You Must Remember This – a novel

I loved her the first time I saw her, and that’s all you need to know.

She had hair the colour of rich Belgian chocolate, and recently cut it shorter only to grow it longer again, just for me. A short stay in hospital had left her looking a little pale, and her lack of makeup was not disguising her beautiful complexion. She smiled at me and spoke enthusiastically about different coloured foods. She didn’t see me, not really, and I was determined to change that. Nothing was more important in my life. She was wearing an exquisite gown that showed the curves of her petite body to perfection. She left early with her friends, and I sat in a daze, wondering what had just happened.

It was Scarlett Holmyard who triggered my fitful imagination. It was Scarlett Holmyard who gave my life meaning when things were at their darkest.

I still have the souvenirs. Random memories that, if you put them all together would look like the remnants of a shredded photo album. Fragments of photographs are floating on the water or stuffed down the side of a sofa. Each piece tells a story of adventure, close encounters, triumphs and pure excitement.

I cannot explain the feelings I have when recalling them — the frustration, the hope, the confusion, the anger. Scarlett is the most important person in my life, but I don’t know that yet. She’s that person that you catch sight of out of the corner of your eye. She’s the one whose name you struggle to remember, the torn photograph with not enough detail. She is my nameless champion, my never wavering hero, and I’m the one who is doggedly searching for her.

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Sam loves Scarlett, or at least that is what everyone keeps telling him. After the bloke in the stolen car slammed into Sam at a Tee intersection, everything changed. A head injury, a stay in hospital followed by a stint in rehab and Sam is no closer to regaining all his memories. His distant past is clearer than his recent present, and Scarlett belongs to now. Can Sam fall in love with Scarlett — all over again? And what of the bloke who ‘hit and ran’? Will Inspector Blank work it all out, or will Sam have to be his own detective? For many months, while Sam works on his recovery, there will be numerous tram journeys and frequent visits to Dr Doug, the therapist chosen by Scarlett to help to bring her Sam back to her. Who is the bloke in the brown shoes and why do Sam and Scarlett decide that blackberry jam is a good way to put closure to their uncomfortable adventure? Sam Bennett faces his biggest challenge to date — finding his Scarlett.

Publishing date: February 20th 2019

Now available for pre-order.

Ray McAlpine is Dead


The year Ray McAlpine was murdered there was very little guitar music worth remembering, but lots of big hair. The bloodbath that was to come to the Carlton Crew was a decade away.

Melbourne was preoccupied with U.S. style mass shootings. Hoddle Street was known for more than just traffic jams, and Julian Knight became a household name. In the same year, Frank Vitkovic gave fresh meaning to ‘going postal’. The following year the unthinkable happened. Two young constables were ambushed and murdered. Their murderers walked free when a key witness changed her testimony. With all this going on most people’s attention was not on organised crime.

It flourished in the shadows.

The year before, a car bomb exploded outside police headquarters, which was then located at Russell Street.

There was a secret war going on between elements in the police force and criminal gangs responsible for several violent armed robberies.

As always, the selling of illegal drugs was big business.

Ray McAlpine was very much a part of this dark world.

He lived in it, and he died in it.

How and why were questions occupying Sam Bennett?

The ‘how’ was partially known.

The police still had a healthy file on the case, and most of it had recently been removed from storage. A lot of it had been digitised, but the old paper records still existed.

Among the boxes of evidence were the usual things that you would expect to find.

“It’s always the thing that doesn’t fit that leads you to an interesting place.” Sam was speaking to property Sergeant, Karl Stippich.

After his first run-in with the Cold Case Squad, Sam believed that he was not going to get any more out of them, but after Mary was found guilty, he received a message from Senior Sergeant Robert Willis.

“Property Sergeant Karl Stippich is expecting to hear from you.”

Sam wasn’t exactly sure who Property Sergeant Karl Stippich was, but it didn’t take much to find out.

“I’m not sure what you mean Mr Bennett, but this is all the evidence we have on the Ray McAlpine murder. You’ll understand that it has been a long time, but everything seems to be here. At least everything that was here when they started putting stuff on disk in the 90s. I’ve laid it all out for you, from most important to least important,  just like I was told.”

