Bright City Cold Blood

By Graham Storrs

Luke Kelly was out of the game. His days of hunting murderers as a private detective were over. He’d had one too many brushes with death and put too many of the people he loved in harm’s way. Besides, his new wife was carrying their first child and nothing would tempt him back into that dangerous life. Yet, when Ronnie Walker breaks the news that a one-time friend has been murdered and the cops have given up on the case, he finds himself drawn back, one small step at a time, into the murky depths of Brisbane’s criminal underworld.
Reluctantly dusting off his PI licence, Luke is soon out in the field again, tracking down his friend’s murderer with Ronnie at his side, struggling to understand why he’s doing it. But the path to justice is through a clueless dessert and finding a way to the truth of what happened seems hopeless.
Bright City Cold Blood is the fifth novel in the Luke Kelly crime series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Storrs
• Release date: Jun 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9780645363272

Graham Storrs

Graham Storrs is a science fiction writer who lives miles from anywhere in rural Australia with his wife, an Airedale terrier and a Tonkinese cat. He has published many short stories in magazines and anthologies as well as three children's science books and a large number of academic and technical pieces in the fields of psychology, artificial intelligence and human-computer interaction. He has published a number of sci-fi novels, three in the "Timesplash" series - time travel thrillers set in the near future and various other times - an augmented reality thriller, "Heaven is a Place on Earth", a sci-fi comedy novel, "Cargo Cult", and two books in the Rik Sylver sci-fi thriller series; "The Credulity Nexus" and "The Sentience Machine".

Book preview

Chapter One

I stopped in mid-kata and stared at the door. I blinked. The kid behind me bumped into my back. Kevin, the instructor, turned to see what I was staring at, which made the whole class falter, stop and stare too.

Ronnie? I asked, as if there was any doubt who had just walked in and was striding towards me across the mat.

Excuse me, said Kevin, asserting his authority. Can I help you?

Yeah, mate, you can fuck off, said the apparition, leaving not a shred of doubt that it really was Ronnie. My old friend crossed the room to stand in front of me. We need to talk, he said.

He’s still got his shoes on, one of the boys said. It was one of Kevin’s strictest rules. Everyone bows to the dojo when they come in and nobody steps on the mat with their shoes on.

Hey, you can’t just walk in here, said Kevin. I’m running a class. Luke, do you know this bloke?

I snapped out of it. Yeah. Yeah, I do. Look, sorry, I’ll just… I put a hand on Ronnie’s shoulder and tried to steer him away from the dozen-or-so kids and their angry karate instructor, towards the changing area. I wanted to get my shoes so I could take him out onto the street. Ronnie didn’t budge. I tried harder to move him but he might as well have been nailed to the floor. When he slowly moved his gaze to my hand, I got the message and pulled it away fast.

Everyone, take five, Kevin said. I need to talk to this gentleman.

The boys all shuffled away, reluctant to go too far, I supposed, in case there was going to be some kind of impromptu martial arts display.

"It’s all right, Sensei, I said. Kevin liked the proper titles. This won’t take long, I’m sure. I glared at Ronnie. Will it?"

Ronnie turned and looked Kevin up and down. Kevin was not a huge bloke but at six feet, he had a few centimetres on Ronnie and was nearly as tall as me. He was hard and sinewy. When he went through the motions of a kata, he moved with speed and a rigidly contained violence. He was in his mid-forties, a cop from the Brisbane Police Service, who taught karate classes in his spare time, almost entirely to young boys – and to me. I’d always thought of him as tough-looking. And he was. Just, somehow, not quite so tough-looking when he was standing next to Ronnie. Not that Ronnie was particularly intimidating. He was an old man by any objective reckoning. I did the sums. Sixty-eight. And he seemed to have aged a lot in the two years since I’d last spoken to him. He came across as scruffy and world-weary and not the kind of bloke a vigorous black-belt karate instructor need worry about. Yet I knew things about Ronnie that Kevin did not. Things that made me wish my Sensei would back off and not be so belligerent. It made my breathing a little shallow to see the way Ronnie was calmly watching the younger, taller man.

Ronnie! I said, as firmly as I could. Don’t even think about it. Kevin is a cop and it wouldn’t do to hurt him in front of all these witnesses.

