The Pit

by Peter Papathanasiou

Genres: Small Town & Rural; Hard-Boiled; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

"Outback noir has a new star" Mark Sanderson, The Times

"A rising star of crime fiction" Joan Smith, Sunday Times

"Delivers another larger-than-life, take-no-prisoners slice of outback noir. A truly original writer" Emma Styles, author of NO COUNTRY FOR GIRLS

With DS Manolis on leave in Greece, Senior Constable Sparrow receives a phone call from a man who wants to turn himself in.

Bob is sixty-five years old, confined to a Perth nursing home. But thirty years ago, he killed a man in the remote northern Kimberley mining region. He offers to show Sparrow where the body is, but there's a catch: Sparrow must travel north with him under the guise of being his carer.

They are accompanied on the drive by another nursing home resident: Luke, thirty years old, paralysed in a motorbike accident. As they embark on their road trip through the guts of Western Australia, pursued by outback police and adrenaline-soaked miners, Sparrow begins to suspect that Bob's desire to head north may have sinister motivations. Is Luke being held against his will? And what lies in store for them when they reach their goal?

Release date: August 17, 2023

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 304

Sample

1

Perth / Whadjuk Noongar Country, 2017

 

“I want to confess to a murder. I killed a man.”

The voice through the phone handset sounded reedy and weak. By contrast, the words it spoke were weighty and unambiguous. There was no more serious crime or grave confession.

The admission seemed to strike Sparrow’s ear with force, leaving him momentarily unstable in his ergonomic office chair. The constable who had taken the call on the station’s front desk was fresh out of the academy and soon realised that it was no neighbourhood noise complaint or stolen vehicle report. He’d patched the call through to Sparrow, who had just sat down to a shot of freshly brewed coffee. Sparrow held the hot mouthful for a moment, rolling it over his tongue as the grave words settled in his brain.

“Zat right?” he said finally. “You killed a man. You’re a bloody murderer.”

“Yes,” said the voice gently. “I’m a bloody murderer.”

Sparrow paused a moment. He’d never had anyone call his phone and voluntarily confess to committing a crime – let alone a murder – with such candour. He had no reason to disbelieve the claim; some of the most vicious murderers were the calmest individuals. His superior officer, Detective Sergeant George Manolis, had said as much before he left for Greece on stress leave, leaving a newly promoted Sparrow under the command of Detective Inspector Paul Bloody Porter. Sparrow still felt like the country mouse, and there was no Manolis to lean on for advice now, or to protect him from the wrath of Porter. But Sparrow knew he needed information, specifics, and ultimately proof. He carefully put down his mug and picked up his biro and notepad.

“Right then, mate,” he said casually. “Can we start with some details. First, what’s your name?”

“Mr Robert Cooper,” said the man without hesitation. “And who am I speaking with?”

“G’day, Robert. My name’s Senior Constable Andrew Smith.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Andrew.”

“You can call me Sparrow, everyone else does. Now, can I get your permanent home address, Robert?”

“Well, if I call you Sparrow, you can call me Bob,” said the man. “And I’m sure the police can source my home address from this phone number. This is a landline telephone. Remember those?”

Sparrow smiled to himself. “You know us well,” he said. “But mate, if you can just provide your address, we can then simply cross-­check with our system.”

Bob duly obliged. “You’ll find it’s actually a nursing home,” he added. “But please don’t hold that against me.”

That figured, Sparrow thought. To him, a nursing home explained the wearied nature of the caller’s voice, and also suggested advanced years. Sparrow wondered if the bloke was sick, if the confession was prompted by a terminal disease. He thought about the number of similarly heinous admissions that must come from people knocking at death’s door, sinners keen to repent before their time ran out, perhaps in the hope of securing a ticket to a better place. Maybe the call to Sparrow’s phone was more common than he imagined.

“Thanks, Bob,” Sparrow said. “So, how old are you?”

“I’m sixty-­five.”

“That seems young for a nursing home . . .”

“It is a bit. Oh well.”

“And are you married, got a wife, kids?”

“God no,” Bob replied. “I am neither married, nor have children. I’m an eternal bachelor.” He chuckled lightly.

Sparrow jotted notes. “Righto,” he said, mind firmly on the case. “Now, Bob mate, can I ask for some details about the person you claim to have killed. It was another bloke, err, a male individual, you say?”

“Yes. It was a man.”

“Right. And when did this occur? Earlier today, yesterday?”

Bob now snorted a much louder laugh. “Sorry, that’s just funny to me,” he said.

