through the huge hole they had made in the hedge, peering into the garden.

"Petey?"

Cannonball groaned and tried to get up, but Gunn put his foot on the back of his head and pushed his face into the turf.

"Gimme a hand, mate," he said in his best, nasal Sydney twang.

"Huh?"

Gunn rushed over and hauled Weasel Face through the hedge, punched him in the face and threw him across the garden. By now, lights were coming on one by one in the houses.

"Everybody stay inside until the police get here," yelled Gunn, before leaping up and fighting his way through the hedge once again. It took Gunn a few seconds to spot Evie and the third gangster, struggling together as he dragged her away across the park. Gunn dashed out into the road and onto the grass, quickly making up the ground between them, and hit the man across the back of the neck with the iron bar.

The gangster dropped like a stone and Gunn flung the weapon away into the darkness, before pulling Evie towards the tram stop at the hospital.

"Come on," he said. "I'm suspended from duty, so the less said about this malarkey the better."

Gunn and Evie clattered into the house on Dolphin Street, Evie slamming the front door behind them. She slid home the bolt and pressed her back against the door, sliding to the ground with her eyes clamped shut.

Gunn ran ahead, checking the windows and doors and searching all of the downstairs rooms, before rushing back into the hall and setting off up the stairs.

"Feels like we've been here before, doesn't it," he said, grinning.

"Wait," Evie said, pushing herself to her feet. "I'll come with you."

They tiptoed up the stairs but the silence from the first floor seemed an empty one. Gunn knew there was nobody up there, and a sudden change in mood sent electric rushes up and down his spine.

He searched the bathroom, pulling back the shower curtain and throwing open the linen cupboard, finding only clean sheets and towels. Evie, her face lit by moonlight from the window, emerged from the small guest bedroom and shook her head.

They both turned to the remaining door, standing half-open across the landing.

"My bedroom," said Evie, a little unnecessarily. Gunn felt his heart pounding in his chest as he followed her inside.

The room was empty, a double bed with a white duvet and thick pillows standing against the far wall, a fitted wardrobe and dressing table on the near side. Lipstick and make-up littered the table, there were a few silky, skimpy items scattered around the floor, and a coffee cup stood atop an open magazine on the bedside table.

"Looks like you've been burgled."

"Ha ha," said Evie, flicking on the electric lamp and turning to examine Gunn properly.

She winced. "Look at the state of you. Here, sit down on the bed and I'll get you cleaned up."

Gunn did as he was told and Evie brought a bowl of hot water, a flannel and a towel from the bathroom, before gently dabbing at the welts and bruises on his face.

"You're going to be..."

"Ouch!"

"Don't be such a baby. You're going to be black and blue in the morning."

"I'm always blue in the morning," said Gunn, with a sad expression on his face.

"Oh Bill," Evie began, before noticing a glimmer of a smirk on his face. "You rotter," she said, playfully punching him on the arm. "There, have another bruise."

"Ouch, that one did hurt!"

They gazed at each other for a long moment, in the soft golden light from the bedside lamp, until Evie broke the comfortable silence.

"Just kiss me you idiot," she said.

V

Later that night, police constables Glenn Burns and Pat Quinlan were patrolling the northern boundary of Moore Park in Paddington when they heard a scream.

The sound had come out of the darkness of a narrow alley, and Burns and Quinlan exchanged knowing looks. They often stumbled across courting couples in the park itself but a back alley in Paddo was no place for two young lovers to be caught with their knickers round their ankles. Razor gangs roamed these streets, and a target like that would be irresistible.

Burns lifted his lantern and they walked into the warren of backstreets that wound between the tenements in this part of town. There was nobody to be seen, but as they moved deeper into the alley they could hear a loud scuffling from up ahead, as though there was a fight going on.

This was all they needed. Randwick Cup day was famous for its drunken bust-ups, or this could be one of the bookies extracting some money from a particularly stubborn client. There was a sudden clatter of dustbins and Burns and Quinlan broke into a run, turning the corner to find two mangy stray dogs chasing a dozen or so rats around a rubbish-strewn yard.

The dogs stopped as the light from the lantern struck them, and the men realised that they were not the hunters but the prey. A large black rat leapt onto the back of one of the dogs, sinking its teeth into its pelt. More rats piled forward and surrounded both the poor beasts, biting at their legs.

"Go on, 'oppit," yelled Burns, an edge of panic in his voice, as he picked up a brick and hurled it into the melee. Quinlan blew three loud blasts on his whistle, and as the rats ceased their assault for a moment the two strays took their chance and ran silent and bleeding back down the alley.

The two policemen were left staring at the rats, twenty or thirty or forty of them now, and for a moment the horde stared back at them. Quinlan put his whistle to his lips but Burns stopped him.

"Let's just back away, mate," he said. "Nice and slow and quiet."

Still holding up his lantern, he pulled on Quinlan's arm and led him away around the corner. As soon as they were out of sight of the yard, the scurrying and scuttling resumed but no rats followed them.

"Thank Christ," said Quinlan.

"Now leg it."

They ran full tilt up the alley, away from the darkness of the park and towards the distant lights of the city, stopping for a breather after a while when it became clear they had taken a wrong turning somewhere.

Burns, by far the older and heavier of the pair, lit a cigarette for himself and his partner. "I thought they were going to come at us for a minute there," he said.

"Have you ever seen anything like that, Glenn?"

"Never in my bloody life, mate."

But now they were away from the rats' lair, they both began to feel a little foolish and agreed that the incident was best forgotten.

"Hey, what's that?" asked Quinlan, suddenly.

"What? Christ, Pat, don't do that to me. I thought you'd seen one of those bloody rats."

Farther down the lane they could see a car, an expensive, European import of some kind, and there was something moving on the ground beside it.

"The scream we heard," said Burns, lifting his lantern again and illuminating a figure in the darkness, pulling at something big and heavy. Like a body.

Quinlan began whistling again with all his might, and both men took out their truncheons as they raced along the alley. After the embarrassment of being frightened away by some rats, they were keen to prove their mettle against a single bloke.

But the man jumped into his car, the engine roared into life and it bumped away down the uneven surface of the lane, before peeling away around the corner with a screech of tyres.

Quinlan was first on the scene, and by the time his partner had arrived he had already emptied his stomach into the gutter.

The woman was naked, lying on a pile of ripped and bloodstained rags that was once her dress, her hands and feet bleeding and black with dirt from where she had kicked and scraped at the ground. Her mane of curly black hair was splayed around her head like a pillow but her eyes were staring up at the stars, already long gone from this hellish scene. Her throat was cut from ear to ear, and the blood was still oozing out from her gaping neck.

Burns was the first to recover.

"You go and get help, Pat," he said. "I'll stay here and guard her."

Quinlan was about to say that the poor soul was beyond protection, but then he thought back to the rats, staring at them hungrily with their tiny, twinkling eyes, and he simply nodded and set off as fast he could, blowing his whistle once more.

Chapter 12 – The Twefth Day

I

Gunn stepped out of the shower, towelled himself dry and pulled on a rubber duck yellow dressing gown that he found hanging on the back of the bathroom door. He had never been a fan of showers, preferring instead to dunk himself in the bath on an irregular basis, but this morning he felt refreshed and energised.

After pausing briefly to admire his black eye in the mirror, he jogged barefoot down the stairs and found Evie in the kitchen, fixing coffee. He fairly waltzed across the linoleum to plant a kiss on her lips.

"My, somebody's in high spirits today," she said, embracing him.

"I wonder why that might be," said Gunn. "You must be good for a man's constitution, Dr Evelyn Strathmore."

"Is that so? Well, I'm feeling pretty chipper too," she replied, grinning wickedly and setting their coffee cups down on the table.

Ten minutes later, Evie picked up the pieces of the butter dish from where it had smashed on the floor and Gunn coughed and gasped as he ran two glasses of water from the tap. Evie, her cheeks flushed and her hair in a tangle, drank hers down in one and then disappeared upstairs to the bathroom for a second time.

Gunn waited for his hammering pulse to return to something like a normal rate and then turned his attention to the stove. Whistling happily, he put on another pot of coffee and sliced some bread to go under the grill for toast, looking out of the window as he waited.

He could see a neighbouring house away through the trees and over the back fence, where a cat was sitting on the window ledge in the sun, a picture of contentment.

"Here's to us, pal," said Gunn, toasting the creature with the last of his glass of tap water.

Then a woman stepped out into the neighbour's garden and Gunn suddenly remembered that he was stark naked, ducking quickly out of sight and scrambling over to retrieve the dressing gown.

"Bill, I never told you about the friend I was with at the races," said Evie, when she returned a few minutes later.

"You did. It was that American jerk, Culver Gale."

"No, I mean I never told you about what he said. I know you don't care for him but I think he might be in trouble. There were these two rough-looking types and, well, I think he must have a gambling problem..."

Gunn muttered something about Gale having enough money to cope and flicked on the wireless, just catching the middle of a news broadcast.

"...after a woman's body was found in Paddington," said the announcer. "Two police constables gave chase to a suspect at the scene but he was able to escape.

"Reports suggest the murder may be linked to the Coogee Shark Arm case and that a serial killer may be on the loose in Sydney. Some people have already nicknamed him Sharko, as he is reputed to throw the bodies of his victims to the sharks."

Evie, who had stopped speaking mid-sentence, stared at Gunn with wide, frightened eyes. The news moved on to the war clouds gathering over Ethiopia and Gunn flicked off the set.

"The bastard's killed again," he said. "Last night, after the races."

"We may have seen the victim..." Evie began, thinking back to the women waiting for custom outside the main stand.

"Paddington's less than a mile from Randwick across the park," Gunn said. "He was probably there at the track."

"Let's try and be rational about this. I'll go and get the newspapers, find out exactly what happened," said Evie. "You should get dressed before you scare the neighbour's cat."

She returned five minutes later with the Sydney Morning Tribune's front page screaming 'Sharko!' above a story by – inevitably – Arthur Phillips.

"Everybody in the newsagents was talking about it. If this reporter is involved then he certainly doesn't believe in shying away from publicity," she said.

"Could be deliberate," suggested Gunn. He drummed his fingers on the table and changed the subject. "What time did you say you last saw Gale?"

"Shortly after the last race. What are you trying to suggest, Bill?"

"What do you really know about him? Why did he leave the States?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

But Gunn sprang up from the table and walked into the hall, fishing the Tribune report about the ball at the Grace Hotel from his suit jacket pocket. He brought it back to the kitchen, unfolding the paper to show an array of celebrity photographs, including one of Rat-a-tat Gattuso running a gauntlet of flashbulbs on his arrival. The caption said: "The presence of reputed mobster Edward Gattuso outraged many".

"That's one of the men Culver spoke to at the races," said Evie.

"No prizes for guessing the other was Jack Mooney then. I think they were the goons who ambushed us on the ghost train."

Evie took the newspaper cutting and scanned it quickly.

"I knew I recognized him from somewhere," she said. "I was there that night, at the fundraising ball with Culver."

"I don't believe in coincidences, Evie. Sharko is too close to you for comfort."

"There's something else," said Evie, putting her hand to her mouth. "You said Sharko must have a property out of town, well Culver has a vineyard up on the Hawkesbury."

"And if he's in hock up to his eyeballs then we've got a clear connection to Gattuso. He could have gambled away most of his oil bucks years ago."

"Culver's a playboy but he's not a killer. You don't really think so, do you? I mean, I almost..."

"I don't know Evie, love," said Gunn. "But until I do I think you'd be safer out of harm's way."

Gunn was not expecting another confrontation when they arrived at his own place, not in broad daylight anyway, but when he went to unlock his front door he found it was already open.

"Go and wait in the car," he whispered to Evie, handing her the keys. "If you hear a racket, or if I'm not out in five minutes, you take off and get the police."

"You are the police," she replied.

"Call my partner Alf Spiroza. There's a stack of his cards in the glove box."

With that, Gunn slipped inside the hall and felt for the cricket bat he always kept in the umbrella stand. He hoisted it over one shoulder and followed a trail of pungent cigarette smoke into the living room, bracing himself to swing the bat as soon as he pushed open the door...

...and found Doreen Quigley, sitting in his favourite armchair and drinking a mug of tea. Gunn exhaled noisily and allowed his shoulders to slump.

"Doreen, what the hell are you doing in my house?" he demanded.

"Sorry, Mr Gunn, but I had to see you. Where have you been anyway?"

"What? I'm not explaining myself to a bloody burglar! How did you get in?"

"One of my cockatoos is a dab hand with a lock pick," Doreen smiled. "But never mind that. Why don't you sit down and have a cup of tea? You look bushed."

Gunn smiled at the gesture - the city's most notorious had broken into his house in broad daylight to offer him a cuppa.

"Don't mind if I do, Doreen," he said. She stood up and went into the kitchen, returning with another mug of tea, with milk and plenty of sugar despite having not asked him how he took it.

"There's something you should know," she said. "Eddie Gattuso wants to see me."

"What does he want?" asked Gunn, taking a long slurp of tea. God, he had forgotten how refreshing a nice cuppa could be.

"No idea, but I thought you should know."

"It's bound to be a trap. I think Gattuso wants to sever all his ties to Sharko now that word has got out. Three of his goons have already tried to kill me," said Gunn, gesturing at his shiner and grinning. "Should have known better, of course."

"Kill ya?" Doreen suddenly looked worried, and she glanced over Gunn's shoulder at the kitchen door.

"What is it?" he asked, but when he turned he found the room empty behind him. He must have whipped around too quickly and he began to feel dizzy. Or could it have been...? He looked at again at the mug of tea.

"I'm sorry, Bill," Doreen was saying. "They didn't leave me no other choice."

Then, with another fearful glance towards the door, she leaned forward and whispered. "I've done what I can for you, mate. You won't be alone up there."

Gunn made for the door and staggered out into the hall. He bumped into a table, knocking a framed photo of Cathy to the floor and smashing the glass into shards.

