The Fall Between

About the Book On a hot November morning, the first body lies in a cattle trough . . . It will be another two hours before rigor mortis sets in. Until then, the slim fingers will float below the water’s surface, gently bobbing, beckoning Detective Giles to come and find her. Detective Rebecca Giles has just finished interviewing aging petty crim Sticky Pete over a spate of break-and-enters when a disturbing new report comes in. Twelve-year-old Kayleen Ellis has vanished from her home in Muswellbrook in the Upper Hunter Valley. Hours later, Giles is a local hero, having apparently solved Kayleen’s case and the spate of jewellery thefts. Yet the hangover from her celebrations has barely kicked in when the body of young jillaroo Ava Emmerson is discovered in gruesome circumstances on a nearby farm. Giles is convinced the link between all three cases lies in the town’s tragic history, perhaps even in her own mother’s mysterious drowning thirty years ago. In a place where nothing much changes, suddenly a great deal is happening – and Giles’s life and career are now on the line. Contents Cover About the Book Title Page 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 Chapter Forty-three Chapter Forty-four Chapter Forty-five Chapter Forty-six Acknowledgements About the Author Imprint Read More at Penguin Books Australia For my parents, Bill and Joan. And for Lolly: my loyal companion. Always by my side with every keystroke . . . or on my lap, or under my feet. On an icy 5-degree September morning in Orange, New South Wales, four people unknowingly set off a chain of events that would lead to three deaths and a major homicide investigation. The first person kicked off the event when they broke into Summer Street Jewellery Store, helping themselves to enough fashionable watches and bracelets to keep their drug habit in full swing for the next few months. The second, the owner of the jewellery store, continued the momentum when they saw an opportunity to cash in on the insurance claim after a poor year of turnover, by stashing away a considerable amount of valuable items before the cops arrived. The third domino was kicked over when a police officer on general duties weighed up their pending retirement, dismal superfund, long service and holiday leave, and figured a few precious stones and rings would soften the blow of departing the force earlier than planned. The ripple effect was finally completed by the fourth person, who witnessed the cop filching the items. Two months later, this would lead to the first recorded death and the formation of Strike Force Oona. Now, on a hot November morning, more than 300 kilometres from the jewellery store, the first body lies naked and partially submerged in a cattle trough. The air in the lungs has kept her chest floating above the surface of the murky water. Her legs are heavy, wound tightly together with rusty barbed wire, like two needlefish caught in a net. Her ankles have sunk into the soft sludge. The skin on her neck has been scrubbed and peeled away. Two of her fingernails have been removed by force. And while she has only bled a little from her nails, and a few grazes and cuts, the ground around the cattle’s drinking trough is soaked in blood. A wallaby has been gutted and its blood and entrails scattered. It will be another two hours before rigor mortis sets The mother wakes to dust speckled in sunlight. She throws back the bedsheet, stirring the stale air. She needs to put the kettle on. A coffee first. Inject some caffeine into the system and wipe the sleep from her eyes before getting the kids up for school. She’s surprised she’s out of bed before her two girls, but perhaps that’s because for once she’s had a proper night’s sleep. Last night there were none of the usual bed-time antics from Kayleen. The bullshit routine of, Tuck me in, I can’t sleep, I need to pee, I’m cold, I’m hot, I’m thirsty, I need to pee again. And – for the first time in a long time – she’s not woken with a dry mouth and a headache. She had put the cap back on the bottle of bourbon after just three drinks. Atta girl, she tells herself. The mother stands on the back veranda, where the sun doesn’t smash her in the face and the neighbours can’t perv on her braless tits under her ratty t-shirt. She drinks her coffee and sneaks in a ciggie. She doesn’t like her kids seeing her smoke, and out here on the back deck she can hear them coming down the hall, giving her enough time to flick the cigarette butt into the garden bed below. The mother puffs away slowly, making the most of it. There’s only two left in the pack, so she needs to space them out until she can get to the shops. She relishes having five minutes to herself; it gives her time to get her head together. Mornings are normally peaceful, but with the blaring heat, the sound of a distant car engine revving and the relentless barking of the dog next door, the mother knows any chance of dawn mindfulness is fucked. Recharged, with caffeine in her veins and tobacco on her breath, the mother turns on her bare sticky heels, disentangling herself