Read Online Tropic of Death by Robert Sims - Free Book Online Page A

‘There’s more in the files than I emailed. A lot of useless paperwork in my opinion, but you’re free to go through it. I’ve assigned you an office and a car, a Falcon. Steel blue. It’s got a couple of dents and a few k on the clock but a souped-up engine under the bonnet.’
    ‘Steel blue?’
    ‘Yeah, it’ll match your eyes.’ He grinned. ‘I’m told profilers need peace and quiet to concentrate so I’ve sorted out some office space where you won’t be disturbed. Part of the old watch-house.’
    ‘Not in the cells, I hope.’
    ‘Nah,’ chuckled Jarrett. ‘More like an antique bondage chamber.’

12
The drive to the police station took them along the coast road towards the heart of the town. Jarrett travelled at a leisurely pace, an arm resting on the wheel as he pointed out significant landmarks.
    ‘Rafferty’s.’ He gestured at an Irish theme bar. ‘Always good for a few arrests. The kids can’t cope with the Guinness.’
    As the road curved down to the seafront they cruised past caravan parks and a marina. A couple of hundred yachts drifted at moorings that fanned out from boat ramps and a clubhouse with wooden decking.
    ‘The sailing club,’ said Jarrett. ‘Our social centre.’
    ‘You a member?’
    ‘Damn right. Perfect for catching boats, beers and blondes -
    ah, if you know what I mean.’
    ‘I do.’
    ‘It’s also the place for live entertainment.’ He nodded at a marquee on the club’s lawns opposite an outdoor stage rigged with microphones and banks of speakers. ‘Great venue for rock concerts.’
    ‘Like who?’
    ‘The best was a Billy Thorpe gig, complete with thunder-storm.’
    ‘Sounds risky.’
    ‘It was. He broke off, saying he was in danger of having his arse nailed to the stage by lightning. But when it stopped he came back on and played till midnight.’
    ‘When was that?’
    ‘About a year before he died. What a voice - “Over the Rainbow” - blew the audience away.’
    They passed a beachside development with a lagoon for toddlers then an open-air market on a grassy stretch of foreshore, customers ambling among stalls and hibiscus bushes. Beyond that the road branched towards the harbour alongside a row of burger and fried chicken outlets, an amusement park, a bowling alley, games arcades and cheap-looking bars. Among the potential customers, knots of US sailors strolled along under a range of neon signs. An ice-cream parlour was doing a busy trade with the Americans.
    ‘The rough side of town,’ muttered Jarrett. ‘Rachel Macarthur was murdered down one of the alleys.’
    At a junction by the pier he turned away from the sea and headed into the shopping precinct, marked by a line of palm trees towering above shopfronts, coffee bars and pubs.
    ‘The main street,’ said Jarrett. ‘The council’s tarting it up with tiled pavements and outdoor cafes, but we still get the hoons at night.’
    As the traffic slowed, Rita watched a lazy stream of pedestrians moving around food stalls and beer umbrellas. The universal dress code seemed to be T-shirts, shorts and sandals, with women in straw hats and boys in baseball caps. The avenue of palms ended where the street sloped up a hill through petrol stations, supermarkets and a clutch of backpacker hostels. The police station stood at a crossroads bordering the residential area. From there lines of houses stretched into the distance where steep wooded gullies and the peaks of the rainforest hemmed in the outlying neighbourhoods.
    ‘Here we are,’ said Jarrett, pulling over.
    The original part of the building was a two-storey structure made of local stone.
    ‘The watch-house,’ said Jarrett with a smile as they got out.
    ‘Nineteenth century. Probably haunted.’
    ‘Too bad I’m just a profiler,’ said Rita. ‘And not an exorcist.’
    The modern offices and cells were housed in a brick addition.
    Jarrett took her through the main entrance, past rooms crowded with desks and filing cabinets, introducing her to