The photo had travelled with him across the States, tucked into his wallet until it began to tear and fade along the folds. On more than one occasion he had risked his life for that photo, chasing down pickpockets and thieves foolish enough to try and take the tattered leather wallet that rarely contained any cash.

Then the front door opened and a large figure stepped inside.

"Well, look who it isn't," said Jack Mooney with a chortle. Gunn dropped to his knees and keeled over drunkenly among the broken glass. His last conscious thought was to hope that Mooney had been hiding upstairs all along and had not seen him arrive with Evie

II

Evie ducked low in her seat as she watched the big thug from the racetrack – had Gunn said his name was Mooney? – drive past her in a polished Daimler, with wide running boards and an exhaust pipe as wide as a gargoyle's mouth.

She had been waiting for almost half an hour, first seeing a blousy-looking woman emerge from the house and scurry off down the street. Shortly afterwards, Mooney had come out and dumped a sack containing something large and bulky – like a body – in his car boot. There was no sign of Gunn, and as the Daimler turned out of the street, she knew she had to follow.

She clambered over to the driver's seat, shaking her head at the collected debris of the various police stakeouts - old newspapers, lolly papers, greasy chip wrappers – and set off in pursuit.

They headed west, but instead of turning off for the badlands of Balmain, the car rolled on up the Parramatta Road.

Sydney's suburbs sprawled onwards over the hills to the west of the harbour, miles and miles of bungalows and shopping parades. Evie's plan was to follow the Daimler to its destination and then ring for Alf Spiroza; the only problem was they didn't seem to be stopping.

Beyond the town of Parramatta they entered rolling countryside, the fields broken and bare under the light of the rising moon. It was only when you left the city that the full effect of the Great Depression became truly apparent, with most farmers driven out of business by the collapse of the world grain markets. Evie drove past bare orchards and vast, empty greenhouses. Scarecrows guarded slim pickings in the dusty fields.

She could see the Blue Mountains ahead now, a range of low and broken peaks, just visible against the purple evening sky. They crossed the Nepean River at Penrith, over 30 miles from central Sydney, Evie driving over the bridge just two cars behind the Daimler. She wondered whether Gunn was already dead, Mooney going deep into the bush to dump his body, and was sorely tempted to stay in Penrith so she could alert the police.

But by then the killer would be long gone. She had no choice but to push on. The road wound up into the narrow mountain passes, shrouded with thick forest, and after another hour of hard driving they reached the mountain mining town of Katoomba.

Evie trailed the Daimler into the streets of Katoomba and watched it park in the driveway of a darkened house. Mooney got out and went to open the boot, turning suddenly to peer back up the street at her car.

She drove on a short distance and pulled up - with the fuel gauge needle banging it's head on the E of empty - outside the town's Returned Servicemen's League club, feeling oddly reassured by the knowledge that Aussie club members with a few drinks under their belt were more formidable than serial killers or gangsters.

But she would not go in to raise the alarm just yet, so with a last look at the warm, after-hours glow from the RSL she set off on foot down the street after Jack Mooney.

III

The Carrington Hotel was the best hotel in the Blue Mountains, an art deco whitewashed fortress in the heart of Katoomba, its lights burning brightly in the swirling mist and fog.

A taxi swooshed up the hotel's gravel drive, curving around a wide swathe of lawn, and pulled up at the front entrance as a valet trotted down to meet it. It was now after six on Saturday evening, but a large hotel like the Carrington was allowed to sell alcohol outside normal opening hours. The lobby was marble-floored and brightly lit, with comfortable sofas and low coffee tables, rainforest plants in heavy terracotta pots and a bubbling fish pool in the corner.

A wedding reception was in full swing in the ballroom, and several other private functions were going on elsewhere in the building. Rene, the maitre'd, a genuine Frenchman – well, he spoke French anyway – was in charge of this organised chaos.

Rene stepped through from the lobby into the hotel bar, dark and peaceful even when all around was descending into anarchy, and asked for a small glass of brandy. He chucked the snifter down in one, brisk and efficient as ever, and surveyed the peaceful scene. There were only a few patrons in the bar, and while most of them looked half-cut at least they were being quiet about it.

He collared the new waiter, a Maori whose muscles bulged from the pressed white linen of his jacket. He was a taciturn, menacing figure but he seemed to know his job. The Carrington went through casual staff like a fish shop went through old newspapers so the new employee had aroused little interest.

"Hey, you," said Rene. "How goes it? Running smoothly, no?"

"Going good, boss," said the Maori, nodding his head.

"Bon," said Rene. "Keep up the good work, my friend."

Across the bar, Tommo smiled as he watched the little Frenchie bossing around the enormous waiter. He had been drinking steadily for a couple of hours now, waiting for Eddie Gattuso to get the show on the road. Tommo could handle his beer, but the whole situation was making him nervous. He suspected that Gattuso was planning something, dragging him all the way up here for a meeting that could just as easily have been held in the city.

On the other hand, maybe it was just Eddie's love of the big time, bringing them up here to the glitziest hotel in the mountains, like it was a big showdown in the Catskills between New York's five families.

But so far, Tommo was the only one to show up. None of the other fellows were here, which was really start to make him snaky. He was here alone, or at least he appeared to be alone. In fact he had a couple of his blokes skulking around the hotel to give him a little peace of mind – and a dozen more waiting outside, armed to the teeth.

Then one of Gattuso's crew, a tough gunslinger from Balmain, slunk in and sat on a stool by the bar, his sports jacket hanging heavily down on one side. He was followed by two more hoons, young blokes who Tommo did not recognise, who stood by the door.

Finally Eddie Gattuso himself swanned in, wearing a dinner jacket and a bow tie hanging loosely around his neck, like a renegade uncle from the wedding reception. His best film star smile was going full beam and he approached Tommo as if he was Cary Grant approaching a journalist from Variety magazine, all bonhomie, Brylcreem and white teeth.

"G'day Tommo," he said. "Sorry for the hold-up, mate, but some of my lot couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery. You know how it is."

"No worries. I've not been up to the Blueys for years so I've just been enjoying the air. Get you a drink?"

"Whisky and soda."

Tommo waved the big Maori waiter over to the table.

"G'day mate. Whisky and soda, and I'll have another Tooheys over here."

"Cheers Tommo. Hey, I know we said it was a friendly meeting, but I reckon your boys have took that a bit too literally."

"Eh?"

"Those two young fellows you dropped off at the edge of town? I just seen 'em both going out into the beer garden with two Sheilas from the weddin'."

"Bloody hell."

Eddie guffawed. "Hey, boys will be boys mate. Wouldn't mind a go at some of those bridesmaids meself. Here we go."

The drinks arrived, and both men fell silent for a while.

"What's going on Eddie?" Tommo asked after a minute. "Where are the rest of the boys? Buster Burnett, Frank Petrov?"

"Forget 'em, Tommo. Let's have a chat in here, just you and me."

"Tell me where they are first. I thought this was going to be a clear the air meeting about bloody Sharko."

"Keep your voice down. I said, forget 'em, okay?" Eddie glared, glancing around the bar. Nobody was paying them any attention, however.

"The other guys are nothin'. I've got 'em all in me pocket. When I say forget 'em, I mean they don't matter. They say and do whatever I bloody well tell 'em to do. Me and you, Tommo, we're the only two blokes in the game with our own minds these days."

Tommo bit his tongue. He was sure some of the other gang bosses would not agree, but there was no doubt that Gattuso was the biggest shark in the tank these days.

"Let's cut the horseshit, Tommo. There's a bloke in Sydney who's been stepping over the line, and we both know who I'm talking about."

"So why's he still breathin' Eddie? I heard Sharko was with you."

"Let's just say he was useful to me for a while, but I made him swear he wouldn't touch any more Sheilas. It's only lately I realised how far it had gone."

"Yeah, too bloody far," said Tommo, thinking 'pull the other one, mate, its got bells on'.

"Thing is he's well connected, and if I turn him in I could go down with him. And if I cark him, then, well let's just say some powerful people wouldn't like it."

Tommo was beginning to put two and two together. "So what are you saying Eddie?" he asked, wanting to hear Gattuso spell it out.

"What I'm saying is, Tommo me old gun, that I'm giving you the chance to do him. You're the one who wants him off the streets, wants to protect the bloody jacked up prozzies in the Cross. You get rid of him."

"That's crazy. I don't even know who he is."

"That's why I brought you up here, Tommo. He's on his way here right now. You want him dead, you kill the bastard. That's the deal."

"And what if I say no?"

"Like I said, that's the deal. You kill him and you keep your two up racket. You don't and it's war, me against you, simple as that. The other thing is, I had to tell the bloody ripper that you were onto him to lure him up here. He thinks he's coming to Katoomba to do you, Tommo, and believe me when I say the only way to stop that is to do him first."

Tommo picked up his beer and took a gulp, his hand steady but his heart pounding. He had been expecting a double cross from Gattuso, had prepared for one in fact, but nothing like this. Tommo wasn't a killer; he'd never topped anyone in his life.

On the other hand, if anyone deserved it, Sharko did. After all, he had killed four or five innocent girls at the very least, chopped them up and fed them to the bloody fish. Tommo felt a knot of anger building in his gut.

"That's it, mate," said Gattuso. "I can see you're starting to like the idea. I've got him in a house at the edge of town, nice and quiet. We head out there, you walk in and just plug the bastard."

"What with? I haven't even got a gun."

Gattuso glanced around the bar. The other drinkers were scattered around the room, a long way into a good Saturday night. Two barmen were polishing glasses and the big waiter was lounging by the window, half-asleep.

"With this, Tommo." Gattuso grinned, lifting a revolver out of a leather holster under his armpit. The gun glinted in the muted lights. "All you've got to do is point and shoot, mate."

Tommo hesitated. "If I do this, the two up school stays in the Cross permanently. No hassle from any of your mob. And you got to lay off the girls too. Just the usual cut, no extra protection money or anything."

"We can work out the details later." Gattuso's smile had taken on epic proportions, like the Cheshire cat being fellated by the feline equivalent of Jean Harlow.

The plan was so good that he could hardly keep it to himself; get Tommo himself to plug Gunn, thinking that he was getting rid of Sharko. Once the truth came out, the big Jock would be out of the picture and Tommo would be in Gattuso's pocket for the rest of his days. And unlike the botched job at Luna Park, Gunn had been supposed to survive the ambush at Randwick Spot, to further the impression that he was involved with dubious characters outside his police work.

"Wipe that bloody smile of your face," said Tommo. "Let's get it done. Just don't give me that shooter yet, I'll prob'ly blow me bloody foot off."

Gattuso nodded gravely and stood up, brushing down his suit as Tommo drained his beer glass. The Maori waiter wandered over from the window and, without a word, punched Gattuso in the face with a haymaker that would have decked a horse, bursting the gangster's nose like an over-ripe tomato.

His hoods by the door blinked and stared, slack-jawed with surprise, and Tommo couldn't help but think of the Marx brothers, doing one of their comedy double takes. Their boss hit the Axminster with a muffled thud, falling backwards without even bending his knees.

The gunslinger at the bar wasn't so slow however and had his hand inside his jacket before Tommo flung his schooner, hitting him flush on the side of his head and knocking him off his stool in a cascade of blood, glass and foaming Toohey's Dark.

"Get farther back in the country, ya bloodsuckin' son of a buccaneer!" he cried jubilantly

Gattuso was flat on his back, blowing bubbles from his busted hooter, so Tommo quickly retrieved the gun from his holster and dragged the big waiter to the far end of the oak-panelled bar.

"Nice shot, Jake," he said, as they dropped out of sight.

"No worries," he replied. Doreen Quigley's Maori bodyguard rubbed his knuckles and grinned. "I've been wanting to do that ever since I met the cunt. I saw the gun and I thought they were gonna do you, brother."

"They prob'ly were, mate," said Tommo. "Glad to have you aboard."

Jake nodded.

"Anyway, I reckon that's Eddie's film career finished. With a Roman nose like that one," smiled Tommo.

"Eh?"

"Roamin' all over his face."

Tommo chuckled at his own joke. He was having a great time, just like back in the old days, he thought, before a gunshot splintered the bar above their heads. He fired back, darting around the corner like a mongoose, some of his boxer's grace returning. He heard glass smash amid the shouts, screams and yells from the wedding reception.

Tommo leaned out again and saw Eddie Gattuso lurching to his feet, swaying like a gum tree in a gale. The two heavies rushed forward to help him, so Tommo fired a warning shot at the ceiling and ducked back out of sight. Three more bullets fizzed into the wall above them, shattering a print of a seal with a pint of Guinness balanced on his nose.

"This is a bit lively," grinned Tommo.

"Just like a regular Friday night down K Road in Auckland," replied the Maori.

Then a Tommy gun's death rattle ripped through the bar, sending splinters and sawdust flying. Tommo and Jake were showered in broken glass and lashings of whisky and gin, rum and vodka, as the bullets thudding into the dark wood of the bar, only a whisker from their backs.

A shotgun blasted out one of the big bay windows and Tommo looked over to see a man outside taking aim across the bar. He fired the second barrel, and then ducked out of sight.

"Thank Christ for that," said Tommo. "The cavalry's arrived."

He and Jake risked a look over the shredded bar. Eddie Gattuso was gone, but one of his men was lying by the doorway, stone dead. Tommo frowned, realising that the stakes had been raised, and once the bodies started stacking up there was no going back

Another mobster ran across the lobby carrying the machine gun and the gunfight seemed to have moved outside the hotel now. Police sirens wailed in the near distance and Tommo could hear some joker yelling through a bullhorn.

"Come on, we're sittin' ducks 'ere," he said. "Let's make a bid for the back door." They scrambled over the bar towards the doorway, scrunching and splashing across the sticky broken glass.