“Told? Told by whom?”

“Can we just get on with this? My boss doesn’t like civilians being down here. Lots of sensitive stuff in here.”

The Property Sergeant’s domain was a huge old factory site on the outskirts of the central business district. Storage racks reached almost to the ceiling which was at least twenty feet high. Nothing fancy about the inside of the building, just bare red-brick wall. There was very little natural light, and Sam was reminded of the nameless warehouse in ‘The X-Files’.

“You haven’t got any dead aliens in here, have you?”

“No, but plenty of dead people. These paper files go back a long way. The whole lot is being moved out to a new complex in Broadmeadows late next year. Gonna be a hell of a job to move it all. I remember when they bought it all here — Hell of a job.”

“Of all the stuff associated with this case, what is the one thing that seems strange to you?”

Stippich thought like a policeman, so this was a tough assignment. As far as he was concerned it was all evidence; strange was for detectives and way above his pay grade.

Sam could see him struggling with the question.

“If you had to pick one thing that seemed the least likely to be associated with this murder what would it be?”

Stippich’s eyes widened just a little when he looked at the coat near the end of the evidence table.

“This coat was found a few metres away from the body, and as far as I know, it’s not linked to anyone involved or suspected in the case, which is unusual. The list of suspects was pretty long, and anyone who was anyone in Scumbag Town was on that list.”

“Nice one,” said Sam.

It was a three-quarter length pure wool coat with a designer label. It was in good condition considering how long it had been stored. The coat itself was a camel colour, and the lining was a light brown silk.

Not the sort of coat anyone would expect to find in a run-down suburb and close to a murder scene.

The only visible damage on the coat was a long slit in the lining at the bottom of the coat on its right-hand side. Without asking for confirmation, Sam decided that the lining had been cut with a knife rather than scissors.

Sam photographed the coat while the Property Sergeant looked the other way. With a bit of luck, the maker’s label might lead him somewhere.

“I think a trip to visit Tony Bone is in order,” said Sam.

“I don’t even want to know what that means,” said Property Sergeant Karl Stippich. He had learned, long ago, that too much knowledge only got you into trouble. Being eighteen months from retirement, his goal was to keep his head down and dream of being retired. He was still young enough to enjoy it, and his missus had the whole thing planned.

They bought a very cool old Airstream caravan at a police auction. It had previously belonged to a nefarious character who moved drugs for a Melbourne gang. He and his missus drove up and down the Hume Highway between Melbourne and Sydney at least twice a week. The gang paid him five thousand dollars per trip, and that was one trip in each direction. Drugs went up, and cash came down. Twenty thousand dollars per week. Even when you took petrol, tyres and wear and tear into account, that was a good weekly wage.

They had been at it for about eighteen months when an officer who was stationed in Albury wondered why he kept seeing the same vintage Airstream caravan, week in and week out. The older couple had spent many a happy hour in Albury in their youth so they rather foolishly stopped there every time they made the trip north. The constable didn’t mention it immediately, but after he had observed them a few more times, he told his sergeant. The Police waited for the polished aluminium caravan to arrive one more time and nabbed the older couple and several kilogrammes of cannabis.

The arresting officers were from the drug squad, and the eagle-eyed traffic constable didn’t receive any credit. His sergeant thought this was grossly unfair and wrote to the Commissioner on his behalf. The young constable’s commendation arrived ten days after he drowned trying to save two teenage girls who had unwisely gone swimming in a swollen Murray River. He saved the girls and lingered for more than a day before succumbing. His wife accepted the award on his behalf. She spoke to reporters about his courage and his desire to help people, but secretly she wished he had been a bit selfish and had waited for help to arrive instead of diving in and leaving her alone. In time, she would have a bravery award to add to the memories of her heroic young husband.

The Drug Squad were very pleased with their haul, and it made for good television. The gleaming silver vintage caravan and a large pile of ‘grass’. The old couple did not bother to hide the loot, they loaded it into their caravan and threw a blanket or two over the pile. No one ever asked to look inside the van.

Consequently, the police did not conduct a thorough search. The loot was in plain sight, and despite one detective’s protest, the word came down from on high. “A waste of Police resources. Stick it into impound and get on with your next case.”