“Murder is funny, Bob?”

“No, I mean it was quite some time ago, a long time ago in fact, coming on some thirty years now, probably before you were even born. I was a young man at the time and physically capable of so much more than I am now. Did you honestly think I was calling with fresh blood on my hands?”

“I didn’t think anythin’,” Sparrow said swiftly. “I was just askin’ a question. We cops don’t often get people callin’ us up three decades after a murder to confess.”

“More’s the pity,” said Bob. “There must be hundreds of unsolved murders in this State alone. Hundreds of people walking around freely, murderers and rapists and paedophiles, taking their secrets to the grave when they should be locked away and punished for what they done.”

“Well, mate, if only everyone was like you.”

“Thanks, Sparrow.”

“So, lemme ask – why now? Why admit to this crime today when you’ve clearly been one of those people you just mentioned walking around free for so long?”

Bob sighed heavily. Sparrow almost felt the breath escape the handset and materialise before his eyes.

“Mainly for the man’s family, to give them closure,” Bob said. “But also for the man himself, for his memory, since I knew him well.”

“Knew him well? So, he was a mate?”

“You could say that, yes,” Bob replied. “And lastly, and somewhat selfishly, I’m confessing for myself, to clear my conscience, for I fear that I’m not long for this world.”

I knew it, Sparrow thought to himself. This fella wants to be spared an afterlife of eternal damnation in the fiery pits of Hell. But it wasn’t as if Mr Robert Cooper’s motivation actually mattered to the young cop. All that mattered was solving crimes, closing cases, and bringing crim­inals to justice. He’d had a rough time of it in the outback town of Cobb with the stoning of schoolteacher Molly Abbott and what it did to his small community. It had left him questioning his choices and doubting his motivations. But his time with Manolis and reassignment to the big smoke had changed everything. His first case had been unfortunate; a jammed firearm, Manolis’s accidental killing of an innocent youth, an internal investigation. But Sparrow had been cleared of all wrongdoing and was finally on the right path. And he had every intention of taking his chance while Manolis was busy working on his suntan in Greece.

“Sorry to hear that,” Sparrow replied. “So, tell me, this bloke – this mate – that you killed, when was it? And where, how and why?”

There was a long pause punctuated with several prolonged breaths. Sparrow could tell the sinner was composing himself.

“You’ve asked a lot there,” Bob finally said. “And you can’t even begin to imagine the willpower that it took me to call you today, the number of times I had to work myself up, pick up the receiver, dial, put it down again, rehearse what I was going to say. And now, you’ve done the right thing, you’ve put me on the spot, asked all the right bloody questions. And I want to give you the answers, but I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Then begin at the beginning,” said Sparrow, clicking his pen. “You said it was about thirty years ago. So that would be, what, about nineteen eighty-two . . . ?”

“Thereabouts,” Bob replied. “Maybe ’eighty-­one. But not far off. Does it really matter? It was a long time ago, whenever it was exactly.”

“Okay, good. And yair, you’re right, the exact date doesn’t matter. But the location does. Where’d you kill this bloke? Was it here in the city?”

“Actually no, unfortunately not, that would make things very simple and straightforward. It was several thousand kilometres away, to the north, way up in the Kimberley.”

The Kimberley was the northernmost region of Western Australia. Bordered to the west by the Indian Ocean, to the north by the Timor Sea, to the east by the Northern Territory, and to the south by two of the world’s largest deserts. It was territory that was breathtakingly beautiful, seldom visited, and barely habitable. Despite growing up in the blisteringly hot outback, Sparrow had never been that far north within Australia, let alone to work a cold case murder investigation.

“That’s certainly a helluva long way away,” Sparrow said. “What were you doing up there?”

“I was working on the mines in the Pilbara at the time,” Bob said. “I worked as a dump truck driver, and we sometimes travelled to the Kimberley for a change of scenery, to take a break from work.”

“Mines, eh. Was this iron ore?”

“Yes,” Bob replied. “Don’t let anyone tell you that Australia rode to prosperity on the sheep’s back. That may have been the case once, when we had a dignified merino ram’s head adorn our shilling, but if that coin was minted today, it would be a dirty lump of iron ore.”

“Sounds like you came back a rich man then,” Sparrow said.

Bob exhaled. “Some men did,” he said. “But I wasn’t one of them.”

“Whereabouts in the Kimberley did these events happen? Was it a town?”

“It wasn’t a town,” Bob replied. “In fact, the area was so remote, it was barely on the map.”

