Praise for Charlotte Pass

  ‘Guaranteed to keep the light burning, the wine glass full and the pages turning as the gripping suspense ensures the final page must be reached before the lights are turned out.’—Blue Wolf Reviews

  ‘Not afraid to tug at your heartstrings in one paragraph and have you gasping in shock in the next, this is a confident and assured book that will keep you guess until you reach its nail-biting conclusion.’—Manning Community News

  ‘A fast-paced downhill ride to a most satisfactory conclusion.’ —Australian Country

  ‘Charlotte Pass is a book that ricochets with suspense, mystery, tension and hidden truths, and commanded my full attention from the first chapter through to final paragraph.’—Mrs B’s Book Reviews

  Praise for Crackenback

  ‘A gripping read set across the beautiful Crackenback Range … the reader can’t escape being carried along on the nail-biting journey.’—Australian Country

  ‘A tense chiller that still finds time for a spot of romance.’ —The Courier-Mail

  ‘This fine novel ticks all the boxes for top-rate crime fiction … five stars. Simply excellent crime fiction by a highly skilled and knowledgeable writer.’—The Weekly Times

  ‘Fast-paced and full of characters who are set to become favourites … Lee Christine is certainly making her mark on crime fiction!’—Blue Wolf Reviews

  ‘For those readers who enjoy the intricacies of solving a crime, Crackenback is a puzzle worth solving.’—Queensland Reviewer’s Collective

  Praise for Dead Horse Gap

  ‘The book gallops on almost without drawing breath. Loads of twists and turns. Danger is everywhere, offering a complex and thrilling story … Who knew the Snowy Mountains was such a hot-bed of crime and drama? What a great story!’—Australian Romance Readers

  ‘Another absolutely page-turning “who done it” that comes together in an explosive finale that sees a family shattered, a life threatened and the basis for the next story laid.’—Blue Wolf Reviews

  ‘A compelling addition to the series … Lee Christine transports her readers into the snow, sleet and below-zero temperatures. You may want to read this book snuggled up with a heater nearby.’ —The Burgeoning Bookshelf

  ‘With a satisfying blend of suspense, action and romance, Dead Horse Gap is an entertaining read.’—Book’d Out

  ‘Lee Christine writes with a facility born of familiarity and affection for place and for her characters … Dead Horse Gap is an intriguing read that kept me burning the night oil …’—Living Arts Canberra

  About the author

  Lee Christine is the author of nine previous novels. The most recent three are her bestselling Snowy Mountains mystery series, Charlotte Pass, Crackenback (both finalists for the coveted RWA Ruby Award) and Dead Horse Gap. Lee’s most recent crime novel, Glenrock, is set in the legal and police worlds of the New South Wales coast.

  A former corporate trainer, Lee has two grown children and lives in Newcastle with her husband, Damian, and Honey, her soft-coated Irish wheaten terrier.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First published in 2024

  Copyright © Lee Christine, 2024

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  Cammeraygal Country

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Allen & Unwin acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the Country on which we live and work. We pay our respects to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Elders, past and present.

  ISBN 978 1 76147 056 1

  eISBN 978 1 76118 833 6

  Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  Cover design by Nada Backovic

  Cover photos by Getty Images/Liliya Krueger (model); ‘Stormy Darkness’/David Diehm Photography (background)

  For Danielle and Adam

  CONTENTS

  COVER PAGE

  PRAISE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Prologue

  Of all the decisions Justice Maurice Tempest had made during his years as a Supreme Court judge, none compared to the sheer enormity of the decision looming before him today.

  With sleep an elusive luxury, he watched the bedside clock glow 4.29 a.m., pressed stop before the alarm could wake his wife, and slipped out of bed. He dressed in exercise gear, left his home on Newcastle’s historic hill, and made for the Bathers Way walk.

  An icy onshore wind cut through his jacket and pants, and the trees and shrubs had been washed clean by the heavy overnight rainfall. But the freshness of a new day brought none of its usual anticipation, only a bleak trepidation. If events played out as he imagined, this time tomorrow his step might be a little brisker, the burden of responsibility a little lighter.

  At the crest of the hill, he stepped onto the Anzac footbridge. Built above the clifftops, the bridge was a memorial to World War I soldiers. On this freezing mid-winter morning, the Tasman Sea to his left was shrouded in darkness, a contrast to the glittering city lights on his right. He shivered, inhaling the sea air. His grandfather wouldn’t recognise the place if he were alive today—the industrial smokestacks that belched pollution into the atmosphere had been gone for over two decades. The main street now boasted a trendy light rail, while new apartment buildings sat cheek by jowl along the deepwater harbour’s southern shore.

  The suspension footbridge bounced beneath his feet and a lightning flash on the horizon signalled a storm out to sea. Sometimes the judge would stop by the steel silhouettes of the soldiers and watch the sun rise over the ocean.

