Read an exclusive extract from Sarah Bailey's new crime thriller, Body of Lies.
SUNDAY, 18 SEPTEMBER, 7.37 PM
Bob Dalgliesh pummels his meaty hands on the steering wheel of his Nissan Patrol like it’s a drum kit and clips the dashboard with his index finger for good measure. ‘And meeee,’ he croons along to the Counting Crows, then adds in an exaggerated falsetto, ‘Lucky me!’ There are two hundred and four dollars in his wallet that weren’t there this morning—and he wasn’t even supposed to go to the pub this afternoon. Bloody lucky he did.
Bob exhales through a beery burp. He rounds the bend and levels the car out into the straight stretch of road that leads to the farmhouse. Stars freckle the milky sky, an almost full moon on dis-play. Cows congregate in small groups along the fence lines on either side of the road, their long faces eerie in the moonlight.
Queen comes on the radio, and Bob turns up the volume. His off-key singing is interrupted by text messages landing on his phone. Steadying the wheel, he peers at the screen. It’s not Janet, as he suspected, but one of his mates, McCorkle—something about a fight at the pub. He’s sent a video message attachment. Bob tosses the phone aside. He can’t bloody do two things at once, and he doesn’t want to tempt fate after his win.
Lights appear in his rear-view mirror. A station wagon approaches quickly, then overtakes him, rattling past like a bat out of hell. He sees the profile of a female driver, thick dark hair, a pale face.
‘Hold your horses, lady.’ Bob watches the car zoom ahead.
Moments later another set of lights appears in his rear-view mirror, belonging to some kind of four-wheel drive. It swerves wildly into the adjacent lane as it careers past, then reverts to the correct side of the road, engine revving.
‘Prick,’ Bob mutters, flustered.
The station wagon is already fifty metres away; it must be going at least a hundred and thirty k’s per hour. Bob watches the other car approach it, going equally fast.
The two sets of brakelights get closer to each other—too close.
‘What the hell?’
The four-wheel drive blocks his view of the other car, then jerks sideways, accelerating to level beside it. The vehicles drive in parallel for a few nerve-racking moments. Bob doesn’t hear the music anymore, watching dumbly as the two cars briefly become one before dramatically breaking apart.
Bob feels like a character in an action movie—Bruce Willis comes to mind—as he brings the truck to a dramatic halt. ‘Yippee-ki-yay,’ he murmurs, swinging open his car door.
The station wagon becomes airborne. It twists and turns, head-lights drawing chaotic trails on the dark landscape, providing flashes of saggy wire fences and oversized gum trees.
Bob has an impulse to keep everything moving—himself, the other car. Janet’s always saying that take-offs and landings are the most dangerous parts of any journey.
Trying to ignore the pain of the stitch in his side, he holds out his hands as if he can somehow prevent the inevitable horror.
Please don’t land, please don’t land, please don’t land.
When the car nosedives into a tree, Bob swears he can see the impact ripple out across the paddocks. His knees buckle, his insides churning, as an odd little noise escapes his mouth. He screams out for help, but he’s alone. The four-wheel drive is gone.
-
Red and blue lights slice across the shadowy farmland, the ambulance siren screaming into the darkness. Fred nods in time to the music, some electronic rubbish Ash has put on. Out of the corner of his eye he notices a flash of silver. He flicks glitter from a crease in his wrist; his daughter’s fairy party this morning only went for three hours, but it felt like ten. His back aches, and his gut still feels slippery from the onslaught of soft drink, cake and lollies.
As he presses his foot against the accelerator, Ash gives him a look. Fred pretends not to notice and drives even faster. It’s all right for Ash—he doesn’t spend every five seconds at home getting jumped on or yelled at. Ash just goes for beers, watches TV and does whatever he likes. Fred enjoys driving the bus now more than ever; it feels like freedom, and he’s going to damn well enjoy it.
‘We’re close,’ says Ash, as they fly past the turn-off to the Montgomery farmhouse. He fidgets in his seat and snaps his gum. ‘Despatch said it’s just before the Staffords’ joint.’
Fred thinks Ash seems particularly jumpy tonight. He doesn’t know him that well, considering how much time they spend together, but Ash has definitely been more skittish lately. Fred just has too much on his plate to be bothered asking what’s up.
Behind them, the road is empty. ‘No sign of the blues,’ he comments. He always feels childishly smug when they beat the cops to a scene.
‘They’ll be tied up at the pub,’ Ash replies in a monotone.
‘What’s happening at the pub?’
‘Some guy lost his shit and punched someone. A massive barney broke out. My mate reckons Henno jumped on the bar and rang the gong to break it up.’
