A Devious Mind Read online

  A Devious Mind

  A Dusty Kent Mystery

  By

  Brigid George

  Published by Potoroo Press 2016

  P.O. Box 235

  Albert Park, Victoria, Australia, 3206

  Copyright © 2016 by Brigid George

  A Devious Mind is Book #2 in the Dusty Kent Mysteries following Murder in Murloo

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is entirely coincidental.

  Please note: This eBook uses British English spelling. Readers who are used to American English might notice a difference in the spelling of some words. For example: centre (instead of center), colour (instead of color), realise (instead of realize), travelled (instead of traveled).

  Kindle Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  A stalker shadowed Marcia Hamilton as she walked along the bush track that morning. Marcia was unaware of danger. Her mind was elsewhere. The whispering of the ocean and the fresh smell of a forest damp with dew fused to lull her into reverie. Among other things, she contemplated the bliss of spending the next three days in total silence at a meditation retreat in the Byron Bay hills.

  Silence was one of the reasons she loved her early morning walks along the coastal trail near her home in Walkara, a beachside suburb of Byron Bay. Although she sometimes passed a jogger or fellow walker, nature was her only companion.

  Those who met her on the walking track, or even in the street, gave little acknowledgement of Marcia’s status as a famous Australian author. They merely nodded or smiled in greeting and Marcia responded in kind. It was one of the many things she loved about living in the area; you could be as famous as you like but if you were going about your private business, the locals left you to it. During her walks she could retreat into her mind without fear of being disturbed. That freedom and the serenity of the natural surroundings created a fertile climate for ideas for her books. In her pocket, she carried a small notebook with a pen attached, so she could jot down those ideas before they disappeared never to return.

  The stalker kept a discreet distance behind Marcia until she reached the footbridge that spanned a deep gully. She had just crossed the bridge when the predator made his move. Like a leopard pouncing on its prey, he covered the distance between himself and his defenceless quarry within seconds. One brutal blow to the head was all it took to fell Marcia: a sixty-year-old grandmother of slim build and merely five feet four inches tall. Shrill squawks and a sudden beating of wings reverberated in the treetops. Then the forest was silent.

  The killer’s hands worked quickly to remove Marcia’s jewellery before rolling her, like a piece of discarded junk, down the slope into the gully. The ferns and bracken, hardly disturbed by her slight frame, sprang back into position as Marcia’s body tumbled over them and bounced off hard rocks on its inexorable descent. Clad in a pair of dark cotton slacks and a light blue top, the body was obscured from sight by vegetation even before it crashed onto the floor of the gully. It came to rest amid ferns, leaves, and fallen tree branches which crackled and rustled under the weight of the additional debris.

  That’s what Dusty had written about the one-year-old cold case she was investigating: the Marcia Hamilton murder.

  “Do you like my journalistic style?” she asked when I finished reading.

  “Impressive,” I said.

  “That could be the opening section of the book I write when I crack this case, which is already looking weird.”

  “Weird? How so?”

  “Marcia apparently sent her gardener a message after she died,” said Dusty, her eyes widening.

  You remember Dusty Kent, the investigative journalist who invariably solves the murders she writes about? I introduced her to you in my last journal entry which I called Murder in Murloo. On that occasion I worked with Dusty on a case that held particular significance for her as it took place in her hometown area.

  That was back in March. In the six months since then I have travelled the breadth of Australia on my motorbike, invigorated by the salt air along the Surf Coast of Victoria in the east, across the Nullabor Plain where kangaroos bounded across the treeless terrain and along the coast of Western Australia. I stayed in Western Australia to work (thus fulfilling the requirements of my visa) and then rode up to the Northern Territory, famous for its spectacular orange-red sunsets. I was still there, camping in Kakadu National Park, when Dusty contacted me and asked me to work with her on this case. She suggested I store my bike, the Triumph Thunderbird I bought just after I arrived in Australia, and fly across to New South Wales, payment of both to be included in my expenses.

  I had been reluctant to leave Kakadu as I hadn’t finished exploring the Park’s thousands of square kilometres of natural beauty. It might seem strange for an Irishman like myself, a techie more at home delving into databases, to fall in love with a place of wide open spaces, ancient rock carvings and little mobile phone coverage, but that’s the spell Kakadu casts over its visitors.

  At Ballina Airport – the closest airport to Byron Bay – I had felt the familiar tug of attraction as Dusty strode towards me, her head held high and arms swinging. A sleeveless white dress covered her slender five-foot-two frame and her mass of wild auburn curls had been almost tamed by a turquoise ribbon which swept her hair up and away from her face; that face with its fair skin and light freckles that had stayed with me during my travels.

  “Sean O’Kelly,” she had said when she joined me at the luggage carousel to watch other people’s suitcases slowly pass by.

