Crucifixion Creek (Belltree Trilogy #1)

Crucifixion Creek (Belltree Trilogy #1)

by Barry Maitland

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A meth-addicted biker shoots a woman during a police siege. An elderly couple commit suicide on the terrace of their favorite café. An unidentified white male is stabbed to death in the street.

For Sydney homicide detective Harry Belltree, not long out of the military and a grueling tour of Afghanistan, these three deaths appear to be just another day at the office. Until, that is, he identifies the stabbing victim as his own brother-in-law Greg, and journalist Kelly Pool suggests there's a link between the three incidents. It seems Greg and the old couple had ties to the same man, a corrupt money man with a murky past and friends in both high places and low.

Harry Belltree can't get officially involved in Greg's murder, but he's not going to leave it in the hands of others. That's when he goes off-grid to investigate the links between these deaths. That's when things start to get dangerous.

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781466883543
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Publication date: 11/10/2015
Series: Belltree Trilogy Series , #1
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 336
Sales rank: 686,309
File size: 633 KB

About the Author

BARRY MAITLAND is the award-winning author of several previous novels featuring DCI David Brock and DI Kathy Kolla, most recently The Raven's Eye, which was a Library Reads selection. Born in Scotland and raised in London, Maitland lives in Australia.

Barry Maitland is the author of several mystery novels featuring D.C.I. David Brock and Det. Sgt. Kathy Kolla, including All My Enemies, No Trace, and The Raven's Eye. Born in Scotland and raised in London, Maitland lives in Australia. His work has been a finalist for the Barry Award, the John Creasey Award, and the winner of the Ned Kelley Award.

Read an Excerpt

Crucifixion Creek

A Belltree Mystery

By Barry Maitland

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2014 Barry Maitland
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-8354-3


IN SOUTH-WESTERN SYDNEY, ON a chilly winter's night, a siege is in progress. The street is very ordinary — suburban, brick veneer and tiled roofs — and the only thing a stranger might notice is the number of houses that have steel roller-shutters on their windows. They're all closed now.

Two neighbours have reported a man's shouts, a woman's screams and a burst of gunfire. Now everyone is here — ambulance and fire brigade, local area command uniforms and detectives, scene of crime, and Harry Belltree and Deb Velasco from homicide. And the Tactical Operations Unit, the black ninjas, who have parked their big black American armoured Lenco truck, bristling with menace, in the driveway of the house. This has surely given the occupants something to think about.

Nothing is known about the man apart from a neighbour's hazy description of the female resident's new boyfriend: bulky, pony-tailed, bearded, tattooed. The TOU negotiators got a single grunt from him before he disabled the house phone, and now they are using the loudhailer, trying to "engage" him. The house backs on to rough ground in the area known locally as Crucifixion Creek, and there are marksmen out there and in the gardens on either side.

"This could go on for ever," Deb mutters. When Harry doesn't reply she starts the engine again to warm them up. Outside two uniforms are crouched behind their patrol car, blowing into their hands with misty breath. Deb takes a sip from her takeaway cup. "And why do we need to be here? Nobody's dead, far as we know."

She wants conversation and Harry rouses himself, picking up his own cup. She is five years older than him and more experienced. This is the first time they've been sent out together.

"Not yet, but when it happens we'll be right here."

"Does this remind you of Afghanistan?"

"In a way." He doesn't really want to respond but knows he should. Sharing confidences is an important part of team-building, apparently. "Sydney is very like Afghanistan, only here the Taliban wear Armani."

She gives a croaky laugh and lights up again. The whole car stinks of it. "Not in this neighbourhood."


Another long pause, sipping as the coffee cools. "They say you died over there."

Oh dear. He likes Deb, what he's heard of her — fierce, thorough. But she wants to talk. And smoke. He thinks of Carmen in the tobacco factory and tries to picture Deb dancing flamenco.

"Who does?"

"Oh, you know, some of the blokes were talking. Is it true?"

He nods.

"Seriously? How long?"

"Eighteen minutes."

"Shit. Didn't that —?" She stops.