Ronnie looked at me and grinned. Kevin?

Come on, I said. You want to talk. Let’s get out of here and talk. Kevin was looking sideways at me with a puzzled frown and his mouth open. I’m sorry, I told him. I need to duck out for a while.

I led Ronnie away and this time he let me. The class watched us as I changed as quickly as I could and stuffed my karate-gi in my bag. Kevin tried to move past it and get the lesson back on track.

What? I asked as soon as we were out on the street. We were in the hilly suburb of Paddington, one of my favourite Brisbane coffee spots. No, wait, let’s go find a caff. Then we can talk.

He looked around at the gift shops and the boutiques, the gyms and the antique shops, a sour look on his face. I suppressed a sigh.

This place gives me the shits, he said. Let’s go find a pub. The Everton Park Hotel. That’s not far. I’m parked down there. Where are you?

Just over there.

OK, then. I’ll meet you in the bar.

* * * *

The hotel was modern and airy with a big, blue illuminated sign over the main entrance. It was pleasant and functional and, at eleven in the morning, almost empty. There was kiddies’ play equipment outside and they described themselves on the big menu as family friendly. I walked through to the bar and found Ronnie already seated, watching a wall of TV screens that would no doubt be the entire focus of the room in the footy season, or the cricket season, or, let’s face it, Canadian lacrosse season if that’s what the networks were serving up.

A sports bar? I asked when I was near enough.

Don’t be a prick. It’s your shout. Go get ’em in.

I didn’t bother to argue but went to the bar and fetched a couple of beers. Ronnie took a sip of his and grimaced. The fuck is this?

Whatever they had on tap. Do you want me to get you something else?

He set it down, still scowling at it. Nah, she’ll be right.

Anyone in the pub, noticing the way Ronnie and I carried on together, might think I was out with my miserable old bastard grandfather. They probably couldn’t imagine any other reason except family obligation that might explain why I put up with his relentlessly obnoxious behaviour. But Ronnie and I had been through a lot together. We had literally saved each other’s lives. There was a lot more to Ronnie than the ancient, shambolic grouch persona he presented to the world and, I hope, more to me than the mild and oppressed young caretaker I might seem to be.

So, what’s up? I asked, taking a seat.

Can’t I just want to catch up with my old mate?

I looked at him coldly. You’ve had two years to catch up with your old mate. As I recall, you’ve only made the effort three times; twice in the first couple of months after our last case and then again six months later, when Megan practically begged you to come to dinner that time.

I don’t really do dinners and stuff.

Yeah, I noticed. So, not a visit and not a word, not even a phone call for over two years and then suddenly you’re in my karate class, demanding to talk to me.

The fuck are you doing in a karate class? Jeez, mate, there wasn’t another student in there over the age of twelve.

It’s a beginner’s class. It keeps me fit. Also…

He grinned at me. You thought you should learn to look after yourself.

Something like that. It can’t hurt, can it? Feeling that old defensiveness, I grinned back at him. The miserable old curmudgeon always knew just which buttons to press. So, what’s it all about.

He took another swallow of his beer and gave it a small shrug.

Harper called me.

What? Why?

Harper Donmore was an ex-employee of mine, from when I used to run a private investigation business called The Featherfoot Agency. It wasn’t much of a business. I ran it, Harper and Noah were my two detectives. I had an office manager and a receptionist, a handful of part-time contractors who worked as needed, and Ronnie, my consultant, mentor and guide to the underbelly of Brisbane. To be honest, it had been more of a hobby than a real career. After Chelsea, my first real love, died, stabbed to death in an alley, I think I went a bit nuts. I got caught up in Ronnie’s obsessive crusade to put murderers behind bars. I disappeared down that rabbit-hole for about four years, solved four murders, and nearly died more times than I can count. Our last case was so crazy, so many people died, or nearly died – including me and Ronnie – that I gave it all away. Almost literally. I let Harper run the business and take all the profits. I’d had enough of the whole thing. Besides, I felt I owed her something after I let her fiancé, Noah, get kidnapped and killed.