When Karl Stippich drove the van home from the auction, his wife was very excited, but she said that the inside had a strange smell. Karl just laughed and said the smell would go away. It didn’t.

Karl was a handy sort of bloke, so he decided to service the van himself and save a bit more money.

Once he had jacked up the van to get the wheels off, he packed the wheel bearings, put the wheels back on and was about to let the jacks down when he decided to check under the floor. The body was aluminium, but the floor pan was steel — and steel can rust.

Considering its age there was very little corrosion, but there was a series of bolted-on compartments that most likely were not original spec’.

Karl tried undoing the bolts on one of the compartments, and they came away easily. There were at least ten thousand dollars in that one and about the same in the others.

It didn’t make sense to Karl. The detectives were sure that the couple loaded the drugs into the van and covered it while doing the same with the cash. So what was this money about? Karl was no fool. He was going to give this a bit of thought before he did anything rash, like handing it in.

In the coming weeks, restoration work carried out by officer Karl revealed several hidden compartments inside the van. When Karl ran out of hiding places, he had amassed slightly more than a quarter of a million dollars.

Mrs Karl voted to keep the money. “It’s probably their personal stash, and they are not going to live long enough to get out of jail and come looking for us. And anyway, what are they going to do? Beat us to death with their Zimmer Frames?” Mrs Karl was wide-eyed and full of plans for spending their bonanza.

Karl agreed and surmised that the couple probably thought that the police had found their stash of cash. He suggested that they wait until he retired in six months and if no one showed up asking about the van, they were probably in the clear.

They were right, and they got to safely keep the money, but money strangely accrued can have a peculiar effect on those doing the accruing, and Karl and his missus didn’t relax until news eventually came that the old couple had died in prison.


Tony Bone couldn’t spell hygiene.

The Health Inspector could, but his spelling was hampered by the smell of money — a large pile of money ironically delivered in a hamburger wrapper.

This happened once a month.

Tony Bone wasn’t in when Sam called, but he rang Sam back that night, and they arranged to meet the following day.

People are rarely there when you want them to be, and so it was when Sam rang Tony Bone, but later that night Tony picked up the phone.

“Is there any chance you could have the place tidied up a bit. I’m allergic,” Sam wasn’t kidding.

“That’s a bit rude Sam, and anyway, what are you allergic to?”

“Death. And I’m pretty sure that I could catch several things that might kill me if I ever went anywhere near your bathrooms.”

“A bloke did die in there once, but that had more to do with a sharp instrument. Which was never found, by the way.”

“I’ll bet it’s still in there somewhere along with the body, not to mention Jimmy Hoffa and Amelia Earhart.”

“I know who Amelia Earhart is but who the hell is Jimmy Hoffa?”

“Forget it. I’ll see you tomorrow. I may be a little late. I’ll need to make sure my inoculations are up to date.”


Sam survived his trip to ‘Cafe What?’ and strangely, Tony was forthcoming. He seemed to know about the coat and who it likely belonged to.

“That was Bruno Mars’ signature. He was Dannie Welner’s enforcer.

Danny, Bruno and the rest of the gang liked to eat at Cafe Bella in Carlton. The owner was a citizen, but a lot of The Crew wanted to hang out in there. The food was particularly good. So good in fact, that when the chef wanted to leave, Dannie gave him a ten thousand dollar bonus to stay. The money was an incentive, but in any case, no one said no to Dannie. That chef worked there until they dimmed Dannie’s headlights. When bodies were dropping all over the place, and Dannie needed someone dead, he would book a table at Cafe Bella. When the owner greeted them, they would hand the owner their coats. On nights like that, they always had coats, no matter what the weather was like. If Dannie insisted that he take his lieutenant’s coat, the owner knew that this was the signal. He would take the coat to a vacant block of land at the back of the restaurant and wait until Bruno walked out of the shadows. Bruno would hand the restaurant owner a knife and tell him to make a slit in the lining and Bruno would remove the cash and the instructions. The owner usually returned the coat, but once or twice the coat didn’t come back. Bruno never kept the coats, but sometimes, no one knew exactly why he would take the coat to the scene of the murder and leave it nearby. Bruno was more than a little bit nuts, so maybe he thought it was some sort of signature. Maybe he thought he was frightening people. He needn’t have bothered, everyone was terrified of the mad bastard. Not even his mother shed a tear when Big Mick shot him in the back of that cafe. Shot him with his own gun, which was a nice touch.”