IV

Evie Strathmore had once been caught in a southerly cyclone, blowing hail and ice all the way from the Antarctic, while aboard a research vessel in the middle of the Tasman Sea. The wind had slowly stripped the wheelhouse, slat by slat, until it crashed off the deck altogether, soaring up into the murderous sky like a wooden kite. The crew had cowered below decks as the little boat climbed waves that would have swamped the Harbour Bridge and sledded into troughs so deep they felt as though they were going to strike the ocean floor.

But now, crouched under a rhododendron bush in the little town of Katoomba, she felt more terrified than ever before.

She was out of her element. In the sea, Evie was unfazed by creatures that killed out of instinct, rather than cruelty or greed. Give her a wetsuit, flippers and a spear and she'd take on Sharko and all the gangsters in Sydney, stick 'em like barramundi.

Up here, in the dark and cold, alone and unarmed, she felt about as deadly as one of the Blue Mountains' resident koalas.

The Daimler had driven away ten minutes ago. Bill could have been in the boot, but Evie had no petrol left so she had little choice but to stay put. Besides, somehow she knew he was in the bungalow, which looked abandoned, with paint peeling from the walls, broken guttering and several boarded up windows.

Evie took a deep breath and ran down the street, before wading into the knee-high grass in the overgrown front yard. She shuddered to think how many spiders called this place home, but there was no way she was strolling up the path to the front door.

Heaps of timber and coal barricaded the route around the side of the house, but Evie scrambled over as quietly as she could. A bright glow was coming from the back yard and she crouched behind a dustbin filled with tar-black rainwater to peek around the corner.  The rear of the house was even more unkempt than the front; a dark tangle of bushes and scrub lit by the floodlights of the Katoomba Coal Mining Company, which was visible over the back fence.

Reassured, Evie moved on... and stepped right onto a pane of paint-flecked glass, which splintered with a blood-chilling crack.

But after a few long heartbeats, when nobody came out to investigate, Evie picked her way carefully into the garden. She found a lean-to outhouse, a ramshackle construction with a galvanised iron roof, cobweb-choked windows and chipboard walls.

The door was locked but one of the boards was rotted and Evie gave it a careful kick. The chipboard gave way, and soon she had made a hole big enough to squeeze through.

Evie scrambled into the musty lean-to, grimacing as she scraped her knee on a protruding nail. She peered in the kitchen window, wondering how the gangsters had come by what had once been a decent family bungalow. The husband probably lost his home at two-up or poker, she thought.

Whatever had happened, it was now a gloomy eyesore, a stash house for stolen loot, guns, escaped prison buddies or soon-to-be-murdered detectives. The thought spurred her on and she lifted the window, which gave a dry cough of protest, and hopped up on the ledge.

She squeezed through onto the draining board, next to a sink brimming with foul, fur-encrusted dishes. The kitchen smelled worse than the rotting outhouse and clouds of flies buzzed around her head. Her entrance had not raised the alarm, however, which meant that anybody inside was either unconscious or not able to walk. Or dead.

From the kitchen she took a pitch-dark hallway, finding a bathroom and a room lit by the coal yard lights and filled with furniture under dustsheets. Moving on, she found signs of recent occupation in the living room; there were ashes in the fireplace, a sleeping roll, beer bottles, a half-empty whisky jar and a European naturalist magazine, folded open at a photograph of two naked blondes playing leapfrog against an Alpine backdrop.

"I looove what you've done with the place," muttered Evie, then stopped, frozen by a sound from behind her. She returned to the hall and pushed open the final door. It was as dark as a tomb, but a rasp of breath told her that at least one person was alive in here. Closing her eyes, she turned on the electric light...

It was Gunn. The detective had been dumped on the floor like a sack of spuds, a rag in his mouth and his arms tied behind his back. A lavish bruise was coming up on one side of his face and his eye was already beginning to blacken and close. He seemed to be conscious, although his expression was totally without any urgency or appeal.

Evie dropped to her knees and pulled the gag from his mouth, an elastic cord of drool stretching and then snapping around her fingers. Nice. Gunn's pupils were as round as saucers and he regarded her with mild curiosity.

"Evie," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"Holy mackerel, you're as high as a kite."

He was doped to the gills on something, Evie thought, most likely opium. She tried to undo the knots at his wrists but the thick garden twine had sunk deeply into Gunn's skin, and she broke a nail, cursing and sucking her finger.

"Whit's for tea?" asked Gunn, sleepily. "Fish and chips?"

"Wait here," Evie ordered, before realising that he didn't really need telling. She rushed into the kitchen and searched through the empty drawers for a knife, but the best she could do was a small potato cutter.

As she ran back and began to saw at the twine Gunn gasped in horror, his eyes suddenly fixed on something over Evie's shoulder. In her haste, she had forgotten to check that they were still alone.

Evie whipped around to find only a bare wall, cursing under her breath and returning to her task.

"Oh Christ, it's hopeless!" Gunn exclaimed. Perhaps the reality of his situation had seeped into his doped up brain, Evie thought, as the twine fell away from his wrists.

"Come on Bill, we're going," she said, grabbing his arm and heaving. But Gunn was too woozy to stand, and he simply hung in the air for a moment before Evie had to let him drop.

"No, oh God not that," he said, lolling on the floor.

"What?" snapped Evie, losing patience, "What is it?"

He gave her a quizzical look and gestured at the empty floor. "It's my wife's photograph," he hissed. "I've only gone and bloody smashed it."

She remembered some of her artistic, bohemian friends at university getting high on hop, and also the fact that a stiff drink had sometimes brought them down to earth. She ran for the whisky bottle in the front room, knocked back a shot and then carried it through to Gunn, who was still able to recall what to do with a dram.

"Bill, we have to get out of here," Evie whispered. "Remember Sharko? And Eddie Gattuso? Well, one of his men brought you here and he'll be back soon. We have to go."

"Gattuso," Gunn scoffed. "That wee shite. I'll batter him."

"He'll kill us if he finds us here."

"Righto, well, we'd better be off then." Gunn gave her a woozy look of admonishment, as though she had been keeping them around chatting. Evie hauled him to his feet and helped him out into the hall. She checked the front door. Locked.

"We're going to have to climb out of the window," she said, as they stumbled into the foul kitchen, cockroaches and other insects scattering from their path.

"Braw night," said Gunn, gazing out at the lights from the coal works.

"Just climb out of the damn window," snapped Evie.

Gunn dragged himself onto the draining board with surprising agility and slithered through headfirst, leaving both legs inside. Evie quickly pushed them out after him, then got ready to follow.

But at that moment, she heard a key turn in the front door lock.

V

As the night wore on and the car became colder and colder, Spiroza's breath began to form cotton wool drifts of vapour. Few stakeouts in Sydney, where the winter has all the bite of a Labrador puppy, had been as cold as this one, but Spiroza was from Melbourne and he was used to the chilly Victorian winter.

He cracked open a flask of strong coffee, laced with six spoons of Queensland sugar and a decent belt of whisky. Gunn called the drink 'Scotch engine oil', and it had been the partners' salvation on many a long night.

Spiroza's car was parked in Katoomba Street, a few hundred yards up the rise from the Carrington Hotel. Directly opposite the venue of the Allied Racketeers and Robbers AGM – as he had decided to christen the meeting – was a parade of brightly lit restaurants and shops, ruling out a closer watch.

He couldn't see much of the hotel from where he was sitting, but he had a clear enough view of anybody coming and going. It had all been quiet so far anyway. Gunn's old boxing mate Tommo had been here for a while, as had Eddie Gattuso with a few of his boys. The most recent arrival was Jack Mooney, who had just driven up in Gattuso's Daimler and parked outside the hotel.

All of sudden, two loud cracks split the night. Gunshots. A van from a wholesale butchers in Paddington was parked across the street, and before the echo had died away the back doors flew open and five men leapt out, armed with shotguns and cricket bats. They ran off, towards the blazing lights of the Carrington.

"Bloody hell," whispered Spiroza to himself. More gunfire sounded from the hotel and revellers in dinner jackets and gowns began streaming out onto the lawn. Spiroza got out and jogged down the street. He crouched behind some bushes, slipped his police revolver out of its holster and wondered what to do next.

For all of Gattuso's dreaming and scheming, this was not Chicago or New York and Spiroza had no experience of a pitched gun battle. He watched as one of the men from the butcher's van ran up to a ground floor window of the hotel, fired both barrels of a shotgun through the glass and then ducked back out of sight.

Two other meatmen charged across the lawn but there was a loud roar and one of them was knocked flat on his back, his chest exploding in a shower of blood.

One of Gattuso's gangsters stepped out of the shadows by the front door, holding a long-barrelled pistol and looking stunned at what he had just done. The second meat van mobster recovered his wits first, charging across the grass to smash the shooter viciously around the head with his cricket bat.

There was a sound like a hammer hitting wood and the shooter fell to his knees. The man from the meat van raised his arms to finish the job but Spiroza leapt to his feet, holding his gun steady.

"Police," he yelled. "Put it down or I'll shoot."

The man dropped the cricket bat and ran back to the shadows where the meat van mob was gathered, just as Jack Mooney appeared at the door with his Tommy gun, spraying bullets into the night.

Spiroza dropped flat on his belly, pressing his face into the gravel. Eventually the Tommy gun fell silent, allowing the meat van mob to open fire again and Spiroza stared helplessly as one entire wing of the hotel was shredded from the inside and out.

Then, all of a sudden, the attackers turned and fled back towards the street. A posse ran out of the hotel in pursuit, shooting one of the fleeing men in the back. He fell to the ground with a loud scream, but his mates didn't miss him as they jumped into the van and it careened away down the street.

The hotel gangsters sent a volley of bullets after them, before running back inside. Two of them stayed back and wandered over to where their winged target was lying, bleeding, in the road, until Spiroza, running low beneath the brick wall at the front of the grounds, hit them both from behind with a flying rugby tackle.

"Oh no you don't," he hissed, banging their heads on the tarmac for good measure. He handcuffed them and scurried over to the injured hood. Bill Gunn, eat your heart out, he thought.

"I've been bloody shot," the man hissed through gritted teeth.

"You'll live," replied Spiroza, inspecting the ragged exit wound in the man's shoulder. "I think your violin career's over, though."

The Katoomba police force, consisting of one sergeant and three constables, had now gathered by the shopping parade. Spiroza dragged the two gangsters over to them and introduced himself. The sergeant said they had radioed the other mountain towns and roadblocks were being set up at Blackheath and Wentworth Falls.

"What about Sydney?" asked Spiroza.

"We're not in bloody Sydney now, mate," replied the sergeant, his revolver drawn. One of his men held a double-barrelled shotgun at port arms. The coppers had an unflappable air, as though they often had to deal with lawlessness on this scale.

"Fair enough," said Spiroza. "Do you get quite a bit of this shoeshine going on up here?"

"Plenty of gunplay in the mountains," the sergeant grinned and stuck out his hand. "I'm Garry Johnson. Pleased to meet ya," he said. "Now let's get crackin' before we have to burn 'em out like Ned Kelly at Glenrowan."

Sergeant Johnson, who looked as though he would love just such an outcome, stepped out into the line of fire and lifted a bullhorn to his lips.

"You blokes," he called. "This is the police out here. We've got you mongrels surrounded. Come on out with yer hands up."

"Mad as a meat axe, this one," muttered Alf. A figure appeared in the hotel doorway and Johnston ran back out of sight as a warning shot fizzed across the street.

"Come and shoot up my town, will yer," Johnson growled, his dander well and truly up. "Well, we'll see about that. Gimme that thing."

He grabbed the shotgun, then ducked back out and fired, sharpshooter style. Spiroza sighed. This was going to end in tears, he thought. He turned to look at the wedding guests, who by now were huddled by the railway station at the bottom of Katoomba Street. A couple of cars flashed past on the highway, and suddenly Spiroza was aware that there had been a lot of traffic in the past few minutes.

"Is there a back way out of this joint?" Spiroza asked one of the constables, who shrugged his shoulders.

Johnson was trying again with the bullhorn. "You bunch of bastards better come out with your hands up," he yelled, "or we'll bloody well smoke you out, so help me."

Sirens were wailing in the distance now. The wedding guests, their number swelled by dozens of curious locals, began to murmur, obviously feeling more reassured. A man in a shiny tuxedo marched up the hill.

"Are you crazy, Garry?" he was yelling. "You just can't burn down the hotel. This isn't the Wild West, man."

Johnson, ignoring him altogether, yelled at the rest of the crowd to stay away from the hotel. He then ordered a constable to go down and keep them in line.

"I'll come with you mate," offered Spiroza, and followed the copper down the road. The shivering bride, along with her bridesmaids and flower girls, were sobbing heartily, while the men of the party were angry and gathered around the constable like honking geese.

Spiroza quietly slipped away, having recognized a couple of likely lads from Kings Cross among the wedding guests. Albert Cook and Spud Newton were bouncers at Tommo's two-up school and in an uncharacteristic display of chivalry they had their jackets around the shoulders of two shivering girls. Spud and Albie were passing a hip flask between them, which Spud hurriedly shoved in his pocket as Spiroza approached.

"Evenin'," he said amiably. "I'm Detective Sergeant Alf Spiroza. Was that an alcoholic beverage in your flask?"

The two lads were saved by one of the girls. "It's cream soda," she said, stepping forward.

"Yeah, and you should be arresting those gangsters, not making trouble for Albert and Spencer," insisted the other.

"Spencer?" Spiroza glanced at Spud. "Guests at the wedding are you, boys? Are you with the bride or the groom?"

"Groom," said Cook.

"Bride," said Spud.

"Follow me" Spiroza ordered, and walked out of earshot of the wedding guests. "Bloody hell, you pair of chancers. I bet you didn't tell those Sheilas why you were really at the hotel. Give me a hit of that flask, you mongrel."

Cook fished out his flask and Spiroza took a grateful belt of raw, oily vodka.

"We done nothin' wrong," insisted Spud. "Crashin' a weddin' ain't against the law."