“Right,” Sparrow said, rubbing his forehead, contemplating the prospect of a harder investigation.

“But I remember the area distinctly, crystal clear in my mind’s eye, as if it were only yesterday. Things like that, you don’t easily forget.”

Sparrow cleared his throat. “Can I ask the dead bloke’s name?”

“You can, but I couldn’t tell you,” said Bob. “I didn’t know his name, I only ever knew his nickname. Nicknames were all some blokes had back then. Those were different times.”

“We still have nicknames now,” Sparrow said. “But we also have real names, and we had real names then as well.”

“Be that as it may, I still couldn’t tell you his real name. The mine owners hardly knew them either. The region attracted all manner of scum and outlaws, men on the run from the law and from women, men who wanted to disappear. The mine owners didn’t ask many questions. All they cared about was whether you could bend your back.”

“And the dead bloke was a good mate of yours?”

“Well, now that I remember, he was more of an acquaintance. And I never learned his name, so I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

Sparrow leaned back in his chair and eyed the ceiling tiles above his head. A few had come loose and were hanging precariously.

“Mr Cooper, Bob mate, listen,” Sparrow said. “You’ll have to excuse all my questions but I gotta do all this to verify your story. There are heaps of people walking into cop stations across the country every day or calling us claiming this and that, only for us to investigate their stories and find out that they’re complete bullshit. These people have done nothing more than waste valuable police time. I don’t want to dismiss you as one of them, as a time-­waster, an attention-­seeker. But before I take this any further and try to allocate resources, I need some precise details so I can take you seriously.”

There was a protracted pause. Sparrow expected the phone to go dead at any moment, for the fraudster to be scared away. The man, this Mr Robert Cooper, was supposedly calling from a nursing home. Sparrow reasoned that there was a distinct possibility that he might even have dementia. He thought to say that, but it would’ve meant nothing. In the end, he kept quiet and kept listening.

Eventually, a dry cough rattled down the phone line.

“What you say is not unexpected,” said Bob. “I realise you’re only doing your job, and as a man of law, you need a certain amount of evidence to please your masters, to please the court, and secure a conviction. And that’s what I want too. So, tell you what – I’ll give you the best evidence of all . . .”

It was a proposition. Bob offered to personally escort Sparrow to the murder scene, where he’d buried the man’s body. Through exhumation and the use of forensic DNA analysis in the lab, he was confident that reliable genetic identification of the dead man’s skeleton could be made and cross-­checked against reports of missing persons. His family would be notified, and Bob would be willingly, and gratefully, locked away for the remainder of his natural life.

“There are just a few conditions,” Bob said. “First of all, I like you, Sparrow. I feel we have an immediate rapport, and I think I have a sixth sense for people who are inherently good. So, I’d like to ask if you would accompany me to the Kimberley.”

Sparrow put down his pen. What was now being discussed didn’t need documentation.

“You mean, just the two of us?” he asked. “As in, off the record?”

“I mean you as the only police officer.”

“But I would need to discuss this with my commanding officer, get his approval. Personally, I don’t have a problem but I suspect I’ll be told to take backup.”

“Hmm, I’m not so sure about that, mate. I just want you to work this case. Don’t you want to arrest the villain and be the hero?”

Of course, Sparrow did. It was a chance to make a name for himself – even if it wasn’t strictly by the book, solving a murder was still solving a murder. But was this Mr Robert Cooper worth the risk? He didn’t come across as a threat in any way. He wanted to do things on his terms. And being able to see things from an elderly pensioner’s perspective surely showed maturity, not immaturity.

“Yair, sure,” Sparrow said. “So, what do you suggest?”

“Well, I imagine you have some annual leave up your sleeve.”

“Hmm, maybe. And what if I do?”

“Take it with me, work this case and I’ll pay for your time.”

Sparrow paused. “That doesn’t seem unfair,” he said.

“Excellent then,” said Bob. “See how easy that was. As for the journey, there’ll actually be three of us making it. You, me, and my friend.”

“Wait, hold on. Who is your ‘friend’?”

“My mate here in the nursing home. His name’s Luke.”

“What’s his role in all this? Was he involved in the murder? Is he your accomplice?”

Bob laughed. “Far from it, he wasn’t even born when these events happened. He’d be closer to your age than mine. Luke’s just my mate here in the home. He’s my only mate, and we look after each other.”

Sparrow pretended to consult his calendar. Was he really going to use his leave and go through with this? What would Manolis do?

