Private Oz (Private 7)

“What the …?”

“Where’s Greta?”

“What do you …?”

“Where is Greta?” I yelled.

“She’s out on her run … Why?”

“Your wife’s the next victim.”

“WHAT!” His expression changed to one of horror. “How can you …?”

“Just do, Brett. Where does she run?”

“Parsley Bay, about three miles away,” he said, his voice cracking with shock.

“I know it.”

“Always the same route – along the beach, up through the reserve, along to the parking lot. CHRIST!… Look, GO, Craig! GO NOW! I’ve got squads all over the Eastern Suburbs. I’ll get a team there immediately.”

Chapter 137

ONE OF THE greatest pleasures in life, Greta thought as she closed the door of her BMW and turned to the path down to the beach. It was already seventy degrees plus and she loved the summer.

She ran down the path and two minutes later she was on the sand, the sun casting a fresh morning glow all around. The ocean was so perfect it looked like it’d been Photoshopped.

She found her rhythm and ran close to the water where the sand was harder. To her right, a line of palms. No one around, rarely was. That was one of the things she loved most about this spot, it gave her half an hour of blissful solitude. When she got home she’d have to sort out the kids’ breakfast, pack the bags ready for school. Then see Brett off on the driveway, get the children in the car and do the mile-long drive to the drop-off.

Later, as usual, she would meet friends for lunch at Tony’s or Oasis. Then it would be the mad dash to school – the 3.30 pick-up. Back home, dinner for the kids. Later, after the children were in bed it would be dinner for her and Brett, a glass of win

e … thank God! Then, into bed and Brett no doubt getting amorous.

She ran on, focusing on her rhythm, her pace, the ocean, the scent of freedom. The temporary bliss.

She didn’t notice Julie O’Connor just a few yards away concealed in the palm trees watching her, smiling.

Chapter 138

I SCREECHED OFF down Bexham Boulevard and back out onto New South Head Road. I knew Parsley Beach – it was in Vaucluse. A beautiful spot, panoramic view.

Averaging ninety miles an hour, it took a little over two minutes to reach the turn-off. I saw another speed camera flash as I shot past, but I couldn’t give a damn. I swung a hard left off the main highway onto a smaller road, followed the curves, descended a steep hill, and almost overshot the parking lot. I knew the path down to the beach lay on the far side of the scrap of sandy ground. This morning, only one car was parked there – Greta’s BMW 320i convertible.

I ran across the open space and down the first steps of the path that led through the reserve. I could hear the crashing of waves directly ahead.

I took the steps slowly, glancing around, sniffing the air. Julie O’Connor could be anywhere. I shoved away the dread, thought I might already be too late.

There was a bend in the path. I gripped the wooden handrail on one side as the descent became steep. Stopped, listened. Nothing but the sound of birds, waves, the breeze rustling the eucalyptus.

I glimpsed sand, a flash of blue water. The beach was less than a hundred feet ahead down the sloping, curving stairway.

A tight bend. I held the rail with both hands, eased down two steps, and there was Greta. She’d just reached the first steps up from the beach.

I was about to call to her when I saw movement to her right. Julie O’Connor surged from the undergrowth with shocking speed.

“Greta!”

She looked up, saw me, began to smile, and the O’Connor bitch was on her.