"Shut yer trap, Spencer. Just for that remark I'm confiscatin' your hooch. I know your boss Tommo is here, so don't come it. You were involved in an illegal gathering to discuss racketeering and gambling, which resulted in murder, mayhem and Christ knows how much damage. Does that sound illegal enough for yer?" Spiroza glared, like a bear staring at two ramblers lost in the woods.

Cook and Spud had the good sense to stay quiet. "Right, good," he went on. "As it happens, I've got a lot more on my plate than you two jokers. So just tell me what went on and you can run along to your two wheelers and we'll say no more about it, okay?"

The sirens sang louder as a small convoy of police cars, fire trucks and ambulances screeched into the town and turned into Katoomba Street. Some of the crowd cheered.

"Tommo was meeting Eddie Gattuso and some of the other faces here tonight. But it was supposed to be a friendly meeting, like," said Spud. "He was kept waitin' ages in the bar, so we just went in and had a few with the weddin'. We weren't even there when it went haywire, honest."

"Not good enough, lads."

"Apparently, a waiter punched Eddie's lights out. That's what started it."

"You're kidding? What the hell for?"

"It weren't a real waiter, it were Jake the Maori. Doreen Quigley's bodyguard."

"Christ on a bike," said Spiroza, smiling. "Big Jake decked Gattuso. I wish I'd seen that, no wonder all hell broke loose. Hey, what about Tommo? Did he get out alright?"

"Dunno, we just legged it. We din't have no guns or nothin', but Tommo was in the bar when it all went off."

The two youths looked crestfallen as they imagined the fate of their boss.

"Get yourselves out of here," Spiroza said, tossing them the flask. "I don't like cream soda anyway."

He stamped back up the hill to the hotel, where the posse of armed policemen was now stationed around the grounds. There was an expectant buzz as Sergeant Johnston rallied his new troops, and Spiroza hurried over, worried there was about to be a mass bloodletting.

"They're comin' out," Johnson said, beaming. "Looks like my little speech did the trick. They threw the guns out of the window. Made a pile big enough for the scrappie too."

Sure enough, the hotel flowerbeds were littered with assorted guns and weaponry, enough to arm an infantry unit. Then the doors opened and the policemen waited for the mass surrender to begin.

Instead, just one man limped out, one hand in the air and the other pressed to his blood-soaked trouser leg. The massed ranks of coppers trained their guns behind him, and on the gently swinging hotel doors, waiting for the rest of the mob.

But nobody else came. The sole surrenderee hobbled onto the lawn and collapsed onto the grass.

"Is that it?" hissed Sergeant Johnson. "Where's the rest of the bastards?"

Spiroza threw his hands up in frustration, noticing for the first time that Gattuso's Daimler had gone from its parking space at the front of the hotel.

VI

As Evie clambered out of the window she noticed, for the first time, an array of knives stuck on a magnetic strip above the cooker. How the hell had she missed them before? But it was too late now, and she dropped down beside Gunn just as the front door was flung open.

There was no time to scramble through the hole in the outhouse wall and into the garden, so Evie pulled the window closed behind her and sat tight with Gunn in the darkness, gripping the potato knife tightly. They would have to make a stand right here. She heard a loud curse and running footsteps into the kitchen, followed by a soft metallic ching that Evie knew was one of the knives being lifted off the strip.

Gunn seemed to have gone back into a catatonic trance and Evie willed herself to stay as quiet as he was. Whoever was in the kitchen would be certain to see the hole in the chipboard wall if they looked out of the window, but perhaps they would simply set off in pursuit without checking the outhouse. Perhaps, or perhaps not.

The window slid open and Evie steeled herself. If anybody leaned out, they were getting the potato knife right in the throat. A dark shadow blocked the light from the kitchen and Evie could hear a man's heavy breathing, just a few feet above her. She glanced at Gunn. He was watching the window intently now and he shook his head.

At that moment, the front door slammed again and the shadow disappeared. From then on, events unfolded very quickly. There were running footsteps in the hall. A voice with an accent as Sydney as The Rocks called: "You in 'ere Sharko?"

Evie recognised the voice from the ghost train. It must be the gangster Jack Mooney, the same man she had tailed up here.

Then there was the swishing sound of a blade whistling through the air, followed by a sucking squelch and another loud curse. In the same instant there was a gunshot, which echoed around the outhouse and Evie's ears were still ringing when she heard the front door slam again.

Slowly, she raised herself up and peeped into the kitchen. Mooney was lying on the floor, a bloody slash across his chest and a revolver in his right hand. Plaster dust was falling from a bullet hole in the ceiling, coating the wounded thug like a dusting of flour.

The first man – they had been so close to confronting Sharko himself – must have slashed Mooney with a kitchen knife, causing his shot to misfire. Then he moaned and began to sit up and Evie dropped back out of sight.

"Bastard, he's cut me guts open," Mooney growled, sounding more annoyed than badly injured. A second later, the front door slammed again and the house was silent.

Evie pushed Gunn towards the hole she had made earlier and he scrambled through. She followed, and then led the way down the cluttered side passage. They crossed the garden and searched the road for signs of life. It was empty, although a splash of dark liquid on the pavement glinted under the street lamps.

A fresh trail of blood ran up the street away from the house, and Evie took Gunn's arm and helped him stagger up the road. The clean, cool air was refreshing his head, and he was starting to feel exhilarated and alive. He was still under the influence, he knew, and the stars in the night sky seemed to be closer than usual.

"Bloody hell, that was close," he whispered.

"Too close," Evie replied. "How are you feeling? Are you starting to come around a bit?"

"I think so. I'm still groggy, but... thanks Evie. I mean it. I'm not sure what's happened, or where the hell we are, but you've saved my life, so thanks a lot."

"No worries," Evie said with a smile, a real heart-melter too. The blood trail turned left here, and Gunn set off gingerly to follow it again before Evie pulled him back. "It's this way," she said, pointing the other way.

"What is?"

"The RSL club where I left the car. We can call for backup."

"And in the meantime Sharko escapes into the bush. No way, we have to follow the trail."

"Bill, you're in no fit state..." Evie began, but Gunn cut her off.

"This could be our only chance to find out who the bastard is. Mooney must have gone after him so let's just follow them, see what happens. They're probably going to kill each other anyway."

Evie smiled. "You remind me of another detective, you know Bill," she said, putting her hand up to his cheek. "You're like Phillip Marlowe. You get suspended from duty, shot at with Tommy guns, beaten up, abducted and shot full of opium, and you just keep right on going."

"I've heard of him, baby doll," said Gunn, in a terrible American accent. "Let's make sure we stay well back, agreed?"

"Agreed."

Following the splashes of blood, like a nightmarish Hansel and Gretel, they headed swiftly towards the edge of town. It was cold as they moved through the silent streets, but Evie didn't feel the chill. Chasing Sharko was stupid and dangerous, so why did she feel so alive? She recognised the adrenaline rush from her skirmishes with the killers of the ocean, and she knew she would have to stay cautious and alert.

The trail ran up to the colliery gates on the outskirst of Katoomba. The icy metal bars were wet and slippery with blood.

"You wait here," whispered Gunn. "I'm going in after them."

"Not a chance," said Evie, and without another word she sprang up to grab the top rung of the gates. Gunn smiled and then helped her climb over, before Gunn scrambling after.

"Somebody's feeling better," muttered Evie, as Gunn dropped beside her in the darkness of the colliery yard.

Katoomba's coal is mined from rich seams in a deep canyon below the town, before being hauled back up the towering cliffs to the plateau and loaded onto trains bound for Sydney.

The empty coal wagons provided good cover as they crept towards the buildings clustered at the cliff edge. They saw Mooney across the yard, his hat pulled low and huffing great clouds of steam like a wounded buffalo. He raised his gun and fired towards the buildings. The shot smashed a glass window, and they saw another man, briefly, as he leapt from a wooden stilt hut and sprinted out of sight.

Gunn cursed. It was impossible to make out Sharko's identity. He inched forward, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. Was it Reg Holmes, Arthur Phillips or Culver Gale, or somebody else entirely?

Suddenly, the yard was filled with the sound of giant machinery clanking into oily motion. Mooney clutched his chest and ran towards the wooden buildings and then dropped out of sight, like a stone.

"Of course," whispered Evie. "The Mountain Devil."

"What the hell is that?"

"Come and see. They must be long gone by now."

They ran across the yard to a wooden platform at the very edge of a dizzying drop. Looking out over the void they saw the forest canopy far below them, stretching away as far as the eye could see in the moonlight. Gunn saw a railway track running along the platform before plunging down the cliff face and disappearing into a cutting in the rock no wider than a town hall chimney. Sharko and Mooney were nowhere to be seen.

"Bloody hell fire," he said. "Where the hell did they go?"

"They must have gone down on the Mountain Devil," explained Evie. "It's the train that takes the miners down to the bottom and brings the coal back up again. These are the steepest tracks in the world."

Gunn was in no mood for a history lesson. He ran back to the hut at the end of the platform and found a bank of levers and pulleys, as well as a huge wheel rapidly winding out a greasy metal chain. He stood for a second, wondering what to do to stop the contraption, and then the wheel jarred to a halt of its own accord, the cable chain stretched tight.

"Have they crashed?" asked Gunn, turning to find Evie by his side.

"No, they must've reached the valley floor already. I've been on the train once before and it doesn't hang about."

"Why were you on the train? Weekend job?"

"They do rides for daytrippers in the holidays, smart Alec. Half of Sydney will have been on it. Now come on, we've got to haul the carriage back to the top somehow."

Gunn began pulling levers, winding flywheels and tapping at the steam gauges, but apart from a low whistle from a brass pipe, nothing happened until Evie pushed forward a metal lever at the side of the cabin.

"What about this one?" she asked, and slowly the gears beneath their feet began to grind and the cable started to move again as the Devil was hauled up from the depths below, dragging it's heels all the way.

They retreated to the darkness of the yard and watched for what seemed like an age, until the carriages clacked into sight. They were empty.

After a long heartbeat, Gunn walked back towards the platform, checking for signs of blood and bodies and then examining the train itself. It had about five open carriages that ran on the narrow gauge track, and appeared to be fairly simple to operate. You just jumped in and hoped for the best.

"I'm going down after them," he said.

"Why, for God's sake?"

"I have to, Evie. One way or another, this ends tonight. As you said, they will probably kill each other anyway."

"I think you said that, actually."

"Well, it must be true then," Gunn was feeling clear-headed and alert, all traces of the dope seemingly gone from his brain – although his instinct for self-preservation was hardly in top shape. He attempted a rueful grin. "Come on," he said. "What would Phillip Marlowe do?"

"If you go, I'm coming with you," said Evie. "No arguments, it will be much safer down there in the darkness with two pairs of eyes and somebody who actually knows the bush."

Gunn seemed about to protest but thought better of it. "Glad to have you aboard," he said. "Right, you climb in this back carriage here and keep a tight grip on the brake lever."

"Why, what are you going to do?"

"I'll have to go and start the machinery off, then I'll leg it over and jump in with you."

Evie nodded, not wanting to think about what would happen if Gunn was too slow and she descended the mountain alone. There was a loud clank from the shed, followed by the familiar building rumble of the gears getting into motion and slowly the train began to move.

Gunn pounded back towards the platform and leapt into the carriage in front of Evie, just as the earth suddenly dropped away beneath them. Evie held the brake handle tightly as the wind whistled and stung her eyes.

As the grinning devil painted on the front of the train plummeted into the Jamison Valley, Gunn found himself thinking of those scenes in the cowboy movies, where the baddies blow the bridge and send the train tumbling into the gorge. Only they were still on the tracks.

Then the gradient lessened a little, and he was aware of thick forest whipping past in the darkness. The trees gradually gave way to scorched bare earth, blasted by dynamite and the coal diggings.

Evie ducked low in the carriage and hauled on the brake as the end of the line approached. Sparks flew from the Devil's iron wheels, which squealed in protest as the passing blur became trees, huts, boulders and slag heaps.

Gunn leapt out of the carriage as they rolled to a gentle stop, about a foot from the buffers, and ran to the front of the train.

Evie stuck her head out cautiously, grinning. "Phew," she whispered. "That was rather fun."

"Aye, but I don't think Jack would agree," said Gunn, pointing to a body lying by the tracks. Mooney was lying face down with his head had dashed open, spilling out an oozing porridge of brains and sprinkled with bits of skull and hair.

Gunn knelt and prised a revolver from the dead man's grasp.

"Do you think he fell?" Evie asked, looking back up the track. "They could have been fighting on the train on the way down."

"Could be. But he didn't fall on to this," said Gunn, picking up an iron monkey wrench from beside Mooney's shattered head. It dripped blood onto the ground. "Sharko probably took this from the machinery shed at the top, cold-cocked Mooney with it and then finished the job here at the bottom."

He tossed the wrench aside into the bushes. "Come on, we'd better keep moving," he said. "We're sittin' ducks 'ere."
Chapter 13 – The Thirteenth Day

I

It was warmer down on the valley floor and the eye-watering smell of eucalyptus was everywhere, filling the mouth and nostrils with its medicinal tang. The forest was dark and foreboding, and even though Evie knew it was a popular walking area with many well-kept tracks she wondered whether they would ever get out alive.

She and Gunn sheltered behind a fallen tree, staring back up the slope at the dark mouth of one of the mine workings. "Where do you think he's gone?" asked Evie. "Into the woods or into the mines?"

"The mine is a dead end. If it was me, I'd go down the valley and try and work back up to the highway. How far to the nearest town?"

"Five miles or so to Leura, I think."

They picked their way over the rubble of the coalfield and were soon underneath the towering trees of the forest. It was slow going, with every sound amplified into a deadly ambush, but there was no sign of Sharko.

After half an hour or so they crossed a wooden bridge over a creek, and the break in the forest canopy gave them an amazing view up to the towering valley walls and the giant Three Sisters rock chimneys, glowing in the moonlight.