“When?” Sparrow asked. “When do you wanna travel? It’s January, school holidays, middle of summer, so commercial flights are expensive and hard to come by. But we might be able to book something in the next few days and—’

“Flights?” said Bob. “Oh no, I’m afraid I can’t fly. My medical condition precludes air travel.”

“So, what are you suggestin’?” Sparrow asked, half-­expecting the answer.

“We’ll need to drive,” Bob said. “That’s our only option. I’ll provide the vehicle. Now, given the distances involved, it’ll take a few days. But we’ll see some absolutely spectacular scenery on the way, that I promise you. And I can also promise it’ll be the journey of a lifetime. One you’ll never forget.”

2

Perth / Whadjuk Noongar Country, 2017

 

The city’s silver skyscrapers jutted up like nails hammered into the earth. Reflected white in their polished glass, the rising sun assailed Sparrow’s eyes. He squinted, in need of sunglasses. Sitting in the passenger seat, he instinctively reached up to lower a sun visor that wasn’t there. The odometer nudged a third digit on the dial.

“So where are we headed, dude?”

The query was impatient and came from the back seat. Bob, who was both driver and navigator, paused, distracted.

“Jesus Christ,” Bob finally said. “Look at all these new roads. I used to know these streets like the back of my hand. Glorious Perth now looks more like goddamn Sydney. How does anyone get anywhere anymore?”

Even with its high roof, the Toyota Hiace van was dwarfed by hordes of four-­wheel drives, mobile discotheques that made the windows rattle as they rumbled past. It felt like it could fall to pieces at any time on the freeway. Sparrow had already checked the air conditioner and found it only blew hot air and moth skeletons. The van’s interior smelled musty and medicinal: bad breath, body odour and dead skin.

Sparrow had rendezvoused with the Hiace on a pre-­determined street corner not far from his apartment at a pre-­determined time. The hour was early, not long after dawn on a Monday, which Bob had insisted upon since it maximised driving time. He paid Sparrow in advance, a generous cash sum that both affirmed his commitment to the venture and avoided a paper trail. Porter hadn’t been thrilled with Sparrow’s sudden request for annual leave, but Sparrow knew the payoff would be worth it when he brought in a body and a culprit in cuffs.

On first impression, Sparrow had found Bob to be of sound mind. He appeared lucid and conversational, if a little lost. But Sparrow had to admit that all the new roadworks in Perth confused him too and that he was still finding his own way around. By contrast, Luke came across as immature and tempestuous, despite being confined to a wheelchair.

“Bob, stop fucking around!” Luke said. “I’ll guide us. Just tell me where the fuck we’re heading.”

“Hey!” Bob said, flicking his head back. “Quit swearing while I’m at the wheel.”

“Whoa! When did this become a problem, man?”

Bob took a moment to respond. “It’s always been a problem,” he said. “I’ve just never said anything before. It’s worse when I’m trying to concentrate, doing a hundred on a busy highway.”

Sparrow sensed a tension in the air, as if it had taken on a pre-­storm stillness. But even good friends argued from time to time.

“I’m sure Bob’s just trying to keep us from getting lost here,” Sparrow said calmly.

“Oh yeah?” Luke said defensively. “Well, it’s apparently okay for him to blaspheme, but not for me to swear.”

Bob paused again. “That’s different.”

“So, what can I say instead?” Luke asked.

“Dunno,” said Bob. “Maybe ‘frig’ or ‘eff’. Or just not at all.”

Luke went quiet for some time. “Friggin’ hell,” he eventually said.

“Better,” said Bob.

Sparrow had packed a single bag, filled it with enough socks and jocks to last a week. Bob introduced him to Luke as his “hired carer”, his “personal aide”, since they would obviously need assistance to make the trip north. Bob had asked Sparrow to not reveal the purpose of their mission to Luke; another condition. Sparrow was getting suspicious but went along with the story. Now that he’d met both Bob and Luke, he didn’t see either of them as any threat.

“Spare him the details,” Bob had said. “He’s got nothing to do with what happened thirty years ago. I feel sorry for the kid, confined to a wheelchair and forced to live in a nursing home with old people. You’re young, can you imagine what that would be like? I’m his only mate in there, and just want to show him a little fun before I’m locked away. Can you at least do me that favour?”

Sparrow couldn’t help but empathise with the young man’s plight. He’d heard of unfortunate cases where young disabled people ended up in nursing homes because they had no-­one to care for them. Bob explained that Luke had been orphaned when his parents died in a car accident. It was tempting to see Bob as benevolent and big-­hearted, but Sparrow reminded himself this was supposedly a murderer he was trusting, and was doing so on his own time, so he remained apprehensive. Nonetheless, he had stashed his police firearm securely in the pocket of his combat pants and planned to keep his phone on to triangulate his geographic position, even though he imagined they would eventually be out of range.