  A wide grin creased her face. I fancied the light in her green eyes expressed her delight at seeing me again. When I bent to kiss her cheek I caught the scent of her, which I had forgotten until that moment. It carried a slight aroma of strawberries. She had once told me she never wore perfume so I guessed the scent probably stemmed from her shampoo or body lotion.

  Any awkwardness that might have been present between two people who hadn’t seen each other for several months after only a brief acquaintance instantly dissipated with her teasing use of my full name. It was something she had done when we first met in Murloo. I suspect it was a way of ke
eping me at a distance. Whether that was in the name of maintaining a professional relationship or simply because she preferred it that way, I was never too sure.

  Looking up at me, she laughed and said, “I see there’s still the same distance between us.”

  Dusty was ten inches shorter than I. Although the difference in our heights would always remain, I hoped the gap between us at the personal level might gradually narrow, maybe even close altogether.

  Chapter 2

  “Meet any crocodiles while you were in Kakadu?” said Dusty, negotiating her car – a 1955 FJ Holden with some modern adjustments – out of the airport car park. “I’ve heard they leap out of the water up there.”

  I adjusted the passenger seat to accommodate my six-foot frame and settled back for the thirty-minute scenic drive along the New South Wales coast to Byron Bay. Dusty’s car was spacious and comfortable and the sealed road provided a smooth ride. The car had a custom made registration plate which reflected one of the owner’s personality quirks. She was, as I had discovered when we worked together previously, a surprisingly superstitious person. I say surprising because she was also intelligent and rational. Yet she believed – among other things – that seeing three seagulls flying overhead prophesied an imminent death and that it was bad luck to set an empty rocking chair in motion. Her car number plate (STAR 77) was supposed to be lucky: STAR for lucky star and 77 because seven is a lucky number.

  “I heard that, too,” I said, responding to Dusty’s comment about crocodiles. “It doesn’t pay to stand too close to the water’s edge. Apparently they are even more inclined to hurl themselves out of the water when there’s an Irishman close by. Someone told me they can smell the Irish and once they get the scent they leap out of the water and… Snap! That’s the end of the poor Irishman.”

  I kept my face deadpan but Dusty wasn’t fooled. She burst into laughter.

  “Sounds like the locals were trying to put the fear of death into you.”

  “It worked. Even though I knew it wasn’t true, the image of a crocodile lunging out of the water at me was enough to make me very cautious.”

  Dusty nodded her head in approval. “Not a bad reaction. People do get taken by crocs in the Northern Territory.”

  “They do. One snatched a man out of his fishing boat not long before I arrived there – right in front of his family.”

  “I heard about that. They found the remains of the poor man in the belly of a croc almost five metres long.”

  “Right. If that wasn’t enough to keep me out of the water, there were plenty of other stories about crocodile attacks. Apparently they’ve been known to come out of the water and march right into someone’s tent.”

  “That would be an idiot who camped too close to the water.”

  “Right.”

  “Well,” said Dusty, “the good news is there are no crocodiles in Byron Bay.”

  “That’s a relief,” I said with a grin, which died away quickly with Dusty’s next words.

  “Just sharks. One snapped up a swimmer for breakfast a few weeks ago.” She turned to look at me, gauging my reaction. “It’s all right. The bloke wasn’t Irish.”

  I managed a smile in response to her flippancy, but the ocean views as we drove along were not quite as enjoyable after that. Just as someone might dull the brilliance of a brightly lit painting by turning a dimmer switch, disturbing visions in my mind had darkened my view of the ocean. I had trouble shaking off images of hungry sharks riding the waves; jaws open, sharp teeth at the ready.

  “The other creature you’ll need to watch out for in Byron Bay is the Drop Bear,” said Dusty.

  I knew Australia didn’t have any bears, although people overseas sometimes erroneously referred to the koala as a bear. Dusty wouldn’t make that mistake so I was at a loss as to what she was referring to.

  “Drop Bear?” I queried.

  “Not really a bear. They’re marsupials distantly related to koalas. They hide in tree canopies and drop down on people’s heads. You just need to be careful when you’re walking under big trees.”

  I thanked her for the advice then asked her what she had been doing since our adventure in Murloo.

  “I haven’t had much chance to do anything exciting. First, I had to finish the book about the Murloo murder and get it off to the publisher. Then I booked in for a refresher course with my sensei.”

  “Sensei?”

  “My karate teacher.” She took one hand off the steering wheel to execute a karate chop in the air. “Sensei is the Japanese word for teacher.”

  I had seen evidence of Dusty’s excellent skills as a karate black belt on a couple of occasions.

  “If I don’t practise regularly,” she continued, “my responses won’t be as quick or as effective.”

  “Right. You know, I always thought martial arts students were taught humility.”