Katoomba Falls was in full flow high above them, pouring over the cliff edge and falling so far that it splashed like rain on the muddy banks of the creek. Evie was amazed to see, over in the east, a trace of blue washing into the black sky. "What time is it?" she asked.

Gunn checked his watch. "Just after three," he replied. "How are you feeling?"

"Right as rain," Evie said. "You?"

"Fine. Let's stop and have a drink of water though, eh?" They picked their way down to the creek. The water was cool and clear, and tasted – to Gunn's cracked lips, at least – delicious.

The path wound on, deeper into the rainforest, and as they trudged along Gunn began to tire, his eyes closing and the fatigue overtaking his fear of an ambush. He was starting to feel much the worse for wear, the last traces of the opium now gone and leaving him hollow and jumpy.

Suddenly, he couldn't stop thinking about his high and he became worried that he had become hooked from just one hit. He had heard all about opium's iron grip, and the smooth and desperate slide from casual user to full-time junkie.

Dizzy and sweating with panic, Gunn sank down against a tree and took deep breaths. Evie rushed forward but he held up his hands to say he was okay. The rest helped, and he felt the pain in his muscles subside and his fears dissipate.

If any substance were to get him, he thought, it would not be a rich man's drug opium; it would be alcohol or tobacco or bloody well nothing at all. The thought of a pint revived him and, feeling a little better, Gunn got back on to his feet again.

They had trudged on for maybe a mile more when they heard the gunshot. It echoed around the Jamison Valley and the treetops erupted with birds taking flight, given an early start on their dawn chorus. They flocked into the air from all over the forest, a colourful cloud of white cockatoos, and pink and grey galahs and rainbow lorikeets. Two more shots followed, then nothing.

"It's maybe just hunters," Gunn whispered to Evie. "Wait here and I'll scout ahead a bit."

He dashed forward until blood on the ground stopped him in his tracks. Gunn dropped into a crouch and scanned around quickly. The birds had quietened down and returned to their roosts, leaving the forest quiet and seemingly still.

But there, just a few feet away, he saw a splashy mess of sticky-looking blood, splattered on the grass around the base of a huge tree.

Bushes around the scene were covered in gore and Gunn had a vivid vision of Sharko slicing up his latest victim, right here below this tree. But who could it have been? Only two men had come down in the Mountain Devil, and one of them was back at the coalfield.

Gunn put a hand out on the tree to steady himself - and saw, too late, the claret substance oozing between his fingers. The trunk was drenched in the stuff, but it wasn't blood. It was some kind of sap. Gunn took a closer look and the stuff cracked away like red sugar crystals, falling away with the rest of the horror movie make-up.

"I'm a bloody sap," said Gunn, almost whooping with relief. He walked back to Evie, his watch now telling him it was six o'clock. Morning at last.

"It's a bloodwood tree," Evie confirmed, a little smugly, as they stood before the 'crime scene'. "Usually native to Queensland but you get a few of them here in New South Wales."

The track was much easier now in the gathering light, but their biggest problem now was lack of water. It was a while since they had a drink at the Katoomba Falls Creek, and the sound of a rushing waterfall from up ahead made them forget their caution. Gunn's mouth was sticky and dry, his body dehydrated after his opium trip.

The Leura Cascades were not in full flood at this time of year, but still tumbled helter skelter through the woods in impressive fashion. After quenching their thirst in the deep, clear pool at the base of the falls, they pushed on up the track.

It was after eight when, muddy and exhausted, Gunn and Evie staggered onto Leura's main shopping street. There was a hotel, a post office and a general store, as well as a couple of shops selling tea towels and other gifts with the Cascades or the Three Sisters rock towers printed on them.

They bought sodas from the store and sat on a wall, resting their blistered feet.

"Do you think he came through this way?" asked Evie.

"No, I think he must have gone into the bush," said Gunn, nodding in the general direction of a hundred thousand square miles of untracked rainforest. "He could have given us the slip at any time, but if he's gone off into the wild with no grub, no map or aught else, he might not be comin' out again anyway."

Gunn went to a public telephone box outside the hotel and made a call to the police station at Katoomba. He emerged looking ashen-faced.

"Is everything alright?" asked Evie.

"Not really," Gunn said. "I just spoke to Alf Spiroza. I'd asked him to keep an eye on that gangster's meeting last night, but apparently it turned into a big shoot-out. Two men shot dead, scores injured, a posh hotel left in ruins."

"That's terrible, is he okay?"

Gunn nodded and kicked viciously at a stone, sending it skipping across the street, thinking that by asking Spiroza for help he had maybe cost his partner his badge as well. Snapper said he had been up here the whole night, helping the local boys clear up the mess.

"Yeah, but that's not all. The good news is we can score off one name from our list of suspects.

"What?"

"Reg Holmes is dead, they found him in his car near the docks last night, shot in the back of the head. Come on, we'd best get the train back to Katoomba and pick up my car. I've a feeling I'm going to be needed in Sydney today."

II

Sybil Holmes knew that her husband was dead without being told. She had known early on Sunday morning, when she woke to find her husband's side of the bed empty and cold. The Manchester linen was clean and pressed but it still carried Reg's smell: hairy, snoring, smelly Reg. Sybil shivered, suddenly cold despite the cotton sheets, and in that instant she knew that he was dead.

Still, she refused to acknowledge the feeing at first. She told herself not to be so stupid and resolved to give her husband hell over staying out all night. The thought made her feel much better and she immediately got up, even though it was still dark outside.

He had gone out on a bender, that was all, and fallen asleep at a mate's house or on a park bench, or even in a police cell somewhere. God knows, he had been drinking enough lately and the prospect of giving evidence at Janet Smith's inquest the following morning had been eating him up for days.

Then there was that business in the harbour the other day, trying to run away from all his troubles. Before he had been discharged from hospital she had made him promise not to do anything silly, to remember that nothing was so bad it couldn't be sorted out, and when he had eventually got home he had seemed a lot better.

He was going to give evidence against Paddy Brady, he said, and admit that he had been involved in smuggling with that awful man Eddie Gattuso. He'd said it was time to take his medicine.

The memory of him as he had spoken those words, looking old and whipped like a poor farm dog was too much for Sybil to bear. He had taken on all comers – racing rivals, boat builders, bank managers, smugglers and gunrunners, taxmen and even the police. 'She'll be right, mate, she'll be apples,' that had always been his code for life.

But that eternal optimism had gone, chased out of him by a crowd of ratbags, and she knew that her champion had been a beaten man for a long time now. Time to take my medicine. Suddenly, Reg's words took on a prophetic ring...

She was sipping her third cup of tea and staring out at the dawn when the police finally arrived to say that her husband had been murdered, gunned down in a lonely side street near the docks.

Afterwards, she waited in the kitchen and listened to the wireless, with a kind constable and a neighbour, a lady she hardly knew but who was making more tea, and porridge and toast and eggs and bacon as well for some reason.

The nine o'clock news came on, the broadcaster announcing Reg's brutal death in the Queen's English.

"Reginald Holmes, the lead witness in the most eagerly anticipated coroner's inquest in years, has been found shot dead, apparently the victim of a Chicago-style execution," the man said. Death by silver spoon.

"A wharf worker found the deceased slumped in the front of his car in a lane near Dawes Point docks. The cause of death was said to be gunshot wounds to the head and body. Police have confirmed they are treating the case as murder and are appealing for any witnesses who may have been in the area overnight to come forward.

"Mr Holmes had been due to give evidence at tomorrow's hearing into the death of Janet Smith, the Punchbowl waitress whose severed arm was recovered from a shark at Coogee Beach Palace aquarium. Petty criminal Patrick Brady, an acquaintance of Ms Smith's and the prime suspect in her murder, has been in custody since his dramatic arrest last week in Darwin, in the Northern Territory.

"Brady once worked for Mr Holmes, who ran a successful firm of boat builders on the North Shore, and the businessman was expected to publicly name Brady as Smith's killer in court. But with his untimely death the possibility of a conviction in the world famous Shark Arm Case now seems unlikely."

The neighbour leaned over and snapped off the radio. "What a racket," she said.

To the city at large then, Reg was just another gangster. The smuggling and the bootlegging would come out at the inquest, and Brady might even start to blame Reg for Janet Smith's death. But Sybil knew her husband, she knew he was not a killer like the others. Not like Gattuso or Brady, or like Sharko.

She knew he was the one Reg had been really afraid of, the one he had muttered about in his sleep, sweat pouring from his brow.

Sybil felt a swell of pride for her husband, the old Reg. He must have been planning to stand up and tell the truth after all. They would not have got rid of him otherwise.

Reg had been so scared of revealing his secrets, so worried about his damned reputation - which was crazy, as half of Sydney knew he was a smuggler, and the other half simply didn't care - but that would soon be out in the open now. He had nothing else to lose, did he?

So they had killed him – 'Chicago execution-style', as the man on the radio had said – and now they were going to get away. Sybil was filled with burning rage. She was going to tell the truth for Reg and to hell with them all. She was going to put a dent in Eddie Gattuso's snap-brimmed hat, expose him as the evil killer that he was and make him pay for taking Reg away from her.

"I want to take my husband's place at the inquest tomorrow," she announced.

III

Across the city at police headquarters, Archibald Barclay was in a seething rage. His already mottled face had turned an unhealthy shade of crimson, his thick eyebrows like rearing and shuddering like two angry caterpillars.

"What the bloody hell were you playing at?" he yelled. "You were supposed to be keeping Holmes under surveillance, round the clock."

Sid Worth and Henry Mulligan were standing in a row like schoolboys in the headmaster's study. They flinched under Barclay's glare and examined the carpet intently.

The police commissioner took on a more relaxed tone, as though he was starting to examine the situation more rationally. "Not only was he a key witness to the biggest bloody murder in years, his life under constant threat from half the villains in Sydney, he was a top level suicide risk to boot. So what do you incompetent buffoons do, eh?"

Nobody was fooled by the apparent softening of his mood for a second, least of all Worth, who gulped as Barclay leered in close.

"You let him meet with a hitman in a city park, that's what, and watched him pay for his own bloody execution!" Barclay hollered, spittle flying from his lips. "God give me strength. Did it never occur to you that he was paying a hitman because he couldn't do the job himself?"

"It was Alf Spiroza who..." began Worth.

"I don't care who it was! Why didn't you think to report it to me?"

"We don't know for sure that's what happened, sir," said Mulligan.

"Give me strength! The man left a suicide note in the car with him, explaining exactly what he'd done. That Chinaman was paid to kill somebody in a car at Dawes Point, only he didn't know it would be the same person who hired him."

"Sir, Detective Spiroza thought Holmes could have been buying a passport to flee the country," said Worth. "I took the view that if we confronted him about it he might change his mind again about giving evidence again."

There was a knock on the door and Barclay smiled sweetly. "Enter," he said, like the dragon welcoming another knight into his jewelled lair, seconds before turning him into a barbecued steak in a suit of armour.

Bill Gunn and Alf Spiroza stepped in, hats gripped in their sweaty palms. If they had catapults in their back pocket and striped caps pulled down over one ear, the schoolboy image could not have looked more complete.

"Aha, the bold travellers from the Blue Mountains," said Barclay. "How is Katoomba this summer? Lots of fresh air? Far away from the gun-toting gangsters down here in Sydney, at least."

"No' really," said Gunn.

"Not really," hissed Barclay, then launched into a furious scream. "You're bloody right no' really! Two men dead, a hotel shot to billy-oh, half the hicks in the mountains turning out armed to the teeth. You better have a good explanation for what the hell you were doing up there, I tell you."

Gunn and Spiroza exchanged glances, but Barclay stepped in before either could speak. "Wait, wait, I don't have time now. I'll get around to you later, Detective Inspector Gunn, don't you worry. At least you were out of this mess with Reg Holmes. Did you know your idiot partner watched him pay for his own damned hit and nobody thought to tell me?"

Gunn tried to keep his expression blank, but Barclay grasped the truth immediately. "Don't tell me you bloody knew as well...?" he spluttered.

"Sir," said Gunn. "It's Sharko, he's real and I'm this close to him. The rumours in the newspapers are true, and it's all tied in, the shootout in Katoomba, Janet Smith, Reg Holmes, all of it."

"I warned you. If you've been working on the shark arm case while on suspension, I'll have your bloody badge, so help me."

"If I'm wrong you can have it. But you should hear me out first."

Barclay stared deep into Gunn's eyes. "This better be good, detective."

Later that afternoon it was Sybil Holmes's turn to be seated in Barclay's office. The commissioner was polite and courteous, but she could tell that he was buzzing like a bee from some deep-seated tension. He began by saying how sad he was to hear about her husband's death, and Sybil confirmed again that she wanted to give evidence, no matter what the cost to herself.

Barclay nodded, shot his cuffs and placed a manila folder marked Confidential on his desk. He opened it and removed several sheets of paper, shuffled them around a bit and then put them away again. Trying to be as gentle as he could, he outlined the police's theory about Reg Holmes's death.

"So Reg killed himself?" Sybil asked eventually, as the traffic droned on outside the window. "If that's what you mean, why didn't you say it?"

Barclay stared at her. "Perhaps you should read this, Mrs Holmes," he said, opening the file again and producing her husband's suicide note. "I'll give you some time alone," he said, striding from the room.

When he returned five minutes later, Sybil was standing by the window, clutching a handkerchief. Her mascara was streaked but her face was composed and determined.

"We are treating your husband's death as murder, Mrs Holmes," said Barclay. "The culprits will be tracked down and will feel the full force of the law, you can rest assured."

"But really, Reg killed himself. He couldn't do it himself, so he paid somebody else to do it for him." Sybil shook her head and grinned, tears brimming in her eyes once more. "That's so like bloody Reg."

"I'm sorry, Mrs Holmes. But if you are determined to take the stand tomorrow, it's essential that you know," said Barclay. "You should also know that Patrick Brady has confessed to killing Janet Smith. He says he brought Smith's severed arm to your house as proof, and together they returned for the rest of the body and dumped it in the harbour."