"Leave me brain-damaged?" He smiles and she ducks her head, embarrassed. "No, I was like this before. We had much better A&E than you get around here."

"Did you ... see stuff, like they say?"

"You mean a bright light? Someone dressed in white beckoning at the end of a tunnel? No, nothing like that. Nothing at all. Maybe I was going," he grins at her, "elsewhere."

At that moment a bright light from the TOU truck blazes on the front door which is opening slowly. A woman stands there looking blinded and disoriented, clutching a bundle to her chest, perhaps a baby. One of the men in black calls to her, urging her to walk forward. She puts a hand to her eyes against the glare and begins to move, painfully slowly, towards the light. After she has taken four or five steps there is a sharp noise, muffled inside the car, like the branch of a tree cracking, and the woman falls. Then several more shots, and they get a glimpse of a figure in the doorway toppling backwards into the house. "Fuck." Deb grinding her cigarette out. Black figures are running forward.

They get out of the car and wait. Watch the TOU secure the scene and call the ambos to the victims. Scene of crime join in, filming, and when the last black figure has cleared the house the white overalls move inside. The last one waves from the doorway and Harry and Deb move forward to look at the bodies.

The woman, shot in the back, has fresh bruising all over her face and arms. The bundle she was carrying is a white woollen jacket. In the hallway, stretched out on the floor, lies her killer. They have an ID now. Stefan Ganis: known to police as an armed robber and dealer in methamphetamine. Deb opens his lips to expose the blackened and missing teeth of the meth user. She pulls back an eyelid and looks at the pupil. "High as a kite." She seems enthusiastic about poking about in the corpse and Harry turns away — not squeamish, God knows, just a feeling, close to superstition, that the dead are out of it and deserve to be left alone.

The TOU men (they are all men) have put two bullets in him, and Harry is thinking ahead. Police shooting, a Critical Incident Investigation Team from another command brought in quickly. When that happens they'll most likely all be cleared out and interviewed, and he's impatient to have a look around the house before then. He begins to move off. Deb says, "What's this?"

She has rolled up the man's sleeve to inspect his tattoos, and she points to a solid block of black cross-hatching on his left biceps. Harry squats down and makes out a pattern faintly visible beneath the hatching. "He's inked over another tattoo."

"Old girlfriend's name?"

"No, an emblem of some kind, probably a biker logo. Looks like he got kicked out of one of the gangs. You don't get to keep the colours. Come on."

They begin to work quickly through the rooms, all of them in chaos as if the place has been trashed. Almost all of the stuff tossed around seems to be hers, except for one small corner with T-shirts and a pair of heavy biker boots. Above them, he has haphazardly taped a spread of photographs to the wall, a little shrine above the Harley boots. There are several pictures of him with some hairy, beefy blokes, all grinning at the lens; a faded old snap of a middle-aged woman, arms folded, perhaps his mother; a photo of a white tow truck.

Harry studies the pictures carefully, making his own record of them with his phone. He can just make out the name painted in vivid letters on the truck door — 13 Auto Smash. He peels the photo off the wall and slips it into an evidence bag.

Deb looks over his shoulder. "What's that?"

Reluctantly he offers her the plastic pouch and she examines the photo inside. "Important?"

He shrugs.

She peers more closely. "Why 13?"

"The thirteenth letter of the alphabet is M. Short for meth."

"Really? The tow truck from hell. Just the sort of thing you'd want in an emergency. Can't see the rego."

"I'll see if the techs can bring it up."

She starts to ask him why, but he turns and moves on to the mess in the kitchen.

Crime scene will have bagged and removed any drugs, cash and weaponry, and taken 3D laser scans of all the rooms, which will have recorded every dent and scratch and bloodstain. The two of them sift through the debris anyway, without result.

It is after 5:00 a.m. when they are told to leave by the Critical Incident Team. Outside they see the TV cameras and reporters at the barriers, waiting for the local area commander to give a media briefing.

Harry's phone rings: Superintendent Marshall. Bob the Job. He pictures the old man in his pyjamas, pacing around his living room with his phone at his ear, grey hair awry, his big frame looming over the tiny porcelain ornaments his wife liked to collect. "Sir?"