Harper and I had not spoken since the day I gave her the business. We communicated through lawyers and accountants. She blamed me for Noah’s death and I could understand why she would. I’d been stupid and had made mistakes. As a PI, I was no Sherlock Holmes. Hunting murderers was not a game for naive amateurs like me. It was not a game at all, I discovered. I was better off out of it. It was better for everybody if I stayed out of it.

What did she want? I asked.

Ronnie was watching me carefully. When he spoke, his tone was soft and even.

Somebody brought her a murder case.

I tried to stay composed but I felt my stomach clench.

She should take it straight to the cops. She shouldn’t touch it with a bargepole.

That’s exactly how Harper feels.

So?

So, she called me.

I thought you were done with all that crap. I thought we both were.

Yeah, me too.

So?

Ronnie took a sip of his beer and sat back in his seat.

Don’t you want to know who died?

I shook my head, the knot in my stomach growing tighter.

It was Dicko, he said.

I looked away. Shit! Dicko was just a kid. A dumb little hustler with delusions of adequacy who thought he was a player. He’d helped me out several times when I ran the Featherfoot Agency, watching people, getting me information, sometimes just being a driver. He’d been keen to be involved. He thought what Ronnie and I did was exciting and glamorous. And he always needed the money. But that last case had really scared the shit out of him. He’d nearly died and had gone on the run, fearing for his life. I’d thought maybe that would have been enough, that he’d find himself a proper job and forget trying to make some kind of precarious living, sniffing around on the fringes of Brisbane’s human garbage for scraps of information he could sell.

Still looking away across the almost-empty bar, I said, I haven’t even spoken to Dicko since Roberta Collins’ inquest. That was also more than two years ago. Why should I feel any responsibility for the little idiot after all that time? You didn’t even like him. Never said one good thing about him.

Yeah. Weaselly little runt was bound to get himself in serious trouble one day. I suppose he had it coming.

I didn’t say that. But it was close to what I was thinking. The problem was, I felt guilty about Dicko. If it hadn’t been for his getting involved with me and my stupid foray into the private detective business, Dicko’s life might have gone in some other, more savoury direction. But what did I really owe to some guy I barely knew, who would always have been in trouble, whatever I’d done? Especially now he was dead. What did any of us owe to the dead? I needed to be thinking about my duty to Megan. Especially now. She too had been a victim of my mad venture into hunting down killers. She’d probably suffered more than anyone.

I remembered her face, pale and drawn as she gave testimony at the inquest, reliving the terror and horror of running into that house to save me, of shooting a psychopathic murderer with bodies and blood on the floor at her feet and me and Ronnie in chains. Sweet, kind, funny, gentle, clever, sensitive Megan, dragged – by me! – into that world of cruelty and barbarism.

I stood up.

They found his body in a dam last September. He’d been there for a year already by then.

I don’t want to hear it, I said. It’s nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with you, either. Call Bertolissio. Leave it to the cops.

I turned and walked away. Ronnie called after me.

The cops have given up. That’s why Dicko’s mother went to Harper.

I kept walking, out into the car park, climbed into my car, started the engine and drove away.

* * * *

I drove to the Mount Coot'Tha Botanical Gardens and parked. The white dome of the Planetarium was in front of me and I stared at it for a long while before climbing out of the car and striding off towards the entrance to the gardens. I was too agitated to sit still and, it quickly turned out, too agitated to look at plants, either. I did a detour to the café and sat at an outdoor table with a large cappuccino. Ahead of me was the succulent garden, to my left was a small lake. It was one of my favourite places but it wasn’t helping. A couple of bin chickens watched me from a railing nearby, trying to decide whether I was worth hassling for food. A large water dragon waddled slowly past, weaving between the tables and chairs. I was the only human being in sight.

I pulled out my phone and thumbed through my contacts. Even after three years, I still had Dicko’s numbers and his address. It had never been his address, really. When I’d known him, he lived with his mother. So, I supposed the address was Dicko’s mother’s address and the number… Well, the mobile number had become redundant two years ago, when Dicko’s mother’s son had been murdered. I thought about deleting it but, instead, called the landline number.

Hello?

I felt a slight panic when the woman came on the phone. I hadn’t thought this through. I didn’t know what to say.

Hello, Mrs. Gutterson?