“Thanks, Tony, you saved me a lot of legwork. You’ll send me your bill?”

This was a euphemism, as Sam always paid Tony with a case of Scotch. Blended if the info was lightweight and twelve-year-old single malt if the info was relevant. This one was worth a case of something very special.

“Don’t bother Sam. This one is on the house. That arsehole Bruno killed my favourite cousin. Anything that heaps shit on his grave comes free of charge.”

Sam was momentarily speechless. Tony had NEVER been known to give anything away for free.

“Thanks, Tony.”

Tony was and still is a low life, but just for a moment, Sam felt sorry for the cafe owner with the dead cousin.


Always in the morning


“I’ve been working for Charlie Varick for about four years, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

The question came out of nowhere, and it really pissed me off. It’s a job, what difference does it make? When I go home, I leave work at work.

“What difference does it make? He’s a fucking private eye, and he uses you as a decoy.”

“I’m his secretary, and the decoy stuff only happens every now and then. Mostly, it isn’t dangerous, and mostly I answer the phones and make appointments. Of course, there is coffee and dry cleaning, but mostly it’s answering phones.”

My parents were in town for a couple of days, and I was glad to see them; well ‘glad’ is probably too strong a word, but it was good to see them. Parents should be kept at a distance that is directionally proportional to the amount of shit they put you through as a kid. Mine weren’t that bad but using this formula they should be at least 427 kilometres away at all times.

I’m 26 years old, gorgeous and leggy with long black wavy hair that men hold on to when they are making love to me. Not that there are that many of them.

I like men, just in small doses.

Not small in the way you are thinking, just small in the sense of time I have to spend in close proximity. Charlie’s different, but he is old, at least 47 years old, and he is taken, but he treats me like I’m someone. Like I count in the grand scheme of things. I guess he is so relaxed because he is old, and old people don’t worry so much about stuff.

My dad was wound up, but I know it was my mum who put him up to it.

“We just want you to be safe; safe and happy. That’s all your mother, and I have ever wanted.”

“I know dad.” Things seemed to be calming down now that the shouting had stopped.

It was still early. Hotel restaurants tend to wind down around 9:30 pm, and it was now way past that, so we had the room to ourselves except for the girl at the bar and the waiter who was doing a little shuffle that was Morse code for ‘they don’t pay me past 10:00 pm even if you are still here drinking coffee, and I have a home to go to, and my dog misses me’.

It was a complicated dance.

My father, mother and I talked about nothing for another fifteen minutes before my dad signed the bill and they went up to their room. I stood and watched as they walked up the staircase. My mother clung to the handrail as though it was saving her from a sinking ship. My dad negotiated the stairs easily enough because he never used elevators unless he absolutely had to.

I asked him about it once, and he said that it was his small concession to keeping fit, but I think it had more to do with the stories that his father brought home.


 His dad was a fireman, and he would be called out to rescue cats and people, and sometimes he was expected to free individuals who had been trapped — sometimes these people had been stuck in elevators, and he delighted in terrifying his children with stories of people who had gone insane after being stuck in an elevator for six hours.

“One bloke tried to chew his arm off, which seemed pointless to me. It wasn’t as though they had him in handcuffs — he was trapped in a lift for fuck sake. Now if he had tried to eat through the door, that I could understand, but his arm — that’s just nuts.”

I sat on the overstuffed couch in the hotel’s foyer and tried to collect my thoughts.

I still had half an hour before I was to meet Charlie at Bar Alfredo on Little Collins Street. I walked the short distance up Collins and turned left onto Exhibition. Little Collins was the first on the left, and the bar was about two hundred metres down.

This end of the street had been disrupted by building activities for nearly two years, which made it difficult to negotiate on foot, or by car. The street was already very narrow, and its name gave the hint. ‘Little’ Collins Street was originally an access road for the rear of the larger and more grand edifices on Collins Street. Deliveries would be made, and tradesmen would be admitted.