  Dusty gave me a quick sideways glance. “Are you suggesting that might have been a lesson I didn’t learn?”

  I decided silence would be the best answer to that question. Dusty laughed.

  “I was always humble in my karate classes but in real life I’m true to myself. Following a set of principles can’t change a person’s character. That’s established through experience, background and childhood.”

  “Right. That makes sense. By the way, I don’t think you ever told me how you became a black belt.”

  “I was a junior black belt; one of the youngest black belts in Australia at the time,” said Dusty without a hint of modesty. “I took classes in Claigan after school. When I moved to Melbourne, I continued with karate and became an adult black belt. It doesn’t take so long if you’re already a junior black belt.”

  It occurred to me that taking up karate as a kid was probably a reaction to her mother’s disappearance; a deep need to feel safe.

  “We’re staying at a place called Ardem@Byron.” Dusty interrupted my thoughts.

  The warm breeze, which had sailed in through the open driver’s side window, was lifting the curls from the nape of her slender white neck.

  “I’ve been there for a couple of days already, so naturally I’ve snapped up the best room,” she added with a mischievous smile.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said.

  Dusty’s laugh rippled up inside her throat and rolled out of her mouth to dance between us, reminding me of our first meeting. She had laughed like that when, not knowing who she was, I’d mistakenly assumed Dusty Kent was a man’s name after reading it in a newspaper report.

  “Actually,” she said, “there’s not much difference between your suite and mine. They’re both roomy and they both have a balcony overlooking lush green trees where birds gather to sing.”

  I’d been wondering about our accommodation. As much as I had enjoyed Kakadu, wallowing in luxury for a few weeks after camping out in the Australian outback would be a welcome change. Dusty, as she so often seemed to do, picked up on my thoughts.

  “It’s not as salubrious as Murloo Mansion.”

  Murloo Mansion, as I mentioned in my previous journal, is a luxurious bed and breakfast establishment in a grand colonial building overlooking the Southern Ocean.

  “Don’t worry,” she continued. “Ardem is a luxury townhouse so we won’t be short of creature comforts. It’s just that we won’t have waiters delivering our breakfast or a bar, bistro and pool table downstairs. The good news is; we’ll be within walking distance of Byron’s best eating places.”

  “Byron? Is that like, the terminology of the locals?”

  “Yep. I feel as though I’m a local already. And here we are; home,” she added as we reached the outskirts of the town.

  Byron Bay is a mecca for surfers, hippies old and new and all kinds of artistic people, and is so far north it’s almost in the state of Queensland. That means it has a subtropical climate and vegetation to match.

  I wasn’t disappointed with Ardem@Byron. It had a well appointed kitchen, a sitting room and a large li
ving area that opened onto a private courtyard. A pleasant clean smell greeted us when we walked in. I climbed the stairs and found that my room, which Dusty had indicated was at the top of the landing, was just as she had described it.

  By late afternoon I had showered and rested before joining Dusty in the courtyard. We shared wine and nibbles at a solid wooden table shaded by a leafy palm. That’s where we were when Dusty read out the paragraphs she had written about Marcia Hamilton’s death. The National Park that bordered the path at the back of the property attracted a variety of birds. Their songs now provided background music, mingling and blending like voices singing in rounds. The harmony of our surroundings was only marred by our discussion of murder.

  “What do you mean,” I said to Dusty, “Marcia sent a message to her gardener?”

  “Aha. Intriguing isn’t it? I’ll tell you about that later. First, an introduction.”

  Dusty held up a thick hardcover book, flipping it around to the back to reveal a photo of an attractive older woman whose features and exquisite bone structure radiated classical beauty.

  “Meet Marcia Hamilton,” she said.

  The woman smiling warmly at me from the book cover had grey-blue eyes and a generous mouth. Thick blonde hair swept back from her face in a short smart style, undoubtedly achieved by a professional hairdresser, was tucked behind her ears from which dangled large pearl earrings. Although obviously from a privileged background, she looked like a woman who would be easy to like.

  “And I assume that’s one of her books,” I said, ignoring a demanding squawk from the magpie perched on the fence.

  Dusty nodded and turned the book around to display the front cover.

  “Yep. This is Teardrop: the last novel she wrote. Her books are contemporary fiction; family drama, romance and revenge, that sort of thing. She wrote thirty novels; all best sellers and not just in Australia but all over the world.”

  “Right. She’s even more famous than you then?”

  At thirty-one years of age, Dusty was already a bestselling author with a one hundred percent strike rate on the cold case murders she investigates. She saw no need to be modest about it. Her faith in her own abilities appeared unshakeable and often bordered on arrogance. As a result, I couldn’t resist the temptation sometimes to bring her down to earth. She responded to my flippant comment with a look that indicated she was aware I was having a dig at her and wasn’t impressed.