"Harry, I've just had Wagstaff in my ear. What's the latest?"

Harry fills him in.

The superintendent grunts unhappily. "Deb Velasco with you?" "Sir."

"Getting along all right?"

"Of course."

"Good. She's a fine officer, Harry."

Harry wonders why he needs to say that. Is she under some kind of cloud? As he turns to look at her he sees her face illuminated by the flame beneath her cigarette.

By the time the CIT officers release them, a bright clear day has dawned. The TOU tank has gone, as have the reporters and the TV crews and the sense of menace. Metal shutters are being raised in the windows of one or two of the neighbouring houses. As Harry makes his way to the car a woman, a wild-haired redhead, bursts out in front of him, coat flapping, listing under the weight of a large bag slung from her shoulder.

"Harry!" she cries, as if they are old friends. He tries to place her. Forensics? Domestic violence liaison?

"Kelly Pool, Bankstown Chronicle." She thrusts out a hand which he ignores.

"You've missed the fun," he says. "They've all buggered off."

"That's okay, I was at the briefing. Same old speech — tragic death, detectives investigating, appeal for help from the public blah blah. But this is my patch, see. Crucifixion Creek. So what was the guy's name?" She snatches out a notepad and pen, standing poised as if she seriously expects him to tell her.

"Piss off, Kelly Pool."

"Oh, Harry. That's not nice."

"And how the hell do you know my name?"

"I never reveal my sources. And a very famous name too, Harry Belltree. Son of the judge, right?"

"No comment." Harry pushes past her and reaches for the car door handle.

"I know this neighbourhood, Harry," she calls after him. "Maybe I can help you."

Deb has been listening to this exchange with interest. As she tugs at her seatbelt she looks across at him. "What was that all about? What judge?" And then her eyes go wide and her jaw drops. "Belltree? Belltree! Oh fuck — Danny Belltree! 'First Aboriginal judge of the New South Wales Supreme Court!' He was your dad?"

"Just drive the car, Deb."

"How could I have missed that? Nobody told me! How come nobody told me?"

He wonders about that.


FIVE HOURS LATER AND twenty-two kilometres away, across the city to the north-east, an elderly woman puffs her way down the hill towards the bay. Phoebe Bulwer-Knight missed her bus and now she's hurrying in case they give up on her and go home. The three of them have been meeting for brunch every Friday for over twenty years, ever since she retired from being Charlie's secretary and bookkeeper, but she has missed the last four Fridays with her hip and the problems with the drains. Now she's worried that the tradition may be broken. She should have phoned, of course she should, but she was already late.

She reaches The Esplanade at last, and the curve of Balmoral Beach lies before her. The pale sand, the sweep of water across Middle Harbour, the little white figure of Grotto Point Lighthouse on the far headland, a ferry making its way up to Manly. The café on the corner and, yes, they are there, Grace and Charlie at their usual table, and she breathes a sigh of relief. They're very still, she thinks as she gets closer. Concentrating on the ferry? Perhaps they're having a bet on how long it will take to cross the bay. But no, their heads are bowed. They're surely asleep, dozing as they wait for her to join them.

When she does, she hesitates, a flutter of alarm rising in her chest. At the same moment the young waitress steps out onto the terrace and smiles at her. "They have a little sleep," she laughs, "for an hour now. Maybe more. I don't want to wake them."

Phoebe is suddenly struck by their clothes. Both are wrapped in heavy coats that seem too big for them now, as if they've shrunk inside them. Charlie is almost smothered in his orange scarf — my muffler, he calls it — and though it is a mid-winter's day, the sky is a brilliant blue and here in the sun it's quite warm. And the state of Grace's hair! An unruly tangle beneath a hat that looks as if it's been in an accident. And their clothes are filthy. There is what looks like a soup stain down the front of Charlie's good coat, and a tear in his sleeve. "Oh, Charlie," she whispers. "What happened to the Manly Dandy?"

She reaches out and touches Charlie's cheek. It is so cold she recoils as his head drops forward. "You must call an ambulance," she says to the waitress.

"What? He is not well?"

"I believe he's dead."