Sybil nodded. "That's what he told you, is it?"

"That's what he told us, yes," said Barclay, confident that Brady would eventually confess to just such a version of events. Given Gunn's wild tales of a serial killer on the loose, one with friends in high places or even in the force, he was especially keen for the inquest to be postponed while he got to the bottom of it all.

"I would like to see Brady charged with murder in a criminal court in this state," he went on. "And if you were to stand up in court tomorrow and say anything that might jeopardise the chances of that happening, well...there are other factors that may have to be taken into account."

"What other factors?"

"That your late husband, over a period of many years, was involved in smuggling thousands of pounds of contraband into Australia. If you admit that you knew all about your husband's illegal affairs you would be making yourself criminally liable as an accessory to his illegal actions. You might risk losing your house and all your possessions, perhaps voiding your husband's life insurance and even going to jail?"

"You heartless bastard," said Sybil. "You don't want me to take the stand do you? You're just as bad as the villains."

Barclay flushed, but did not reply. He simply flipped his file closed and replaced it in his desk drawer. "So there you are, Mrs Holmes. The rest, as they say, is up to you."

Chapter 14 – The Final Day

I

Mid-morning, word reached the press room at Sydney's main courthouse that the inquest would go ahead as planned in the afternoon session. The news came as a surprise to all those present. However only a deeply hungover stringer for the New Zealand Herald and a chap from the Singapore Post were actually there to hear the announcement. The cancellation of the inquest had been taken as read, and most of the journos had already disappeared to the pub. Luckily, the neighbouring hostelries were always a hotbed of legal gossip and by lunchtime nearly everyone had heard about the inquest being reinstated.

Gunn was accosted by a mob of journalists as he climbed the stone steps to the courthouse, but unusually Arthur Phillips was not amongst the press pack. Was the Englishman still recovering from his night in the Blue Mountains?

"Got any good tips Bill?" asked one reporter, ignoring the dangerous gleam in the detective's eye.

"Aye, here's a good tip," Gunn replied, grabbing the fountain pen from the man's hands and squeezing a shower of ink in his face.

"Hey!" cried the reporter, but at that moment Gunn spotted Phillips lurking behind a stone pillar near the court entrance. Pushing the ink-covered journalist aside, he rushed over to him.

"What are you being so bashful about?" Gunn demanded.

"I don't know what you mean..."

"Never mind, come on. I've got a few questions for you."

He pushed Phillips over into a corner with a hand in the small of his back, thinking, 'This guy's too meek and mild to be the same man who bashed Jack Mooney's skull open'.

Still, he pressed on. "Where were you on Saturday night, Arthur?"

"At the theatre."

"Any witnesses?"

"I was with friends, I've got my ticket stub if that's what you want. Look, is this about Reg Holmes? The only reason I was able to get there so quickly was because, well, I've got hold of a police issue wireless set."

"What?"

"I heard about the shooting down at the docks and I got there first thing, not long after seven o'clock. 'Scissors' Worth and Henry Mulligan were there and gave me a royal row, but I had nothing to do with the murder. Honestly."

"Wait a minute. So that's how you knew about the tiger shark being sliced open that night, and how you found Brady's cottage in Cabramatta so quickly?"

"Yes, alright. I'll turn the damn thing over to you tomorrow. I thought you were suspended from duty anyway, that's why I was avoiding you, in case you blamed me for it in some way."

But before Gunn could reply he saw Phillips tense and peer over his shoulder. "The widow's here," he said, excitedly. "Now here's the story!"

The press pack charged down the steps and surrounded Sybil Holmes as she alighted from a taxi. Gunn quickly jogged down and led her by the elbow up to the front door, barging the journalists aside one by one. It was like the good old days for Glasgow City Police XV, leading a rolling maul to the try line.

After they slipped into the cool of the lobby, any sharp-eyed observers would have seen her whisper briefly in the detective's ear and slip something into his hand before she was ushered swiftly away by court officials.

Sydney Evening Post

UNDERWORLD FIGURE LINKED TO SHARK ARM CASE

WHAT really happened to the body of Janet Smith?

After an extraordinary first day of City Coroner, Mr Oram's, inquest into her death, it appears that we may never know.

Patrick Brady, Miss Smith's lover and the prime suspect in the murder, who was arrested after fleeing 5,000 miles to Darwin, now may have a co-accused if and when he is placed in the dock.

And the finger of suspicion now points at a group of shadowy gangland figures, including convicted armed robber Edward Gattuso, who is also suspected by police of having been involved in the Blue Mountain Massacre in Katoomba at the weekend.

The dramatic chain of events was set into motion when Reginald Holmes, the Crown's main witness against Brady, was discovered shot dead in his car at Dawes Point on Sunday.

Remarkably, Holmes's grieving widow, the redoubtable Sybil Holmes, then offered to give evidence to the inquest in her late husband's place.

Moments of tense drama marked the hearing from the start, when Mr Clive Evatt, counsel for Brady, objected to an inquest without a body. The Coroner held, however, that in the circumstances he could go on.

A respectful hush descended on the court as Mrs Holmes took the stand. A delightful woman, she was dressed in a smart black suit and hat, and gave all her answers with a remarkable calm.

First she was asked about the events of the morning of Sunday, January 7, when the prosecution alleges that Brady arrived at the Holmes family abode in Lavender Bay.

In his statement to police, Mr Holmes said that Brady had admitted to killing Smith in a drunken rage, and demanded money with menaces from his former employer.

But Mrs Holmes denied that these events ever took place. "I was at the house when Paddy arrived," she said, "and he was in a frightful state."

She also denied reports that Brady had carried with him Smith's severed arm, and that he brandished it at Holmes to underline his demands for money.

"I'm telling you," she declared, after repeated questioning. "That never happened."

Moments later, Mrs Holmes was calm again as she speculated on why her husband would have lied to the police.

"He was under an awful lot of pressure," she said. "Everybody seemed to think that Paddy had killed Janet, and I think Reg just decided to go along with it. He was terrified of telling the police what really happened, so he told them what they wanted to hear."

"And what really did happen, Mrs Holmes?" asked Mr Oram, as the courtroom became so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

"Reg didn't think I knew about his business affairs," replied Mrs Holmes, "but I did. I knew he was mixed up with criminals, and they were extorting money from him. He was involved with some really nasty types."

Mr Oram, mindful that he was dealing with a new widow, then politely asked Mrs Holmes to answer his original question.

"I have," she replied, rather mystifyingly. "At least, I've answered it as best I can."

"So are you saying that you think the criminal types, as you say, that you're husband became involved with are connected to the murder of Janet Smith?"

Mrs Holmes replied in the affirmative, and then, to the astonishment of the court, went on to pick out Edward Gattuso who was seated with some of his associates in the public gallery as one of the men who had dealings with her husband.

Gattuso, proprietor of the Hollywood drinking club in Glebe, is well known to the city's police. He is suspected of involvement in racketeering, prostitution, illegal gambling, armed robbery and murder.

The self-styled 'Al Capone of Sydney', Gattuso – nicknamed 'Rat a Tat' in certain quarters – has become something of a celebrity in recent years, and has auditioned, unsuccessfully, for several parts in Australian-made moving pictures.

Thus identified by Mrs Holmes, amid an uproar unworthy of such a sober hearing, Mr Gattuso stood up and barged his way out of court. The inquest continued as we went to press and a full report of the proceedings will be available in tomorrow's edition.

II

"All wrapped up neat as ninepence, Snapper," said Gunn, thrusting a crumpled edition of the Tribune's sister paper, the Sydney Evening Post, at Spiroza as he opened the front door. "Just one thing troubling me now. We still don't know who the hell Sharko is!"

Spiroza yawned as he took the newspaper and threw it onto the telephone table in his hall. His maroon dressing gown had AS stitched in gold thread on the pocket, and his sparse hair was standing up around the back of his head like a mane.

"Or was," he said. "Half the suspects are dead or facing life in the slammer. Can't this wait until tomorrow, I was just in the bath and then I was going to turn in for an early night."

"Missin' your beauty sleep?" Gunn asked sympathetically, before finishing in his customary growl. "Well sorry pal, but that's a lost cause in your case anyway. Now are we gonna go and get this bastard or stand 'ere flapping our lips?"

Spiroza regarded him owlishly for a second. "I 'spose you'd better come in then," he said finally, and padded through to put on a pot of coffee.

"Is Evie okay?" asked Gunn, as Spiroza poured a generous slug of Jamesons into the treacle-like brew. Evie had spent the previous night with the Spirozas, as it was too dangerous for her to return to her house in Coogee.

"She went out shopping with Marina."

Gunn nodded but did not question any further. Mrs Spiroza was a formidable Greek woman who could be as fierce as Medusa and there was no debate over who wore the trousers in the relationship.

"Wait here a tick," Gunn said, before going out to his car and returning with a canvas bag full of papers. "The case so far. I took the liberty of swiping a bit of paperwork from headquarters after Barclay had finished bollocking us yesterday."

"Christ, Bill," said Spiroza. "The wife's due back anytime soon."

"She'll understand," said Gunn, emptying the papers on to the table. "Let's look at our suspects again, eh? Sharko has to be somebody, he isn't Claude Rains in The Invisible Man."

Spiroza sighed, and then took out his cigarettes. "You're the boss," he said.

"Brady first, then," said Gunn, accepting a smoke and a light. "We know he's a vicious bugger with women and he's obviously more cunning than we gave him credit for. He's in the frame for Janet Smith and maybe he did top her, but the others? I don't see it."

"And he was a thousand miles away when the most recent victim was killed after Randwick races," Spiroza said.

"So we strike him off and if we're wrong then, like you say, he's probably going to get life for Smith anyway."

"Reg Holmes is a good bet," said Spiroza. "It could have been anybody we saw in the coal yard the other night. Didn't have to be Sharko, Gattuso could've been bluffing you."

"I don't know, Alf. Holmes just doesn't feel right any more, and besides his wife clearly didn't believe he was a killer. She was too smart to be fooled."

"Christ, first Evie, now Sybil Holmes. When did you suddenly go in for women's rights, Bill?" said Spiroza, chuckling. "Gattuso then, or maybe Mooney – who's also brown bread."

"Not Mooney," replied Gunn. "He doesn't – didn't - have the nouse for something like this. But Rat-a-tat is in this up to his oxters. He's got money, he's a sex fiend, by all accounts, and we know he's capable of murder. But there's another two suspects."

"Who?" asked Spiroza.

"The reporter, Arthur Phillips, and Culver Gale," said Gunn.

"The American eco-nut?"

"Aye, that's him. He's not as clean as you think. He's a gambler and he owes money to Rat a Tat.

"And he's got the hots for your girlfriend."

"That's got nowt to do with it, Snapper. Gale has a house right on the water on Rose Bay, and a place up on the Hawkesbury. Perfect cover for dumping bodies."

"He's a millionaire and a, whaddyacallit, a philanthropist, donates fortunes to charity. He doesn't sound like a serial killer to me."

"I've done some checking up into his background, which wasn't easy believe me. But I got a telegram back from the States this afternoon. Why do you think he Down Under?"

"I don't know. The cuisine?"

"Come off it Alf, this is serious. The Yanks still want him for tax evasion and they seized a lot of his assets when he fled the country, apparently. He's not as rich as everybody seems to think."

Spiroza shrugged, and an awkward silence descended as the two men began working their way through the papers. The coffee pot was empty and a pall of cigarette smoke hung over the room by the time they made the final breakthrough.

"Here's your man again," said Spiroza, holding up a sheet of paper with a list of names on it.

"What's that?" asked Gunn. He noted the harbour police badge in the corner and recognised the list of smuggling suspects that he had been given Sergeant Ray Morey on Goat Island. He had been so focussed on Reg Holmes at the time that he had never read it properly.

And there, underneath Spiroza's stubby finger, was the name of Culver Gale.

Gunn grabbed the paper. "Says here he's got a speedboat with hidden compartments, designed by none other than Reg Holmes," he said. "That's one way to pay off your gambling debts, I suppose."

Just then Marina Spiroza burst into the room, flapping her hands at the smoke and coughing theatrically. Gunn, suddenly realising that it was now dark outside, waited for Evie to follow.

"The hell is goin' on Alfred?" demanded Marina, then caught Gunn's glare. "What?"

"Where's Evie?"

"She said she wanted to go and meet a friend. What was I supposed to do, handcuff her?"

"Did she say who?"

"I don't know, some American I think. She said to tell you it was perfectly safe."

III

The lights bobbing above the crayfish pots in Lake Pontchartrain glowed like fireflies, while on the southern horizon the flares of oil rigs on the Gulf of Mexico burned brightly.

But Culver Gale didn't have time to admire the view from his penthouse suite in the Pelham Hotel on Common Street, New Orleans, one city block from the French Quarter.

He was hurriedly packing his belongings, throwing everything he could find into the open suitcase on his bed, although his pristine – and fake – Mexican passport went into his jacket pocket and the Smith and Wesson pistol was tucked into his waistband.

Gale went to the window and watched the busy street below, seeing two well-built men in suits enter the hotel, the razor-sharp cut of the hair on their necks visible even from six storeys up.

Down in the lobby, FBI agents Frank Quedrue and Laurence Westerhouse bustled to the reception desk, snapping their badges at the attendant. Quedrue wore a heavy moustache and a standard issue sneer, which was matched by his clean-shaven colleague. "Quedrue, FBI," he announced. "We have a warrant to search the room of one of your guests. A Mr Culver Gale."

"I'm sure that there's been some mistake," said the receptionist. "But I happen to know that Mr Gale is in at present. Let me telephone up to the penthouse and speak to him."

"That won't be necessary," said Quedrue, leaning over the counter and slapping his fingers down on the telephone hook, cutting the connection. "Gale's in the penthouse, you say?" he asked. "That's on the top floor, is it?"

