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From the author of the best seller - Eye of the Kea
Author
Biography Tom
was born in Invercargill, New Zealand and he and his wife Marie now live in
Upper Hutt thirty‑five kilometres north of Wellington. Tom began his
writing career in 1954 by completing a short story writing course by
correspondence with the Regent Institute in London. A career in a Government
department however interrupted his writing ambitions and about a year before he
retired in 1997 he purchased a computer and began writing his first novel. Tom
is a past Books Editor for the New Zealand Writers Website (www.nzwriters.co.nz
) and has been a book reviewer for the past five years. His reviews have
been well received by publishers in New Zealand, United Kingdom and Australia. His
first novel, Eye of the Kea was first published electronically by Zeus
Publications Australia in 2000 and subsequently released in paperback by Horizon
Press Wellington in May 2002. For a first time and unknown writer the book sold
well and eighteen months later is still selling well. In August 2002 it reached
number seven on the New Zealand Booksellers top ten list. Tom
has had a lifelong interest in books and has read books on many subjects and his
favourites are crime fiction, humour, travel, war stories, sports and westerns. PROLOGUE
oe Rowantree cursed the unseasonally hot spring weather as he sat in his office chair, perspiration dripping down his back. He vowed to get the Omega Budget Advisory Agency’s airconditioner repaired as soon as possible. He finished typing his weekly report on his laptop computer for his superior, then decided to take advantage of his secretary’s absence at lunch to finish reading his mail and make some personal phone calls. Rowantree, a tall man of military bearing, a legacy of his time as a police officer and experiences in the army, stood up and walked over to the single open window in his office. It was an exercise in futility, as there was no breeze to speak of and he felt even more hot and uncomfortable. Picking up the telephone he dialled the number of the repair company and instructed them to carry out repairs on the airconditioner immediately. He was informed there would be a three-day delay which would probably mean the spell of hot weather would be sure to end about then. Slamming the phone down Joe slumped dejectedly in his chair and lit a cigarette, also a legacy of his army days. Hearing the outer office door close he presumed it was his secretary returning, late as usual, from her lunch break. He expected to see her blonde head peep round the door, making her usual inadequate apologies, so he was surprised to see a cheerful male face topped by a short, well-groomed head of straw-coloured hair. Giving Joe a friendly smile the stranger spoke. ‘Are you Mr Joe Rowantree?’ ‘I am. What can I do for you?’ ‘I have a message for you,’ replied the stranger, stepping into the office. He was a shade over six feet tall with broad shoulders and was dressed in a black leather jacket and grey slacks, but it wasn’t the man’s appearance that threw Joe’s concentration off. It was the automatic pistol with a bulbous silencer attached that got his full attention, as well as the fact that it was pointed at his head. Joe opened his mouth to speak but before he could utter a sound the man
smiled bleakly and whispered, ‘Goodbye, Joe,’ and squeezed the trigger. The
muted detonation forced the nine-millimetre bullet from the gun muzzle and,
allowing for the silencer attached, at approximately 1160 foot pounds per second
it penetrated Joe’s left eye. Passing through the soft tissue of his brain it
exited in a spray of blood, bone and grey matter, and stained the back of the
grey leather executive chair, as well as the expensive patterned wallpaper
behind him. *
* * Stevo Walkinshaw manoeuvred the shopping trolleys into position and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. An acquaintance had just dropped in to tell him of a break-in at his flat. Stevo glanced around to make sure his supervisor was nowhere in sight and seeing no one, slipped out of the supermarket, ran through the carpark, and headed off down the street to his flat. There were no signs of the police when he arrived and a quick inspection showed him that the flat had not suffered any structural damage during a brief but intense fire. Stevo immediately decided that a move to safer pastures would be in his best interests. Unfortunately he had no means of transport, no ready cash, and having lived all his miserable life in and around the city environs, he wondered where he could go and where would he be able to get some money. His job as a cleaner and shopping trolley attendant at the supermarket paid very little and pay day was still three days away. That night, nestling