Yes?

Hi, my name’s Luke Kelly, I’m – I was a – a friend—

Luke Kelly! The detective! I didn’t think you was going to call. I’d given up hope.

I thought about hanging up right there. The desperation in the woman’s voice was almost too much to bear.

I just heard about Dicko, I said. I just wanted to offer my condolences.

Are you coming ’round? she asked and my heart sank. You know the addy, yeah? ’Course you do. When will you get here? Do I have time to tidy up a bit?

Saying no was impossible. Her tone was practically begging me.

I’m at Mount Coot’Tha. It’ll take me at least half an hour. Is that OK?

Yeah, no worries. Thank you.

She hung up.

I glared at the sky above me as if it had been the one to set up the meeting. I shouted, You stupid bloody dropkick, at my reflection in the phone. The two sacred ibises flapped away to watch me from a safer distance. I left my unfinished coffee and stomped back to the car.

It took me well over thirty minutes to reach the outer-city suburb of Chermside and find the little fibro house that Mrs. Gutterson lived in. There was a car parked on the patch of scrubby grass in front of the building. I noticed it had a standard Uber sticker in the bottom left of the rear windscreen. It was June, the beginning of winter, but the day was quite warm. Dicko’s mum emerged from her front door and greeted me before I was halfway from my car to the porch.

Mr. Kelly, she said, rushing up to me. "I mean, Doctor Kelly. That’s right, isn’t it? It’s so good you came. Dicko always said you was a good mate."

I winced at the idea that Dicko would say something like that. I’d barely thought about him at all since I gave up the private investigation business. I’d consigned the little guy to the past and moved in new directions without him.

Just call me Luke, I said.

Celia, she said. Come on inside. I’ll get you a drink.

She hurried back to the house and I followed. Celia Gutterson was a small, skinny woman with a narrow, pinched face and thin fair hair. I could see exactly where Dicko had got his looks from. She must have been in her late forties and wore a short denim skirt, a tight top and woolly slippers.

You’ll have to excuse the mess, she said as I walked out of the bright sunshine into the dim interior. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t any mess. Everything was clean and tidy. Come in. Come in.

I followed her from the narrow hallway into a small front room. There was a well-worn sofa and one armchair arranged to face a large TV. Another woman was already sitting on the sofa. Physically, she was Celia’s exact opposite, large and voluptuous, with black dreadlocks and long, loose clothes. She smiled up at me and said, Hello again.

Right! I said, suddenly making the connection with the Uber outside. Dicko’s Aunt Somethingorother. She was the one who had introduced me to her nephew when I needed a driver all those years ago. You’re, er…

Mimi. I knew you wouldn’t remember me.

I looked from her to Celia and back again. And you’re Celia’s sister?

They both laughed, probably hearing the uncertainty in my voice.

Wouldn’t reckon we was sisters, would you? Celia said. I mean, to look at us.

I, er… Not in a million years, I was thinking.

In-laws, Mimi said. Celia married my idiot brother.

Right. I ventured a weak smile. Look, about Dicko—

We’re so glad you came, Celia said, again. Them cops is as much use as tits on a bull. Right, Mimi?

Yeah. That tosser Bronski came round last week. Told us they’ve ‘explored every avenue’. Said they’d keep the case open but the trail’s gone cold and there’s nothing else they can do.

I never liked that bloke, Celia said.

Detective Inspector Ivan Bronski? I asked. I held a hand up at my shoulder height. About this tall? Always frowning? Bit on the heavy side? Dumb as a bag of hammers?

That’s the one, Celia said. You know him, then?

I’ve had the dubious pleasure of working with him in the past. So, he was the SIO on Dicko’s case?

The what, darl?

The senior investigating officer.

The bloke in charge?

Yeah. So how long did they work on it before they gave up?

Celia’s face crumpled and she sat down on the sofa next to Mimi, staring at the carpet. Her sister-in-law put a plump hand on Celia’s shoulder and rubbed it gently. To me, Mimi said, Sit down darl.

I did. Celia seemed out of it for the moment, so I asked Mimi to tell me everything that had happened.