“I think I finally know where we’re going,” said Bob. “Provided the ocean’s still in the same place. They haven’t moved that, have they?”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Luke. “The ocean’s right where—’

A Western Australian police van pulled up alongside the Hiace and silenced the cabin instantly. Bob even turned the radio down. Would Sparrow somehow be recognised? It seemed unlikely. He watched Luke swallow his words. Sparrow wasn’t sure what to make of it at first, but it dawned on him that his travel companions were potentially two fugitives on the lam.

“Be cool,” Bob said to Luke, rolling up his window. “Nothing to fear.”

The fat cop stuffed into the driver’s seat kept his eyes on the road until he saw what he was looking for up ahead. His siren wailed into life and the paddy wagon roared after a swerving ute with all the muscle trimmings. Bob exhaled and rolled down his window. He shot a sideways glance at Sparrow who returned a look of reassurance. Given what was at stake, their secret was safe with him; for now.

The first rays of sun on the van’s vinyl interior liberated all manner of new odours hidden deep inside the seating. Ammonia and uric acid, stale sweat and menthol, seeped into the cracks. Sparrow’s eyes watered, the air packed tight around his face. He leaned sideways out the window and rode with his nose in the hot January wind.

Bob piloted the van as far west as it could go, to the coast, the western edge of the vast Australian continent. He then reefed the steering wheel hard right and headed north for the equator. They parked near the water on Scarborough Beach. Clicking open the rear door, Sparrow flicked a big red switch on the inside of the van. The hydraulic lifter fell back like a rusty drawbridge. He unfastened the wheelchair’s tie-­down straps. Luke’s chair hummed into position and descended to the earth like a spaceship landing.

The trio were soon sitting in a café overlooking the ocean. Luke and Sparrow had the pleasure of watching, in Bob’s opinion, the sweetest sight imaginable – him inhaling a Black Angus sirloin. It wasn’t on the breakfast menu, but Bob’s bulging wallet had insisted they prepare him one.

“The thickest bastard you’ve got, with all the fat, no butter or pepper sauce or garnish,” was how Bob had placed his order. “And as blue as buggery.”

Sparrow ordered raisin toast and coffee. Luke had blueberry pancakes and two vanilla milkshakes.

“To be honest, I could smell the sheep,” Bob said, his mouth full.

“What sheep?” Luke asked. He slurped his second milkshake from a tall stainless-steel cup beaded with condensation. “That there’s cow on your plate.”

“No, mate.” Bob swallowed. “I meant there’s obviously a big ship with sheep at the port today. When it’s hot and humid, you can smell their urine and faeces.”

“Gross!”

“Couldn’t you smell it?” Bob asked. “From the trucks ahead of us on the highway. People complain, but I always remember it as part of Fremantle’s charm. You want another shake?”

Luke burped. It smelled sickly sweet. “Nah, I’m chockers.”

“Me too. But I’m tempted to order another steak just because I can. How about you, Sparrow, another flat white?”

“No thanks,” said Sparrow. “I’m awake enough.”

Luke examined Sparrow crookedly from beneath the brim of his black baseball cap. Sparrow felt surprisingly self-­conscious. He was familiar with the feeling of people sizing him up in his role as a police officer, and also as a young Aboriginal man in Australia, but he wasn’t used to pretending to be something he was clearly not. He wondered if the kid was buying it. Did kids ever buy anything anymore . . .? Their whole lives were an exercise in cynicism and disillusionment.

“Bob told me you used to be a nurse,” Luke said to Sparrow. “You don’t look like no nurse to me. And I’ve seen heaps.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sparrow said.

“Where’d you train?” Luke asked sharply.

Sparrow swallowed hard. “Where’d you reckon? At a university, a nursing degree. You need to see it?”

“Send it to my people.”

“Nurses take all shapes and forms these days. Even blackfellas like me can be nurses.”

Luke smiled sharp yellow teeth. “Nurse, eh. We’ll see. We’ll see soon enough.”

Bob piped up to change the subject. “By the way, mate, I noticed you left all your artwork behind.”

“Meh,” Luke said. “They’re just drawings. I can pick ’em up someday. Or I can do more.”

Bob called for the bill. In addition to Sparrow’s time, he’d said he would be paying for everything on the trip north – Sparrow’s wallet wouldn’t . . .