down among cardboard boxes, and wrapping a threadbare scarf around his scrawny neck, he tried to keep warm under the road bridge over the river. He had managed to steal a small chocolate bar from the supermarket and sat chewing slowly, trying to make it last. After a while he dozed off and awoke several hours later. There was no one around under the bridge and with the lack of traffic noise he estimated the time to be somewhere around three am. Deciding that he would get no more sleep he scrambled to his feet, brushed himself off, and emerged from the shelter of the bridge. Although summer was just around the corner he still felt the chill and to top off his misery, it began to rain. Hunching his shoulders he made his way up the bank to the footpath which would lead to the inner city. For several hours he wandered aimlessly through the deserted streets, avoiding passing police patrols, and as the dawn broke he groaned aloud to himself. He was very hungry and was becoming desperate when down the street he saw a light and heard the sound of voices. The City Mission was open for business. He hurried his steps towards the doorway which held the promise of a bowl of hot soup and some hot buttered toast that would alleviate his hunger pangs and would cost him nothing. Arriving at the doorway he peered in to see several men similarly dressed and he entered, joining the small queue at the counter. As he neared the servery, a heavy hand descended on his shoulder. With a cry of alarm, Stevo spun round to come face to face with two men, both unshaven and wearing old, worn leather bomber jackets. ‘Hiya, Stevo. We was wondering where you’d got to. Tom and me would like a word. Outside.’ Stevo gulped nervously. ‘Hiya, Dinger, fancy meetin’ you here.’ With a firm grip of Stevo’s collar, Dinger marched him outside, along the street and into a narrow alley. The two men gripped Stevo by the shoulders and held him firmly against the faded, chipped brick wall. ‘Where did you put that information you so kindly passed on to the filth?’ snarled Tom. ‘I dunno what you’re talking about,’ whined Stevo. ‘Yes you do, you little creep. That stuff about the shipment due out from Rangoon. We know you passed it on to Joe Rowantree, an ex-copper who works for the Special Investigations Bureau.’ ‘I never told anyone …’ ‘You lying little bastard!’ ‘I’m not lying,’ protested Stevo in terror. ‘All right, where are the papers with all the info?’ ‘There were no papers. I’m not stupid enough to write anything down,’ Stevo moaned as his arm was forced up behind his back. He screamed as further pressure was applied. ‘You mean there’s no paper, and that Tom and I wasted our time at your flat?’ ‘That’s about the size of it,’ replied Stevo. For his flippancy he received a gloved fist in his solar plexus. Groaning in pain Stevo slumped to the ground. Curling into a ball, Stevo tried to deflect the many punches and kicks which then rained upon him. After the first few he felt nothing, then when he thought his attackers had gone, he felt himself picked up and thrown against the wall. ‘Did you think we’d let it go at just a beating?’ Stevo heard the
voice from what seemed to be a long way off. He opened his ruined mouth but no
words would come. He felt a hot burning sensation in his ribcage and a warm
feeling spread through his body washing away the pain. Then nothing. *
* * Julie Hogan had made the most of the midday sun, and ensured she had the full hour of her lunch break. The warm late spring conditions were something that came along only too rarely and Julie found herself entertaining thoughts of perhaps a long hot summer. After making some purchases from a bargain stall in the Victoria Quarter, she indulged herself in some window-shopping. Time passed quickly, and as she strolled back to her office, she discovered that she was almost ten minutes late. Hurrying as fast as she could, she entered the Park Row building and made for the lift. As she reached for the control buttons, the doors opened and a tall young man wearing a zipped-up black leather jacket and grey slacks emerged. With only a brief glance at the young man Julie pressed the button for the sixth floor and waited anxiously. Expecting her boss to be ready to chide her for her lateness, she dropped her shopping bag and handbag beside her desk and prepared to render an apology for her over-long lunch break. With a short rap on the office door, she pushed the door open and stepped in. Her employer was seated in his chair, his right eye focused on eternity, and his left eye a sightless mass of dark blood. The macabre sight of a halo of blood and grey matter on the wall behind his chair was enough to make Julie Hogan gasp in horror, cry out, and collapse to the floor in a dead faint.
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