After you left your agency, Dicko did a couple more jobs for them but it wasn’t the same. That woman who was running it was a bit of a b— Sorry, she’s probably a mate of yours. Anyway, she didn’t like Dicko and the work dried up. But you know Dicko. He always had lots of irons in the fire. He was doing all right. Getting by. Then, one day, he just disappeared. Just like that.

He’d done it before, hey? Celia said, taking up the story. We didn’t think anything of it for a week or two. He often had to clear off for a bit, lie low as he used to say. He was always in some kind of trouble. But then I got worried. So, I went to the cops and told them. They said not to worry, he’d turn up again one day. Didn’t believe me he wouldn’t just go away without telling me. We was close. He wouldn’t do that.

When was that? I asked.

Two years ago last September, Celia said. Her thin face looked drawn and I didn’t want to look into her hollow eyes.

They told us to piss off, Mimi said, anger in her voice. I went to the papers but they didn’t want to know. I went to Celia’s MP. Useless pillock. Young blokes go missing all the time, they all said. He’ll come back.

And then they found him, Celia said.

A silence fell like a heavy blanket over all three of us. I had to struggle against it to ask, When did they find him? If you could tell me everything the police found…

Celia was staring at the floor again and looked like she didn’t want to say any more.

It was last year, Mimi said. She rested a hand on one of Celia’s. September time. They found him some place called Rocky Creek. It’s like a big dam down south. Over the border. Near Lismore. I’d never heard of it until then. They had big floods. Do you remember?

I did. My new garden had almost died in the long drought but then the rains came and saved the day.

Ceel? Mimi said, gently. Why don’t you go and make us a cup of tea or something while I finish telling Luke the details. You don’t want to hear all that again, do you, love?

Celia nodded and stood up. She asked me what I’d like and I asked for something cold. She nodded again and drifted off.

She’s all right most of the time, Mimi said. But, with the cops and everything, it just keeps getting dragged up over and over. I don’t know how she stands it. She thought about it for a couple of seconds then went on.

Anyway. They wouldn’t let her see him. He’d been in the water all that time, they said. They took Ceel’s DNA for identification and held onto him for ages before they’d let her bury him. We should have invited you, I suppose. To the funeral. It’s just no-one thought of it. Oh God.

It’s all right, I said. No worries.

Yeah, still…

What did the police say killed him?

Someone cut his throat. Long blade. Probably from behind. She shook her head and her beaded dreads rattled. What a way to go. I – I can’t stop thinking about him… Her hand made a small movement as if she were about to clutch her own throat, perhaps to staunch the torrent of blood she was imagining.

It’s not a bad way to go, I said. You lose consciousness really quickly. He wouldn’t have suffered. I didn’t know if that was true but maybe it was. Mimi looked at me as if she believed it. I was Luke Kelly, the famous detective after all. I was an authority on death.

They don’t know much else, Mimi said, a hint of contempt in her voice. They think maybe he was killed elsewhere and then dumped in the dam but they don’t really know. Useless bunch of…

No other clues?

Nah. They talked to everyone who knew him, tried to find out where he’d been and what he was doing but they never got nowhere. Dicko could be, you know, secretive. Kept his cards close to his chest. His mate, Sammie, said there was a girl Dicko was chasing but that turned out to be a dead end. Anyway, what young fella Dicko’s age isn’t chasing some poor girl or other? She sighed.

And that was about it. It was all go, go, go, for a couple of months. Then it petered out and just, like, faded away. By the time Bronski turned up to tell Ceel they was giving up, we pretty much knew they wasn’t looking any more.

From the little she’d said, it was amazing they’d kept an active investigation going for as long as nine months. A young man, known to hang out with seedy types, turns up after a year in the water with his throat cut, no clues, no-one remembers anything useful? It was practically the definition of flogging a dead horse. A star performer like Detective Sergeant Alexandra Bertolissio would have struggled to make anything of a case like that. A plodding, unimaginative oaf like DI Bronski didn’t stand a chance.

I don’t see what I can do, I said, thinking out loud. Unfortunately, Celia Gutterson chose that moment to return with the drinks.

You can find who did this to my Dicko, she said.

I took a glass of fizzy orange stuff from her and she sat down.