Fred snorts. ‘I’m impressed Henno was sober enough.’ God, he misses nights at the pub, with Henno serving him and his mates half-price beers until they were blind drunk. He even misses the ferocious hangovers. ‘Was anyone crook enough for a bus?’
‘Charlie and Rowena attended, but I don’t think it was a blood-bath or anything.’
‘Sounds better than what we’ve got lumped with,’ Fred says.
‘No shit,’ replies Ash. ‘I was all set to head home. I’m knackered.’
Fred glances at him. He does seem tired. He has purple rings around his eyes, and he keeps taking sips from his stupid Mickey Mouse drink bottle.
‘Same,’ Fred says. ‘Let’s wrap this up as quick as we can.’
Up ahead a white pick-up truck is parked at the side of the road, headlights blasting into the paddocks, the driver door wide open. An overweight man in jeans and a flannel shirt walks into the light, waving like he’s air traffic control. Ash thinks he recognises him from around town—old mates with his uncle, maybe.
‘Showtime.’ Fred pulls over and turns off the engine.
‘Thank god you’re here,’ huffs the man.
‘Hey, mate,’ Ash says confidently. ‘You called in a car accident?’
The man nods distractedly before his old-fashioned manners override his obvious distress. He turns back to shake first Ash’s hand, then Fred’s. ‘Sorry. Sorry. Bob’s the name, Bob Dalgliesh. I’m a bit shook up. She’s over there.’ He points beyond the vehicles.
Ash makes out a faint glint of metal several metres from the road.
‘She hit the tree. I saw it happen. I was coming along behind her, but there was nothing I could do—too far away. It’s not good, not good at all. I didn’t want to move her and make it worse.’
‘Thanks, Bob,’ Fred says calmly. ‘We’ll take it from here, but I’m sure the cops will want a chat, so just wait in your truck, okay?’
‘Sure, yep.’ Bob wipes his large nostrils. ‘I have girls myself. Just makes you think, doesn’t it?’
‘Got a jacket, Bob?’ Fred asks.
The man nods.
‘Might be a good idea to put it on. We’ll be back with you in a tick.’
Fred grabs the portable stretcher, while Ash shoulders the triage bag. A cluster of cows watches from behind a wire fence as they navigate roadside shrubs and tall grass before reaching the mangled mess of an old Subaru. There’s no music, no ticking engine, no crying—no signs of life.
Ash doesn’t break stride, but his heart executes the hollow thump it always does just before he reaches a crash scene. Despite his extensive training, there’s a split second of disbelief that he has to deal with whatever horrible thing the universe has served up, a moment where he expects a grown-up to push him out of the way and step in. He’s only been a paramedic for three years, but he’s seen a lot during that time: heart attacks, strokes, accidents, suicides, two murders. Although farm accidents score first place for the most gruesome, it’s the invisible injuries he finds the most stressful—the damage he can’t see. The things he might miss, especially when his thoughts are all over the shop.
When they reach the car, Ash’s vision blurs. He forces himself to focus. Get it together. Concentrate.
The bonnet has disappeared into the trunk of an ancient gum, the right headlight reduced to a feeble glow against the wood. A woman is slumped over the wheel. She’s slim, probably around forty, a brunette with ivory skin, casually dressed. There’s no telltale stench of booze, but these days it’s just as likely to be drugs. Her head is split open just above her right eyebrow. He’s pretty sure she’s not breathing.
He steps closer. There’s no movement. He turns to shake his head at Fred, who shrugs, clearly in no rush to do the honours.
The next few hours play out in Ash’s mind. Cops will arrive and usher them out of the way. They’ll wait around before being grilled about whether they might have compromised the crime scene. Fred will bitch and moan until they’re dragged back in to extract the woman and cart her off to the morgue. A tedious process at the best of times, it’s far from ideal tonight. Ash should have refused to come.
After giving himself another mental kick, he clears his throat and reaches toward the woman’s neck. He takes in the pout of her lips, the dried blood lining her collarbone. Sensing something, he pulls back a beat before her eyes flutter. She moans quietly.
His breath catches in his throat as his heart goes bananas. He pictures her as a toddler. As a girl in a school uniform. As a teenager wearing make-up and laughing with her friends. Now she’s fully grown, broken and dying on the side of the road.
How did you end up here? Ash’s head spins.
‘Come on, mate. Move.’ Fred elbows past with the stretcher. ‘Let’s get her to church and see if one of the gods can work a miracle.’
Body of Lies
by Sarah Bailey
DS Gemma Woodstock returns to Smithson in a mysterious new thriller from the bestselling author of The Housemate.
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