It was best to keep the grubby people out of sight.

These days the ‘Little’ streets were home to trendy bars and eateries as well as exclusive apartments and the occasional clothing shop.

The footpath on both sides is extremely narrow, and I was forced to step out onto the road to let a large rude man pass by. He looked vaguely familiar until I remembered I had not seen him before — he was exactly how Charlie had described the man I was supposed to ‘distract’.

 “He’s big, about 40 years old, always wears a dark suit with a red handkerchief in his top pocket, and he smells like lemons. He will be sitting at the bar because he always sits at the bar. Third stool from the far end as you come in the front door.”

I had the feeling that these instructions and this description were going to go to waste.

To get to Bar Alfredo, I first had to walk past a narrow laneway and at this time of night the laneway was in complete darkness. Being a female living in the big city, I avoided dark laneways because I wanted to go on ‘living in the big city’.

As I looked into the darkness, I saw Charlie lying in a pool of his own blood.

I say ‘saw’, but that’s not what I mean. I didn’t see him with my eyes; I saw him in a vision. The dark laneway was like a giant projector screen and on it I saw Charlie’s exact location, as though it were daylight.

I used my phone to light the way to the spot that I knew Charlie would be lying. He was behind some boxes with a single knife wound in the middle of his chest.

I would love to say that he lived long enough to look into my eyes and tell me who had killed him. I would like to tell you what his last words were and that he had smiled before he died, but I can’t.

He was gone by the time I got to him — warm but gone.

I sat next to him for what seemed like forever and thought about my life and wondered what Charlie thought when the large man in the dark suit took his life. I wondered what my life was going to be like from now on. I wondered if my mum and dad had gone to sleep yet.

I don’t remember ringing anyone, but I must have because an ambulance arrived closely followed by the police.

The weather was warm, so I was wondering why there was so much fog around and why did my voice sound funny, and why was the police officer mumbling?

When I came to I was sitting on the back step of the ambulance with an oxygen mask on my face. A young policeman was trying to get my attention, and the ambo wanted to get him to give me a break.

“Give her a minute mate; she’s had a rough night.”

The policeman ignored the world-weary ambulance driver. The brash young policeman considered civilians to be annoying. They kept passing out or screaming or generally being uncooperative. He just wanted to get a statement so he could get back on patrol. The homicide detectives would be along very soon, and they would shoo him away like an unwanted blow-fly.

“Miss? Miss? How did you know he was in that alley? Did you hear something? Did you see anyone come out of the alley?”

I was trying to decide which question to answer first when it occurred to me that this was all very strange.

“I had a vision, which was weird. I don’t normally get visions at night-time. I always get my visions in the morning.”

The police officer stopped asking me questions after that, and he and the ambo were looking at each other with the strangest expression on their faces. I don’t think that they believed me, and I wanted them too. This was a first for me.

A pair of plain-clothed detectives arrived and scooped me up and headed me towards their car but before I got in, I gave it one last try to convince my interrogator.

“I really did see him lying there, in the dark, which was weird. I always get my visions in the morning.”   

Out Of Nowhere


“Have you ever been to Egypt Mrs Bennett?”

“Yes, I have. Our father took us on a tour of all the major sites in Egypt when we were children.”

“All five-star hotels and hot and cold running servants, I’ll bet.”

Scarlett was already on guard, and under normal circumstances, she would not have made this arrangement, but these were not ‘usual circumstances’, so here she was.

“You can waste time denigrating my family if you wish, but need I remind you that you called me, and it was you who asked to meet.”

Appearing to be only vaguely interested in the proceedings was a ploy that Sam had taught her. ‘If you seem too eager, the seller will know they have the upper hand.’ Sam knew about this kind of thing. It was a big part of his life until he had met her. Getting information from someone who does not want to give it up without a fight, is a skill learned after many a bruise.

“I don’t know what ‘denigrate’ means, but if it means hanging shit on rich people then that’s me. But, you are right, I did ask you here. I want to help you, Mrs Bennett. Word is out that you are looking for the reason behind the attack on your husband.”