"Oh my God! He has passed away? The lady will be so upset when she wakes."

"I think she's dead too."

The girl shakes her head, eyes wide. "Both together ...? Is that possible? Oh, that is so sad, but also ..." she struggles to find the right word, "... so beautiful. They go everywhere together. I have seen them, holding hands. And now they pass away together."

"Please just phone for an ambulance."

"Sure, sure." The girl takes a mobile from her pocket and makes the call, then points the phone at the old couple, and it makes a loud click. The girl starts jabbing away at it with her thumbs.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm sending to my friends. So sad, so beautiful."

"No ..." but Phoebe's eyes blur, her knees buckle, and the waitress keeps tapping at her phone as she yells to her boss to come and help.


HARRY DROPS HIS GEAR off in his locker and signs out. He walks to Parramatta station and catches a train packed with commuters in to Central. A twenty-minute walk up into Surry Hills takes him to his street, to the plane tree at the mouth of the laneway, bare of leaves. He can smell baking, hear the sound of an orchestra.

She comes to the door as he steps inside, hugs him, says, "Oh, you stink."

"Sorry. My new partner. Smoker." He gazes at her face, the smudge of flour on her forehead, the smile on her lips and frown across her eyebrows, and his heart aches.

"They said on the news there was a siege again last night. Were you called out?"

"Yes. But we were just onlookers. The nasties did all the work."

He wipes Jenny's forehead and she says, "What was that?" "Just flour. Any problems?"

"I can't find my good oven gloves. They must be somewhere in there." "Let's take a look."

They are in the middle of the kitchen table. He picks them up and puts them in her hands.

"Thanks. Are you hungry?"

"Yeah, but dirty. I'll have a shower."

"You haven't forgotten about lunch?"

"No." It's the anniversary. How could he forget?

"Poor you. You probably just want to sleep."

* * *

LUNCH IS AT JENNY'S sister's house, which is thirty minutes away on a good day. Her husband, a builder, once came across Frank Lloyd Wright's advice to a house client to buy the cheapest site in a good neighbourhood because it would be difficult to build on, and therefore a bargain and a challenge and an opportunity for the great architect to do his stuff. Greg found a narrow and precipitous site on a gully overlooking a reserve, which the agent privately considered unbuildable, and paid a modest price for such a good suburb. The design that his architect devised was highly ingenious, with seven different floor levels tumbling down the slope and taking advantage of every angle of view and opportunity for sunshine and breeze. Unfortunately the engineering works, largely invisible beneath the ground, consumed most of the budget, and the house is still unfinished, limping slowly towards completion whenever Greg can scrape up the cash and spare his men from other jobs. It has, however, earned him a reputation as a builder for challenging small projects, and has brought him in a fair amount of work.

But it is a nightmare for Harry, with its multitude of cascading steps, its unexpected shifts of direction, its jagged corners. He follows Jenny through the obstacles, tensing to leap forward to snatch her from danger. She seems oblivious to the risks, accepting the unreliable guidance of her two nieces and the remembered images in her head. But Greg is always making changes, and she can't see those.

They are nearing the difficult descent to the family room when Nicole rushes out of a bedroom, fiddling with her hair, hugs her sister and guides her down to safety. Harry hands over the chocolate cake that Jenny has baked for dessert and thankfully accepts a beer from Greg. Greg has already had a few, Harry judges, his gestures sweeping, verging on belligerent. He fetches a tray of meat from the kitchen and marches out to the barbecue on the deck with barely a word. Nicole notices and gives Harry an apologetic little smile. "It's been a bad week," she whispers. "You know, people letting him down."

"Sure." He goes out onto the deck, where Greg is stabbing the meat. "How's it going?"

"Great." Greg spins around and yells through the door, "Nicole, where did you get this steak?"

Harry doesn't hear the reply. He goes over to the rail and looks down at the rock shelf far below. Something vanishes under a bush. Possum maybe.

"Yeah, sorry, what?" Greg is at his elbow. "Were you at that siege last night?"



Excerpted from Crucifixion Creek by Barry Maitland. Copyright © 2014 Barry Maitland. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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