The thing is, I’m not a detective any more, Celia. I gave away my company. I got married. We’re having a baby. Celia was the first person I’d told. I hadn’t even let my parents know yet. For some reason, the fact of Megan’s pregnancy was filling my thoughts.

Celia’s eyes opened wide as if I’d slapped her. And I’ve lost mine.

Mimi put her hand on Celia’s shoulder again and made soothing noises. Celia shook it off.

Congratulations, she said. I hope he grows up into a fine young fella that you love and cherish and he doesn’t end up being dragged out of a creek with his throat cut. She was crying but angry too. You’re my last hope. There’s no-one else. I can’t afford to hire private eyes. But I thought, no, Dicko had friends in the business. They’ll stand up for him. One of their own. They’ll get justice for my boy. But that bloody woman at the agency, she told me to fuck off, just like you did. You never were his friend, were you? You and her, you just used him.

I set my drink down, untouched, and stood up.

I think I should go. I just wanted to—

To what? Make yourself feel better? Tell me how your life is so good you can’t spoil it getting your hands dirty for a nobody like Dicko?

I got out of the little room and into the hallway.

I’m sorry, I said and bolted for the street.

Chapter Two

I felt awful, I said. I felt like a complete shit.

I was in the garden with Megan. I’d barely touched my dinner and Megan had suggested long, cold drinks in the gazebo. Mrs. Roberts was inside clearing up after the meal.

My life had changed a lot when Chelsea’s company floated on the stock exchange. As the majority shareholder after Chelsea’s death, I became the major recipient of the ridiculous amount of money the IPO raised. Megan and I were rich. Stupidly rich. Rich enough to buy a huge house on the Brisbane River. Rich enough to have a housekeeper, a cleaner and two gardeners, with another house by the beach and an Audi each in the garage. Rich enough that the house I’d bought when I was only moderately well-off, I had given to a charity to use as a women’s shelter and my accountant had called it a great tax write-off.

So why did you go round there? Megan asked.

I don’t know. It was stupid. I just felt like I had to do something. I mean, Dicko was a mate. Well, sort of. I knew him, anyway. I even kind of liked him. A bit. And he was so young…

So, you want to go off and track down his killer?

No! No, I’m finished with all that. Apart from all the many, very good reasons to stay well clear of all things homicidal for ever and ever, there’s The Bub to think of now.

Megan put a hand on her stomach. It was three months now and it was beginning to be obvious.

How’s the book coming along? she asked. The change of subject caught me off-guard.

Oh, you know. The fact was that, apart from some notes I’d made on a few trips to the State Library, I hadn’t written a word in about six months. It was originally going to be my magnum opus. I was going to astonish the philosophical world with my stunning insights into epistemology. But, having banged my head against that for a year, I’d decided maybe I should start with something less ambitious – like turning my PhD thesis into something more accessible for the general academic reader. After another year, I’d come to the conclusion that the dry and intensely technical nitpickery I’d spent so much time and effort writing to get my doctorate, was really likely to be of no interest whatsoever to anybody but a handful of sad old men in ivory towers around the world. Finally, I’d settled on doing a fun and exciting general introduction to epistemology for the lay reader. After endless months of staring at a blank screen, I had little more than a title: I Know You Know I Know. Of course, the title wasn’t set in stone. I also quite liked: Hey! What Do You Know?

And the karate? Megan asked.

What about it?

Well, you’ve been at it quite a while now. Got any belts yet?

What are you getting at?

Or the dew-catcher you were going to build.

I was beginning to see where this was going. I felt my defences going up. It takes a lot of research. I’m refining the design. Heat transfer in the collector surfaces is the main problem. I’m thinking about it.

She nodded, lips pursed. And the Web archive of philosophy jokes?

Well, that wasn’t really… Look, what is all this?

You’re drifting. She said it the way a mother might say, You’re chewing your nails again.

I’m… just… What?

Ever since you gave Harper the agency, you haven’t finished any of the projects you started or accomplished one single thing.

I didn’t want to go there. So, I tried a deflection. I think you’re forgetting The Bub.

The Bub, she said, firmly, is another work in progress. And probably will be for the next twenty-five years at least. You don’t get bragging rights on that until the jobs done. So, what else have you achieved?

"I – er – we got