“What is this ‘help’ going to cost me? Or are you going to pass it on for free because you would not like to become one of those rich people that you despise?”

“I don’t have a problem being a little bit rich.”

“I can make you a little bit rich but only if your information leads me to the people I’m looking for, and answers to all of my questions. Right now I don’t know what is going on so if I walk out that door I am no worse off than when I got here. So why don’t we stop dancing around each other, and you tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what it is worth.”

Their conversation lasted exactly thirty-four minutes and at the end of it Scarlett wrote an amount on a piece of paper and pushed it towards the slightly dishevelled woman sitting across from her. Scarlett had seen this done in a movie, and she had always wanted to do it and now she could. The slightly dishevelled woman had apparently seen the same movie because she read the amount and nodded meaningfully.

Scarlett reached into her bag and pulled out a post office box key. She slid this across the worn Laminex table.

“This is the key to box 237 at the Belgrave post office. Half the money will be in that box tomorrow. You take the money and leave me the rest of the information that you promised. When this problem has been resolved, I will put the rest of the money in the box. But you had better hope that this information leads me to the people I am looking for because I have powerful friends, and they would not like to see me being taken for a ride. It’s your choice; be rich because you held up your part of the bargain, or be hounded by the authorities for being a crook and a con-woman.”

Scarlett’s threats were idle. She just wanted to find the people who hurt Sam; revenge on a scruffy woman who was probably taking her life in her hands by passing on information was not on her agenda. If it all worked out, she planned to add a little extra money to the pile. It was only money after all. If her information led to Sam’s tormentors, then it would be worth every penny.

“Belgrave! That’s the middle of bloody nowhere. Why did you have to make it bloody Belgrave?”

“You live ten minutes from Richmond Railway Station, and Belgrave is the last stop on the line. Even if you fall asleep, you cannot miss your station. And besides, you can take a trip on Puffing Billy while you are there, or get an excellent cup of coffee at Reel Cafe, or pizza at La Colina. It’s a beautiful part of the world, and you look like someone who could use a bit of beauty in her life.”

The last time Karen Clark’s house had been cleaned Queen Elizabeth the second was being crowned. Sitting in her kitchen was necessary, but leaving it was a relief.


Finally, a break in the gloom.

Karen Clark had popped up out of nowhere, and the information she gave was enough to start with. In a couple of days Scarlett would have it all, and if it were as good as the scruffy Ms Clark said it was, it would lead to the reason and the people behind Sam’s near death experience.

Scarlett travelled directly from her meeting and deposited the first half of the money in the Belgrave post office box. She could have waited until the next day, but her excitement carried her forward. The hardest part would be to wait for two more days to receive the balance of the information.

Scarlett walked the few steps to the Laughing Owl Cafe, ‘the cafe with a conscience’, and sat outside with her ‘long black’ and tried to work out her next move. “I wonder how all the cafes without a conscience live with themselves?” asked Scarlett with a smile. Belgrave was alive with the late lunch crowd and a few mums grabbing a coffee before the onslaught of collecting their children from school. She could hear Puffing Billy arrive at the station, and soon a surge of tourists would flood the main street.


Erstwhile Antiquities was situated at the top end of Collins Street; the so-called Paris End.

Any two items in its sparsely stocked interior would account for the price of a modern two bedroomed apartment.

Scarlett was no stranger to such exclusive establishments, and she knew that her presence would not arouse suspicion. She didn’t have all of the information but she did know that this shop was at the heart of the mystery.

Many of the pieces being offered for sale were of disputed origin. A hundred or more years ago thousands of objects were looted from countries that were colonised by the major European powers.

Egypt was a favourite target, and the West’s fascination with all things Egyptian fuelled the frenzy.

In modern times, governments have strict laws governing the removal and sale of such items, but the rich have their rules, and they always have.

From the price tags, none of which were on display, (if you have to ask, you can’t afford it) you would think that the owners could live comfortably for several months every time the cash register rang, but selling these items wasn’t the problem; obtaining sufficient stock was the big problem.

