Private Oz (Private 7)

Filling my world, sending me reeling.

And there was the face.

“You’re lucky to be alive, Craig.”

I heard the words but they didn’t really register. I managed to turn my head a little to the left, then the right. Tubes, machines, a hospital. Yeah – that would figure.

“I do worry about your temper though, mate.”

I looked at the face, focused. Mark Fucking Talbot. My cousin Mark.

But I felt nothing, and I didn’t care. Mark didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Becky and Cal were dead. I was alive, but I wanted to be dead.

“You smashed that driver’s face to a pulp,” Talbot went on.

I didn’t care what he said. I didn’t care.

“You know how I felt about Becky.” His face was expressionless, but he knew how to turn the screw. “I never met little Cal …” Then his face thawed. For a second, he looked genuinely upset. “They deserved better.”

I didn’t care what he said. I didn’t care.

My cousin had no idea. He must have thought he was really hurting me.

He sighed. “In one way you’re lucky, Craig. Sure, you smashed the guy’s face up. But …” He lifted a thin beige folder into view. “Forensics report. He died on impact.”

I didn’t care what he said. I was alive but I wanted to be dead.

He started to turn. Stopped. Walked back and leaned in close to my ear. “You got what you deserved, you fuck. And you’ll go to hell.”

And he was gone.

I didn’t care.

Chapter 17

“WELL, YOU ALL know the gist of it,” I said, walking into the conference room. “A close friend of Greta Thorogood was tortured and killed a few yards from her front door. Bizarre MO.”

I looked around the table. I’d called in everyone … the team, plus Justine.

They already knew the basics of the homicide. Bad news travels fast.

I flicked a remote and the blinds closed. A second touch on the rubber pad and a flat screen lit up at the far end of the room. “I shot this on my phone.”

It was jumbled up at first but settled down as I’d steadied my hand and set the phone to “Stabilize video”.

The inside of the victim’s car.

“Stacy Friel,” I said flatly, as the horrific image of the dead woman’s face appeared. “She was murdered sometime around 5.30 yesterday evening in an alley close to her house in Bellevue Hill. Facially disfigured and stabbed four times in the back as she got out of her vehicle. She was then returned to the car … postmortem.” The camera moved to show the dead woman straight-on. I had panned down, zoomed in.

There was an intake of breath from the women in the room.

Understandable, I thought, imagining an equivalent for guys.

The victim’s lower garments had been removed, her legs spread wide. A bunch of money had been inserted into her vagina. You could see the golden yellow of Australian fifty-dollar bills.

The film stopped. The blinds came up. No one spoke.

I looked round the room. Darlene was staring straight at me. Justine studied the table. Mary was still glaring at where the image had been a few seconds ago. Johnny was counting his shoes.