  But not today.

  Not judgement day.

  He glanced at his watch and quickened his pace, ruing the three whiskey nightcaps he’d downed before bed. The alcohol had failed to quieten his racing mind and robbed him of sleep, but at least he was feeling better now he was up and moving. He was on time to reach Glenrock where Tommy would be waiting.

  At the end of the bridge, he descended the stairs, triggering the sensor lights. Two rows of LEDs lined the pathway downhill. He followed the curve of coastline past three surf pavilions until, twenty minutes after leaving home, the Merewether headland loomed in front of him, jutting into the ocean. Few lights glowed from inside the luxury homes built on the escarpment, but as he neared the baths he could see the kick splash from a line of swimmers executing a slow crawl from one end of the giant ocean pool to the other. The devoted ‘mackerels’ swam year-round in the same baths where the judge had learned to swim as a six-year-old.

  Leaving the baths behind, he switched on his headlamp and stepped off the concrete and onto the wet compacted sand. There was no high tide this morning.

  By the light of his headlamp, he weaved his way around the rocky headland until he reached Burwood Beach on the other side. On his left, several lights winked—bulk carriers waiting to be brought into the harbour. On his right, the heavily wooded Glenrock State Conservation Area lay shrouded in darkness.

  Awabakal country.

  Forty-five minutes after leaving home, he came to the still waters of Glenrock Lagoon. Swollen with runoff, it was ready to surge into the ocean at any moment. The judge hurried along the strip of sand separating the ocean from the lagoon, then slowed as he approached the grassy knoll on the other side. Halfway up the slope, he came upon the track, loose stones shifting under his tired feet.

  Reluctant for the workday to begin, he paused beside a copse of trees to catch his breath. The lagoon lay shrouded in fog, the park silent save for a rustle in the undergrowth and the distant sound of waves breaking on the shoreline.

  For long moments the judge stood still, inhaling air dense with moisture before deciding nothing could soothe his troubled mind—not
the damp remoteness of this place nor the relief he would feel once the day was at an end.

  He swung around and in the glow of his headlamp caught sight of a moving shadow on the track ahead. From the brief glimpse, he couldn’t tell if the figure was approaching or ahead of him on the track. Most likely an early-morning surfer heading to the beach for a surf at sunrise.

  The judge walked on, careful to aim the headlamp at the ground in front of him. It wouldn’t do to twist an ankle on an unseen rock now or stumble into one of the many potholes caused by months of rainfall.

  A bird flew out of the trees, crossing his path moments before a dark figure—a man, given his height and build—materialised in front of him. No wetsuit hugged this man’s form, though, only loose, dark clothing and a hood that covered most of his face.

  And where the judge had imagined him carrying a surfboard, this man carried a firearm.

  Processing everything in one terrifying second, the judge took a step back. ‘No!’

  It would be the last word to pass his lips, the glint of steel pointed at his chest one of the final images he would see. He raised an imploring hand, registering the blood splatter on his watch face as the bullet tore apart his chest.

  On this—judgement day.

  1

  Detective Senior Sergeant Callan O’Connor was at the rear of the group of cyclists as they entered the disused railway tunnel. The brick-lined structure formed part of the Fernleigh Track, and it gave the cyclists a brief reprieve from the rain. The early morning ride had been cold, damp and miserable, the only upside fewer people on the track. If O’Connor hadn’t made a vow to lose the six extra kilos he was carrying, he’d still be in bed. Instead, he was decked out in fluoro Lycra, reconciled that cycling was the only exercise that worked for him, and looking forward to having breakfast with Miles later in the morning.

  It was 5.45 a.m. and still dark when O’Connor pulled into the security carpark of his apartment building. As the gate rumbled to a close behind him, he nosed his SUV in beside the unmarked police car he used for work. The Lycra suit had dried quickly, and the heated seat had kept him warm on the drive home, but as he climbed from the car the frigid basement air sent a shiver through his rapidly cooling body.

  After stowing his bike in the storage area, he stepped inside the lift, waved his security pass then pressed the button for the second floor. Inside the apartment, he paused in the doorway of Miles’ bedroom, listening for the reassuring sound of his son’s steady breathing before heading down the hallway to the shower.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was making a sandwich for Miles’ lunch when his phone buzzed. It was his partner, Detective Sergeant Leo Castelli.

  ‘Hey, what’s up?’ O’Connor said on a sigh. Whatever it was, it didn’t bode well for Monday morning.

  ‘There’s been a violent attack at Glenrock,’ Castelli said, the subtle tones of his faint Italian accent more noticeable over the phone.

  O’Connor frowned. The Glenrock State Conservation Area had its fair share of mountain bike accidents, and hikers sometimes slipped around Flaggy Creek and the cascades, especially after wet weather. Occasionally, someone would get into trouble at the long stretch of unpatrolled beach, and last year a rowdy group had broken Covid restrictions and had a party. But a serious assault—at this time of the morning?

