Robert Sims - Tropic of Death

Robert Sims grew up in Melbourne, going straight from high school to journalism and working in an array of newspaper and radio jobs. He took a career break from journalism to complete a degree in politics and philosophy, then spent more than twenty years in London working for Independent Radio News, ITN and the BBC. Robert and his wife and young sons now live in Melbourne.

Tropic of Death is Roberts second novel; his first, TheShadow Maker, was published in 2007.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

First published in 2009

Copyright (c) Robert Sims 2009

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

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16/2/09 10:02:52 AM

And this also has been one of the dark places of the earth.

Joseph Conrad

The day had an unsettled mood, something shrill in the air and, among the parrots fighting over fast-food scraps, a hint of tainted innocence. But the child didnt sense it, not even in the distant boom of artillery rumbling over the mudflats from the testing range beyond. Shed made her mark and her soul was content. She bent down and topped her castle with a flag made from a piece of tissue. It fluttered in defiance of the tide that would sweep her small work of art into oblivion.

Her mother sat on a promenade seat. She smoked and stared with empty eyes into the middle distance where a tourist launch headed out towards the Great Barrier Reef. Its wake rippled among the mangrove thickets of a nearby inlet. The girl waved but the mother didnt notice, so she drifted off to look for shells. She passed a bait digger who stooped beside his pail, slopping mud with his spade. He watched her darkly. She said hello, but he just nodded in response. She wandered over to a clump of seaweed and squatted and tugged at a slimy strand. It dislodged something strange in the mud. She gazed in fascination. Then she went back to the bait digger. He paused and looked at her with irritation, and she smiled at him.

Theres a man in the mud, she said.

He didnt say anything, just stared at her through cold eyes.

There is, she insisted. A man in the mud. Come and see.

He leant on his spade and watched her plod back to the seaweed and point at something.

Come and see.

He sighed and jabbed in his spade so it stood upright, and then he squelched across to her. She was pointing triumphantly.

See! I told you!

At first he just saw a muddy lump and a crab scuttling away.

Then he saw the shape of the severed head. The skin was death-white. Parts of the face had been eaten away. The little girl was still pointing excitedly as the bait digger began to vomit. She looked at him with disappointment.

The greeting, from DSS Wayne Strickland, was meant to be ironic. It drew an indulgent smile from Detective Sergeant Marita Van Hassel as she brushed past him into the squad room.

Till I get my ticket of leave, she replied.

Ticket to ride is more like it, said Strickland. And an easy ride at that.

Does that mean you want to keep me in the squad?

Huh. Strickland smoothed back his thinning hair. Do I look like Im in your fan club?

The banter contained the usual mock hostility but Rita knew it reflected something deeper. It wasnt so much dislike as a clash of styles. While Strickland was her immediate boss, he was also her opposite in a number of ways. Like many of her male colleagues he was old school - uncompromising, pragmatic and committed to traditional methods of policing. An astute detective, he was also hard-faced and middle-aged, a man suspicious of innovations such as behavioural analysis and psychological profiles. Rita specialised in these areas after doing the necessary fieldwork and academic study. In Stricklands eyes that made her an intellectual, as well as a perfect example of the feminising trend within the Victoria Police. When shed been selected to become a profiler hed called her overindulged and over-promoted - a fair-haired favourite of reformers who were bent on re-marketing the force.

The barb had been prompted by her photo in Police Life magazine. Rita liked the shot. It captured something of how she saw herself - a woman with an independent mind, a trim figure and the ability to succeed. There she stood between the pillars of Melbournes police headquarters, arms folded, head turned sideways to the camera, staring directly into the lens. The pose, in a white linen blazer and trousers, was almost symbolic. With her gaze of concentration and short blonde hair blown back, it showed off her best features - the blue of her eyes, the curve of her cheekbones, the serious expression of her mouth. Her friends told her it was the portrait of an alpha female, but Strickland dismissed it as image manipulation. He said it made her look like a warrior in a pantsuit - part detective, part Visigothic princess.

The comment had made her laugh. There was an element of truth in it, not least because of her northern European ancestry.

That had been the low point in their working relationship.

Since then hed mellowed. He also conceded she got results.

Thats because she was diligent and assertive, much like Strickland himself. But unlike him, her ambitions were far from realised. At thirty years old, she was convinced her finest achievements lay ahead of her.

One thing Ill admit, said Strickland. Things wont be the same without you. He laid on a gritty smile. Ive actually got used to you being a pain in the arse.

Despite her breezy manner, Rita was losing patience with the delay over her future role. In the past month shed officially completed her profiling course, processed a backlog of case files and generally cleared the decks ahead of her next appointment. But the senior commanders at police headquarters were yet to decide where to assign her. They were having trouble finding an appropriate slot for a fully qualified criminal profiler, something of a rare and exotic breed among rank and file officers. Until they made up their minds she remained in limbo, a semi-detached member of the Sexual Crimes Squad, feeling professionally unsatisfied and at a loose end.