The receptionist nodded slowly. "Ye-es," she confirmed.

"Good," said Quedrue. "Right, Westerhouse, you take the stairs. I'll go up in the lift. And ma'am, don't you dare touch that telephone."

Gale watched the lift lever begin to move across the half moon of brass and then slipped into the stairwell. He heard the echoing footsteps from below and set off to the next level, waiting in the dark by the door leading to the hotel roof.

The FBI agent sprinted to the penthouse floor, paused for a short while to catch his breath, then burst impressively through the double doors into the corridor. Gale quickly walked back down the stairs with his suitcase, breaking into a jaunty skip as he reached to the ground floor.

He emerged into the lobby and, catching the receptionist's eye, slipped a $100 bill into a Chinese vase as he strolled out into the night. The New Orleans streets were wet from the rain and the hotel concierge waved a yellow cab from the line for Gale.

Later, when questioned by Quedrue and Westerhouse, the cabbie said he dropped the fare at New Orleans Central Station and received a generous tip. Culver Gale was never to set foot in the United States again.

IV

After giving Marina Spiroza the slip, Evie made a telephone call and then headed for Coogee on the tram. But instead of going home, she walked the coastal path all the way to Bondi and the members-only Icebergs Club overlooking the bay, a reminder of the suburb's glamorous past.

Culver Gale arrived as she was ordering her gin and tonic. "I've been worried about you," he said. "I'm so sorry about Friday. I trust you got home safely."

"Where have you been Culver?" asked Evie. "I tried telephoning you at home last night and again this morning." She made no attempt to hide her close scrutiny of him. He was as well groomed as ever, not at all like a man who had been living rough in the Blue Mountains bush, but he seemed harassed and annoyed, drumming his fingers loudly on the mahogany table.

"I've had a few personal issues to sort out," he said. "I tried to explain the other day..."

"Your gambling debts."

"Hush, keep your voice down," hissed Culver, glancing around the bar. "Yes, alright, my gambling debts. I'm...I'm in dire straits Evie, and I honestly don't know what I'm going to do about it."

"But you're a millionaire"

"I was. It's gone, all of it. The champagne, the cars, the houses, it's all just a pipe dream. Even the charity work, I'm giving away borrowed money, just trying to buy myself some respectability."

"And that's it? There's nothing else you're not telling me?"

"What do you mean, that's it? I'm telling you I'm broke, I'm a fraud and if I can't pay my debts there's probably going to be a price on my head. Your damn research funding will have to go as well. Is that not enough for you?"

The waiter arrived with Evie's drink, and Culver asked for the man to bring him the same. Evie sipped the oily fluid, enjoying the soothing burn of the gin. She knew how foolish it seemed to simply accept his word for it, but her instinct told her that Culver was telling the truth, that he was in serious trouble...and that he was not Sharko.

Culver grinned ruefully, looking down at the seawater swimming pool below the window. "I heard they used to swim with ice in that pool. That can't be right?"

"It is," said Evie. "One winter the pool froze over. That's pretty rare for Sydney, but some of the members decided to break the ice and go in for their daily swim anyway. That's where the Icebergs Club gets its name. And ever since then, every July they fill the pool up with blocks of ice and everyone goes in for a dip."

"Rather bracing," Culver said, as his drink arrived. "Me, I'd rather have my ice in my glass, than my ass in the ice. Cheers."

"Cheers."

"So, I've answered your questions. Now it's your turn. Where the hell have you been all weekend?"

But Evie was ravenous after the brisk walk from Coogee and promised to explain over a meal at a little Italian restaurant she knew up the hill at Bondi Junction. The owner was a friend and, although it was getting late, they savoured the cheerful red wine served in coffee cups.

Evie devoured a plate of spaghetti and meatballs as she explained about Sharko and her weekend in the Blue Mountains, while Culver nervously chewed a breadstick and picked at his meal.

After finishing her story a wave of fatigue hit Evie. She needed to call Bill Gunn, to explain that she had just had to find out for herself that the man she had almost fallen for was not a killer. She looked across the table at her companion, who was checking his watch for the umpteenth time.

"It sounds like we both need to get out of Sydney for a few months," he said, eventually. "No strings attached, I promise. Throw a few things in your case and we can go tonight."

"I don't want to go anywhere, Culver," she said. "In fact, I should be getting back home."

"Come to my house then, I really don't think you're safe alone."

Culver looked so concerned that Evie hadn't the heart to tell him she was staying under police custody. She excused herself and called Spiroza's number from the restaurant telephone, but there was no answer. He and Bill were probably out somewhere rounding up Gattuso and his gang, she reasoned.

"I'm tired," Evie said, returning to the table. "I just want to go home to my own bed. Why don't you sleep in my spare bedroom? At least then I'll know I've got a good friend close by," She smiled and reached across the table to squeeze Gale's hands. "And thanks for being such a sweetheart."

It had been a rather awkward moment when they arrived back at the house, but Evie was too tired to care what the neighbours thought of her. Gale had suggested a cup of tea, but she had simply gone straight up to bed and was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

V

Spiroza – who still had his badge and his gun – went to hit Gale's house at Rose Bay. If he didn't find the American he would then call in a crime report to say he was wanted for the abduction of Dr Evie Strathmore.

Gunn, meanwhile, telephoned George Bayliss at home and asked for the pathologist's help before driving to Evie's house in Coogee. It was empty, so he rang Bayliss again from a payphone.

She had not been seen at her office at the university, at the zoo or at any of her friends' homes. Gunn hung up, absent-mindedly slipping his hand in his pocket to retrieve the shark tooth necklace that Sybil Holmes had given him, back at the courthouse.

It was strangely reassuring, but he decided that he would be much happier with a gun for when he came up against Sharko so he drove back across town to Surry Hills, slipping into the B district station through the back door and forcing open the munitions cupboard. He lifted a shotgun and two boxes of shells, before heading out to begin the long drive north to the Hawkesbury.

Sydney was far behind him now, the Ku-Ring-Gai Chase forest crowding down to the edge of a dark stretch of tarmacadam that could have been a thousand miles from the nearest town.

"Can't be far," muttered Gunn, as he pulled over to the side of the road to study his map by torchlight. Culver Gale's vineyard was supposed to be right around here, but there was nothing to be seen, just mile upon mile of tinder dry gum trees flashing past in his headlights.

Since leaving Pittwater, he had not even come across another dwelling where he could stop and ask directions. He flicked off his torch but in that dark instant before the car lights came on he spotted an orange glow away through the trees.

Gunn rolled down his window as he drove onwards, picking up the scent of smoke in the still night air. A fire. He may have been a Scot but he knew enough about the Australian bush to realise he could well be driving into serious trouble.

He saw a turning that would lead him towards the fire and swung the wheel, sending gravel flying as the car careered down the steep drive. The car screeched to a halt in front of a burning property, and Gunn dived out with his shotgun and his flashlight in his hands. He ran for the cover of some trees and swept his gaze around the rubbish-strewn yard.

He didn't know whether this was Gale's place – he could be miles away for all he knew – but somehow he knew he had stumbled onto Sharko's lair.

Gunn ran across to the front porch and tried the handle. It was locked, he put his shoulder against the door but it wouldn't budge. He could feel the heat coming through the wood and he jumped as a window shattered in the flames, with one end of the porch now well alight.

Gunn began kicking at the door with a series of powerful blows around the handle. The wood eventually splintered, and one final boot had the lock in and the door flew back on its hinges.

The place might have looked like a hovel from outside, but through the dense smoke he could see the interior was surprisingly clean and modern. A leather sofa was burning in the living room, as well as what must have once been a well-stocked bookcase.

Gunn pulled his jacket over his head, his eyes stinging in the smoke, and ran for the next door along the hall. It led straight onto a flight of stone stairs, descending into the darkness underneath the house. Despite the blaze there was a chilly breeze was snaking up the steps and curling around his feet like cold morning mist.

Gunn switched on his flashlight and began descending the stairs.

The basement looked like it could be freshly dug, with whitewashed plaster walls and square-edged wooden beams across the ceiling.

In the middle of the room was a large stainless steel table, just like the ones he had seen many times in the morgue, with five thick leather clasps, two at the foot, one at either side and one, larger clasp, at the head. Sickeningly, it had a channel running down the centre to a bucket hanging from a nail at the bottom end.

Along one wall, hanging on neat row of metal hooks, was a collection of hacksaws, small axes, woodsaws and a butcher's heavy meat cleaver. There was also a portable metal gurney filled with surgeon's scalpels and other medical equipment.

At the other wall stood a small desk and chair, a lamp and a bottle of bourbon resting on the desk amid a clutter of papers. The wall above the desk was filled with drawings and sketches of sharks, the human anatomy, and maps of the Hawkesbury and the surrounding coastline.

There were several dozen grainy black and white photographs, stuck up with pins, many of them of Dr Evie Strathmore. There was even one of himself with Evie, talking at the rail near Taronga Zoo.

And across the middle of the wall, in a wide arc, was a scarlet spray of dried blood.

As his flashlight swung around the room he found traces of blood were visible on every fitting. Underneath it all, behind the frontal assault to the brain from the information gathered by Gunn's disbelieving eyes, was the smell. It came as a silent attack, the stench of blood and gore and death and, well, raw meat, creping stealthily into his nose.

Gunn turned on his heel and ran up the stairs and out of the door, staggering from the porch and then vomiting in the middle of the yard. By the time he turned back to the house it was well alight, most likely sealing the chamber of horrors he had witnessed beneath the earth for all time.

Culver Gale had obviously beaten him to it by just minutes, destroying all the evidence of his crimes. Gunn raced back to his car, cranked the starting handle and roared up the track, back towards the city.

VI

Evie awoke to a deafening blast, sitting up as a strangely familiar smell reached her nostrils. She blinked and found a figure standing at her bedroom door, framed in the light from the hallway.

Culver Gale took a step into her room, holding something metallic in his hands. "Evie," he said. "There was somebody in the house."

"What was that noise?"

"I... I shot him."

Evie leapt out of bed as though it was electrified. The smell was gunpowder, she realised, an odour she had become distressingly familiar with over the past two weeks.

"Who was it?"

She pushed past Culver and onto the landing, expecting – hoping – to find Eddie Gattuso lying in a bleeding heap.

"He had no right to be creeping about..." Culver was saying, as Evie saw Bill Gunn slumped at the foot of her stairs.

"What have you done?" she shrieked, turning and beating on Culver's chest with her fists.

He slapped her, hard. "I'm not going to jail," he said, as a muscle pulsed along his jaw. "I told him that, I warned him."

"It is you," said Evie, wiping blood from her lip. "You're Sharko."

"Get dressed," Culver snapped, shaking his head in disgust. "You're delirious, woman. I've got friends in the police force and I know that Gunn has been digging around in my past. He was going to send me back to the States. I owe millions in taxes, Evie, millions. Makes my gambling debts to that two-bit crook Gattuso look like pocket change, and they'd put me away for life."

Then came a huge roar, echoing off the walls, and a red poppy exploded in Culver's chest.

Evie screamed and whipped around to see another man standing inside her front door, holding a smoking pistol that was now aimed squarely at her.

"Alf," she said. "How the hell...?

Spiroza grinned, a strange and wild look in his eyes. Evie could smell smoke on his clothes, as though he had just come straight from a fire. "Relax, I just killed Sharko, didn't I?" he said.

"But what about Bill? Don't just stand there, help him!"

"The Yank was Sharko alright," said Spiroza, as he began climbing the stairs. "Sadly, I wasn't quick enough to stop 'im from killin' you and the Scotsman too."

Evie backed away into her bedroom.

"What's got into you?" she asked, as Spiroza lunged forward, grabbed Evie's hair and pulled her towards him. He thumped her head into the wardrobe mirror with a sickening crack, and then punched her on the temple, knocking her sideways to the floor. She was wearing only a cream nightdress, which rode up over her bare thighs exposing a neat triangle of pubic hair.

"Strewth," said Spiroza with a leer. "I've always known I could have a lot a' fun with you, doc, but sadly I just don't 'ave time."

"You're the killer," she cried, hurriedly covering herself. "You're Sharko."

"I hate that name," Spiroza said. He took a step forward. "Second thoughts, I s'pose we do 'ave half an hour or so."

"That night at Katoomba," Evie said, scrambling backwards into the corner of the room. "That was you we were following in the bush."

"Clever too," said Spiroza, hauling her to her feet. "Come on, get back on the bed."

Evie clawed at him as she stood, raking deep gouges down his cheek, but Spiroza smashed the butt of his gun onto her shoulder and she dropped to her knees with a moan.

Spiroza shook his head, tut-tutting his disapproval. "Doc, you're no better than the rest a them whores. Actin' all prissy when all the time you were screwin' that Yank behind Bill's back. He's better off dead than finding out the truth about you, I reckon."

Her head swimming, Evie watched in dreamlike confusion as events took an even more surreal turn.

"I don't think so, Snapper," said Gunn. The big Scot was holding a shotgun levelled at Spiroza's head, his shirt drenched with blood from the wound in his shoulder. "Drop your piece."

"What? Bill, I nailed him," Spiroza said, a wheedling tone creeping into his voice. He gestured at Culver Gale's lifeless body. "That's Sharko right there. You said so yourself."

"I've been wrong before, believe it or not."

"I'm on your side, mate."

"Just drop your gun, Alf."

Spiroza grimaced in frustration.

"Lower your weapon," said Gunn. "I won't ask again."

Spiroza went to put his pistol on the floor, but at the last moment fired a shot that splintered the wooden doorframe by Gunn's head. In response, Gunn pulled the trigger on his shotgun but the weapon jammed and his look of grim resolve had turned to one of exasperated shock.

Spiroza seized the opportunity to grab Evie and push her in front of him, holding his gun to the side of her neck. "Bloody police issue shotgun," he said, giving a high-pitched chuckle. "Just can't get the kit these days, eh Bill? Now, I think it's your turn to drop it."