  ‘Who’s at the scene?’ he asked, putting Castelli on speaker while he tore off a piece of cling wrap.

  ‘Two highway patrol officers who were close by. The victim is high profile.’

  O’Connor stilled. ‘Do we know who it is?’

  ‘They wouldn’t say.’

  ‘Really? They didn’t want to risk word getting out.’ O’Connor wrapped up the sandwich. ‘Okay, whereabouts in the park?’ he asked, putting the sandwich in Miles’ lunch box and picturing Glenrock in his mind. There were numerous entrances to the five hundred and thirty-four hectares that made up the State Conservation Area.

  ‘Midway between the scout camp and the beach.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.’

  The moment Castelli disconnected, O’Connor called his father-in-law. ‘Come on, Greg, pick up,’ he muttered, taking two pieces of fruit from the bowl on the kitchen bench and adding them to the lunchbox.

  ‘Hello, Cal?’

  O’Connor breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Sorry to wake you up. I’ve had an early call-out.’

  ‘No problem. Do you need me to take Miles to school?’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble. He can walk if you have something on.’ O’Connor slid the lunchbox into Miles’ backpack. ‘He has a few extra things to take in for a project today, that’s all.’

  ‘I have nothing on. I’ll come in and get him.’

  ‘Thanks, Greg, and don’t worry about picking him up after school—one of the other parents will drop him home.’

  ‘All right, but call if you get stuck.’

  ‘You know I will.’ O’Connor thanked him again before hurrying into Miles’ room. ‘Hey, buddy,’ he said, placing a hand on Miles’ back and gently rousing him.

  Miles rolled over and peered at him through half-open eyes. ‘What time is it?’ he asked, rubbing an eye with his fist.

  ‘It’s just after six. I’ve had a call-out, to the beach past Merewether. I won’t be far away.’

  ‘Okay,’ Miles said, reaching up and giving O’Connor a hug. ‘I’ll walk to school if you’re not back in time.’

  ‘I’ve called Grandad. He’s going to drive you because your project is due in today.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right.’ Miles sank back on his pillow. ‘I forgot about that stupid thing.’

  O’Connor smiled. ‘I know you’re a grown-up twelve-year-old, but it’ll be easier going in the car. Your lunch is already in your bag.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  O’Connor ruffled his son’s thick brown hair before straightening up, the soreness in his calf muscles making him wince. ‘Set your alarm, buddy. You can go back to sleep for another hour and a half.’

  At 6.15 a.m. there were few cars on the road, and with the police lights flashing, it only took O’Connor ten minutes to reach the Glenrock State Conservation Area.

  At Dudley, he turned left off Burwood Road into Scout Camp Road and entered the rainforest, the mid-winter darkness made blacker by the lack of street lighting and the towering canopy. Approximately one kilometre of sealed road meandered down a steep hill towards the coast, bringing him closer to the camp with every twist and turn. When he reached the end of the road, he took note of four vehicles parked to the left: a police patrol car, Castelli’s unmarked vehicle, an ambulance and a well-maintained ten-year-old Lexus sedan.

  No media. That had to be a first.

  O’Connor took a torch from the boot and slipped around a sturdy metal gate that spanned the width of the road. A short distance on, he came upon a cluster of buildings nestled into the base of the hill. Bypassing the caretaker’s cottage, he continued downhill until he reached a long row of bunk-style accommodation where Castelli emerged from the shadows.

  Castelli had a swarthy complexion, a chunky build and short-cropped salt and pepper hair with a receding hairline. At fifty-four, he was twelve years older than O’Connor but lower in rank.

  ‘Down here,’ Castelli said, leading the way to a path that cut between the accommodation building and what looked like a hall.

  ‘I think I’ve only been here once before,’ said Castelli.

  O’Connor nodded. ‘The scouts do their leadership training here.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Been here long?’ asked O’Connor.

  ‘Just got here. Someone has turned the lights on around the front, where the buildings overlook the lagoon.’

  At the end of the path, they rounded the corner of the accommodation building. A uniformed officer broke away from a small group of people gathered underneath the verandah. ‘Constable Zara Thornton,’ she said, ‘I was first on the scene with my partner.’

  O’Connor and Castelli introduced themselves, then O’Connor asked, ‘Which way do we go?’

  Thornton turned east towards the ocean. ‘There’s a track that runs alongside the lagoon. The victim’s on the grass, a little way up the slope. It’s not far.’

  ‘I know it.’ O’Connor glanced at the onlookers. A man and woman in exercise gear, an elderly man sitting in an upright chair that someone must have fetched for him, and a woman wearing a dressing-gown over winter pyjamas. ‘Thornton, do you have these people’s details?’