Bury Our Secrets

Bury Our Secrets Henry Herbert, Volume 1 Craig Bezant Published by Craig Bezant, 2023. ‘BURY OUR SECRETS’ International eBook edition - Australian English Copyright © Craig Bezant 2023 www.craigbezant.com All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon, or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the copyright owner and the publisher. All characters in this book are fictitious. No reference to any living person or entity intended. ISBN eBook edition 978-0-6456895-1-8 Cover image by Graham Earnshaw/Shutterstock.com Cover design by Craig Bezant CONTENTS CONTENTS AUTHOR’S NOTE DEDICATION CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE CHAPTER THIRTY CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE CHAPTER FORTY CHAPTER FORTY-ONE CHAPTER FORTY-TWO ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR AUTHOR’S NOTE Many of the locations within this novel are real. The story itself is fictional, which means creative flair has been given to locations and characters – descriptions and actions are purely for plot and entertainment and are not intended as critiques of existing entities, people, or places. The Margaret River region in Western Australia is a wonderful place, as are its people. If you haven’t visited, do so when you can. If you have, it’s time to go back. After (or while) reading this novel, of course. DEDICATION To the family that gets me through each day, And the ones I’ve loved and lost along the way. CHAPTER ONE CURIOSITY IS A STRANGE ADDICTION A letter arrived in the mail today, from Uncle Graham. It’s Wednesday. He died on Monday. It’s not a message from beyond the grave; rather, a shining example of our crippled postal service—no more overnight deliveries. He could have emailed or texted, but it wasn’t his style. He was far more traditional—handwritten notes, printed books, CDs and records. Physical things you could hold. Proof of your existence. Still, the letter is a strange sight, because we’d just spoken on Sunday, over the phone. Fifteen years, I hadn’t seen him. Then out of the blue, he calls to say he’s dying. ‘Henry,’ he’d rasped, ‘I’m not long for this world. Doctor’s given me another five to ten days.’ He hadn’t lasted the night. I’d known he was sick a week earlier. Aunty Janice, Graham’s sister, had rung, told me my uncle had fallen off a ladder, hit his head. The resulting scan had revealed more than a bruise. You can only ignore the symptoms of a tumour for so long. I’d promised her I’d get down to Margaret River to see him. I let my days fill with excuses, thinking I had more time. Over the phone, Uncle Graham had asked if I would give his eulogy, speak well about him. I’d tried to tell him I couldn’t. He’d helped my mother look after me when I was a teenager, a replacement father-figure for a few years, but that was a long time ago. He’d chosen to live closer to his remaining siblings down south, in Margaret River. Mum and I were city folk, though. I was born in Subiaco, raised in Perth’s northern suburbs. We had no interest in country living. So, we’d stayed, survived. Time flew by as we lived separate lives. I invited him to my wedding, of course. He turned up, gave a speech, laced it with his weird humour. Got a little too drunk and told me to keep a short leash on my wife, Lucy, lest she go wandering. He’d argued with my wife’s relatives, leaving in a fit of embarrassment. I should have asked if he was okay, but I was angry. We lost contact. For fifteen years. I have no idea what he’s been up to. What could I say in a eulogy to fill the gaps of a life I’ve largely missed? But you can’t refuse a dying man’s request. Still, why the letter? Had Uncle Graham posted it hours before he’d died, or had he sent it last week? Had he called on Sunday because I hadn’t replied? The letter starts by doubling-down on his wish for me to give his eulogy, but it includes additional requests he never talked about. On a yellow slip of paper, there’s a list of things to find for his ceremony and wake. Some esoteric items, music, photo albums. It seems he’s also made me his unofficial funeral planner. Which would be okay, I guess, except I don’t understand the last entry: Find Lillian I have no idea who Lillian is. In my forty-one years on this earth, I’ve never heard that name uttered from the lips of anyone in my family. Not in any meaningful way. Was I meant to trace and call this person, bring her to the funeral? Was she a special guest? If she knew Uncle Graham romantically, she’d know about his death, so what was her connection? Two words. No further details—no address, phone number, description. Two words and Uncle Graham thought I’d make sense of them. I’ve sat on this for a while, part of the phone conversation lingering at the back of my mind. ‘How’s the force treating you?’ Uncle Graham had asked. His memories must have been playing tricks on reality since I was only a police officer for two years before shifting professions. ‘I remember you’d solved some cases the big boys had no clue about.’ ‘I helped tie things together, Uncle Graham. That’s all.’ Ruffled feathers, more like. Overstepped my place,