Gunn threw down the shotgun on the floor at his feet.

"Temper, temper," said Spiroza.

"Why, Alf?" said Gunn.

"Why? Ah, not this again! Last person who asked me that question ended up regretting it. But since neither of you are goin' to live then I might as well tell yer. I grew up in that house I had to burn down tonight."

"I thought you were from Melbourne?"

"I was born there, but my old man had to move away. He was always out whorin', comin' home smellin' of their stinkin' cheap scent. My mother told him to stop or she was leavin' him, takin' me with her so he killed her. The middle of the night I was dragged out of bed and we ran, ended up livin' in the stinkin' woods, my arse black and blue from the old bastard's belt. The only place I had any peace was out on the water, shark fishin'. He used to bring women back, they'd get drunk and root and then those bitches would order me about like a bloody slave, until one day I snapped. Killed my old man with 'is own gun, then his latest tart too, although I found I liked takin' my time with her. Threw their bodies to the sharks and they were gone, disappeared without trace. That first time I caught the biggest shark, kept its teeth as a memento, but I knew right then that it wasn't the sharks I would be huntin' in the fututre."

"My own bloody partner. I must be the biggest fool in the city."

"Don't beat yourself up, Bill. This has been goin' on for longer than you or even that smart bitch Quigley know about," said Spiroza. "I inherited the shack when I turned 21 and moved back up 'ere. The killing was just an itch I needed to scratch now and again, until Eddie fuckin' Gattuso stuck 'is beak in."

"So that's the hold Gattuso had over Sharko," Gunn said, the pieces finally fitting together in his head. "He knew you were a bloody cop so he decided to sign you up as his personal assassin. He sent you to kill Brady but you ended up murdering Janet Smith, is that right?"

"Jeez Bill, it takes you a while but you get there in the end," said Spiroza.

"And I've been charging along after Reg Holmes or Culver Gale this whole time," Gunn said.

"Yeah, and now they're all dead. Funny that, ain't it?"

"You'll never get away with this," said Evie.

"Shuddup, whore. You can flap your lips later," said Spiroza, grinding the pistol muzzle into her neck. "You just kept throwing suspects at me, Bill," he went on. "Holmes, Gale, Gattuso, even that Pommy reporter! I had plenty of fall guys but guess what the best part is? Once you're out of the picture, if anybody starts putting two and two together and realises that the killer was a Sydney cop, who do you think they'll suspect first? You, mate, all your diggin' around has put you right in the frame."

"You won't make it Snapper."

Spiroza thought for a second. "You're right," he said. "Or maybe me and the doc'll take a ride up country, have a little fun before I give her to the sharks. But I'm afraid you won't be around to see whether I make it or not."

Spiroza raised his gun and cocked the trigger, just as Evie threw her head backwards, catching him in the face and causing his shooting arm to jerk upwards. The gun roared in the confined space of the bedroom and Gunn stumbled backwards, falling heavily into the wall and sliding to the floor, leaving red streaks on the wallpaper.

Spiroza punched Evie viciously in the ribs, then put his fingers to the fresh blood flowing from his broken nose, asking: "Where's your damn medicine cabinet, bitch?"

Evie, gasping for breath, told him it was in the kitchen.

"You better make yourself decent and bloody quick," he said. "You try and escape and I swear to God I'll make you die slow."

He turned to go, pausing to examine Gunn's prostate body for a moment. Blood was pumping out of his collar and his clothes and hair were now matted with the stuff. Satisfied, Spiroza stepped over his partner's lifeless legs and went downstairs.

Evie ran over to Gunn and put her fingers to his neck, finding no pulse underneath his blood-smeared skin. Sobbing, she stumbled backwards – and saw his eyes flicker open.

"I'm okay," he whispered hoarsely. "He bloody missed."

Evie's hand flew to her mouth. "Thank God," she sobbed. "I'll be okay, you get help when we've gone." Then she quickly kissed him on the lips, before ducking back into her bedroom to get dressed.

Spiroza jogged up the stairs seconds later, an iodine-soaked bandage pressed to his face. "That's more like it," he said, as Evie marched past him and down the stairs. He watched her go, slightly bemused, before turning to look again at Gunn's prostrate body. He raised his gun once more to finish the job.

SLAM!

The front door banged and Spiroza dropped his aim. "Shit," he said, and dashed down the stairs.

When Culver Gale had shot him, Gunn had felt the bullet tear a hole through his shoulder and surge out of his upper back. He thought he was going to die. But strangely, he had felt no pain and he knew the bright spark of life swam away from him, taking Evie and Sydney and Sharko...and Cathy, back in Glasgow... all of them disappearing in a gurgle, as though his life were being flushed down the plughole.

And then suddenly, he had snapped back into his body and he knew that he wasn't going to die after all. Instead of feeling at peace, he felt like he had a ruddy great hole in his shoulder that stung like a bitch.

He woke to find his old friend and partner Alf Spiroza standing over him and experienced a surge of relief. Then he saw him shoot Culver Gale in cold blood, watched him climb the stairs towards Evie and heard his confession.

It had been Spiroza all along, and because of Gunn's blundering inability to see through his partner's twisted double life Evie Strathmore was about to be raped and murdered.

He had staggered to his feet and tried to do what he could.

When Spiroza's shot had missed, he had thrown himself down and played dead – although there wasn't much acting involved, as his impact with the floor had caused the bullet wound from Culver Gale to begin pumping fresh blood.

He was unable to move, every muscle in his body screaming in agony. He heard Spiroza cackle and descend the stairs. Then Evie kissed him.

The kiss did it. As the front door slammed for a second time he forgot about the splintering pain, the fact that every breath felt as though a corkscrew was being driven into his lungs. He forgot about everything but getting up, going downstairs and beating the living shit out of Alf Spiroza.

The effort of moving sent fresh shockwaves pulsing through his body and he lay back down, breathing heavily. Gunn tried again, and succeeded in pushing himself to his feet. He staggered to the dresser in Evie's bedroom and pulled open the top drawer.

An attack of dizziness came over him and he felt like he was looking down on himself from a very great height. The blood loss must be getting to him, he knew. With trembling fingers he lifted out some cotton underwear and pushed it against the holes in his torso, front and back. The sticky blood held most of it in place as he grabbed a pair of nylons, wrapped them around the thick padding of knickers and looped them under his left armpit, tying them as best as he could with one arm.

Then he took another pair of hose and fastened them into a makeshift sling. The support on his useless left arm made him feel better at once, and he stepped over to Culver Gale's body. The American was lying on his belly, his head twisted to the side. His eyes were open and as glassy and lifeless as marbles. Gunn reached over and gently closed his eyes, before setting off after Spiroza and Evie.

He stumbled out of the front door just in time to see Sharko fly past the house in his Austin roadster, with Evie sitting in the tiny back seat. He limped to his own car, started the motor and got in behind the wheel, hearing the police wireless crackle into life with a report of shots fired as he tore away with a squeal of rubber.

He drove along Dolphin Street, his foot to the floor, and swung into Carrington Road as best he could with one arm, almost taking out a man walking his dog. Gunn slowed as he reached the junction with Alison Road, then swung the wheel again with the palm of his good hand and gunned the engine.

This street was a long, steep climb but Spiroza's powerful sports car was already rocketing towards the top. Gunn watched helplessly as he reached the traffic lights at the top of the hill and cruised through on green. By the time he got there the lights had changed to red and he closed his eyes as he rolled out into the flow of early morning traffic on Avoca Street.

Several cars slammed on their brakes, and a pony and trap - a rare sight on Sydney's streets these days - slewed to one side and discarded a load of fruit and vegetables. Gunn drove on, at last feeling the car build up some speed as he fairly shot down the hill towards Randwick racecourse.

There was still no sign of the Austin ahead and Gunn fretted that Spiroza had doubled back on himself, or turned down one of the many side streets. Then he spotted him, way up at the junction with Anzac Parade, where a white-gloved policeman was directing the sparse traffic. Spiroza turned right, towards the city and the bridge.

Gunn slewed across the carriageway to cut the corner and avoid waiting at the junction, forcing the cars heading his way to drive off the road and onto the grass of Centennial Park. One hit a tree with a loud thump and another landed in a duck pond.

The traffic cop stared, his whistle hanging useless around his neck, as Gunn shot past, bumping across the empty tramlines. Anzac Parade is the best road in Sydney, wide and smooth, and he kept his foot flat to the wooden floorboards, the little car creeping up towards its top speed. The traffic lights at the corner of Moore Park were kind to him, and he sailed through.

He had another problem now though, as a police car shot out of Cleveland Street, siren wailing, and gunned up the Parade after him. Gunn glanced in his mirror, and then yanked the wheel again to dodge around the car in front. The few cars on the road were beginning to slow and even stop in the middle of the carriageway, effectively boxing him in.

Gunn cursed mightily, then bumped over the tramlines and on to the smooth green grass of Moore Park. It wasn't as dry as he'd have liked, but after a few muddy spins, the wheels gripped and Gunn got going again. The police car didn't follow, perhaps stuck in the traffic snarl up he had created. In a few exhilarating minutes, grass flying from his wheels, with only the odd tree to worry about in the gathering darkness, Gunn sped up the length of the park, past Sydney Cricket Ground and out onto Flinders Street.

Spiroza was still ahead but he had not gained much ground, and Gunn wondered whether he even realised he was being followed. He put his foot down and the car dashed across Taylor Square, before braking as a Bondi tram stopped with a blare of its horn, blocking the way ahead. Gunn wound down his window. "Get a move on! Police!" he yelled.

Pedestrians stopped and stared as Gunn drove onto the wrong side of the road again, horn blaring, up onto the kerb and around the back of the tram.

Somebody banged on his roof but he ignored the shouts and the glares, and bounced down off the pavement and onto Oxford Street. He cut right at the bottom, with the lights, and drove up College Street. Spiroza was gone, but Gunn was sure that he would be making for the bridge.

Gunn ran a red light outside the museum and drove on past St James's Cathedral. Macquarie Street – home of the police headquarters – was quiet and he was soon plunging down Hunter Street towards the harbour. Sirens were ringing out again, from every direction now, but Gunn couldn't see any police cars and he didn't stop.

He got through Wynyard Square unscathed and then suddenly he was on the approach to the bridge itself. Spiroza was there, a few cars ahead. The bridge was busy; trams, trains, cars, lorries, carts, motorcycles and horse riders all converged at this point for the stately procession over the harbour.

They drove up and away from the city, above the giant warehouses and narrow alleys of the Rocks, street lamps burning in the gloom. Out of habit, Gunn glanced up at the thousands of bars and struts and bolts and rivets, making geometric patterns against the dark blue evening sky.

Then he was right alongside the Austin, Spiroza staring at him as though he had seen a ghost. Gunn saw Evie in the rear of the car, smiling across at him with fresh hope, and he snarled as he swung the wheel to force Sharko off the road. The cars collided with grinding of metal, slewing across the carriageway and into the metal crash barriers.

It was a heavy, jarring impact, and Gunn's shoulder thudded into the steering wheel as his car spun to a halt thirty yards further on from the battered Austin, its bonnet sprung open and steam pouring from the engine.

The crash sent a fresh wave of pain roaring through him, and as he slumped against the window for a second he imagined Spiroza walking up and shooting him like a frozen rabbit.

But Sharko was already heading in the other direction, chasing after Evie who had scrambled free from the car and jumped onto the railway tracks that flanked the northbound carriageway. Gunn dragged himself out from behind the wheel and scaled the fence, falling flat on his face on the coal that was spread between the wooden sleepers.

Coal. The smell of it took him whirling back to his childhood in Glasgow, shovelling the precious black chunks onto the fire in the never-ending struggle to stay warm. He staggered to his feet and continued the chase.

Spiroza tackled Evie a short distance ahead, pushing her violently to the ground. Gunn ducked and ran, weaving, towards them as Spiroza raised his gun and fired, the bullet zinging off the metalwork somewhere just above his head.

Gunn dived to the ground as Spiroza shot again, missing by a matter of inches, this time the bullet sending up a burst of coal dust. Somebody screamed, and Gunn saw that the cars had stopped and people were rushing this way and that, panicked and flying at the sound of gunshots.

Spiroza pulled Evie to her feet but she stumbled and fell, tripping him up. Gunn pushed himself wearily to his feet and dug into his jacket pocket for the shark tooth necklace, the old and frayed leather strap strung with dozens of huge, yellowing teeth. Shark's teeth.

Gunn was bargaining that the necklace, which Paddy Brady had recovered from the cottage at Cabramatta and given to Sybil, was the same 'memento' that Sharko had mentioned back at Evie's house. It was a long shot, but it was all he had.

"I reckon this is yours, pal," said Gunn, stepping over to the fence and dangling the treasure over the side. "And if you shoot me it's goin' in the drink."

"Where did you get that?" hissed Spiroza through clenched jaws. He lowered his pistol and dragged Evie to her feet, pulling her towards Gunn at the edge of the bridge. "Where did you find it?"

"You should be worryin' about where I'm goin' to drop it. Are these the teeth from the shark that ate your da'? I'm bettin' they are, you know."

"You throw that necklace to me or the girl dies here. Right after you."

"Let her go or your precious shark teeth drop in the harbour, Alf."

Spiroza was still edging towards him, only feet away now, his gun at Evie's neck. Her eyes were pleading with Gunn but he was set on this course of action now. He shook his good arm out over the drop.

"Last chance, pal," he said.

He opened his hand, dangling the necklace by the tips of his fingers. Spiroza howled and lunged for his prize, pushing Evie to one side. Gunn stuck out his foot, tripping Spiroza as his desperate momentum to catch it before it fell took him and the necklace straight over the rail. Sharko flailed desperately as he fell through the air, spiralling towards the sparkling blue water that was waiting to receive him, as hard as concrete, thousands of feet below.

The End