The shop itself had been there since the mid-1880s, and along the way, it’s highly polished copper framed windows had seen Melbourne grow to be one of the most sophisticated cities in the world. Its brash older sister was slightly larger, but she would never have the class that Melbourne had, and it drove her crazy. Sydney had the Opera House, but Melbourne would remind them that not a single original work had been written to be performed there; most of the artists and most of the money was in Melbourne.

Scarlett needed to see for herself but in reality there was not much to be seen. The shop was well presented, but the lone staff member seemed to be remarkably ill-informed.

“Do you have any Egyptian artefacts other than the ones on display?” asked Scarlett

“Not at the moment madam, Egyptian pieces are hard to source.”

“Can I ask where the Ankh came from?”

“I’m sorry madam, which piece were you referring to?”

A salesperson in an antiquities shop should be able to recognise an Ankh.

“The gold cross-shaped piece in the showcase. Do you know where it was found?”

“Oh, that. I’m not sure. I’ll have to look it up.”

“Don’t worry about that for the moment. May I have a look at it please?” said Scarlett.

“Certainly madam.”

As the young woman walked over to the antique glass display case, Scarlett noticed the storeroom door open. An ugly looking man with a three-day growth looked out briefly before closing the door. He looked out of place in such a high-class establishment as did his friend who was stacking something into a box.

Scarlett handled the Ankh, made the appropriate noises and left the store. Collins Street shops are serviced by a labyrinth of laneways which dated back to a time when tradespeople were kept away from the front door.

Scarlett did not have to walk very far to find a narrow laneway which led to an even smaller laneway which ran across the back of the Antiquities shop. A small van was parked, and one of the ugly gentlemen was putting a box into the back of it. The van didn’t appear to have any markings, but Scarlett photographed it for future reference.


The taxi driver was beginning to wonder who he was waiting for when the unmarked white van emerged from the lane way.

“The white van, can you follow it please?” Scarlett was excited, but it was no time to abandon her manners.

The taxi driver didn’t bat an eyelid. Maybe it happens all the time, in any case, he knew what he was doing, and the van driver didn’t spot that he was being followed. Their journey took them to Doncaster and just as the driver was about to point out the total on the meter, the white van pulled into the driveway of an enormous house on Elizabeth Street, only a few doors up from the Water Lily Farm. Scarlett took note of the address, but she felt she had pushed her luck enough for one day, so she asked the driver to take her home. All through the pursuit and on the journey home, the driver said nothing. In the annals of taxi driver history, this was a first.

“You are very quiet for a taxi driver?”  said Scarlett.

“Yes, missus.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Yes, missus. My wife says I’m boring when I talk, so I tend to keep my mouth shut most of the time.”

When he got home that night, the taxi driver had a story to tell and a bundle of money to show for what should have been a quiet day. He took his wife out for dinner at their local Indian restaurant. He ordered chicken tandoori, and she had butter chicken. They drank wine, and his wife didn’t think he was boring that night.


Scarlett waited two days before she checked the post office box. There was an envelope stuffed with papers and a note wishing her good luck.

She sat at Cafe Reel and carefully read through the information. The cafe was quiet, and no one seemed interested in her.

She didn’t know who Bill Deaks was, but it would not take her long to find out, she was not the only person who wanted to catch Sam’s tormentor.

As it turned out, Bill Deaks was into all sorts of nefarious goings on. His favourite pastime was collecting rare items. He built his collection while brokering deals for people with more money than they could possibly spend.

Word had it that he had gotten his hands on the Archibald Ankh. It was so named because Reginald Archibald looted it from the Great Pyramid of Giza in 1932. The Ankh disappeared when Archibald was killed. He was waiting in a cafe in Cairo when someone silently slipped a dagger between his ribs. Everyone thought he was drunk, so it took more than an hour before he was discovered. According to the staff, and particularly the bartender, his customer never arrived, and no one remembers anyone else sitting at that table. Bartenders are notoriously unreliable.

There were alleged sightings every few decades, but the Archibald Ankh never surfaced in public, let alone come up for sale. It was widely believed that it was in one of two private collections — the Tilbury or the Westfield collections. Both collectors were now old or near death and both had a reputation for taking rather than paying for items with a checkered history. Archibald was reputed to be asking a vast fortune for his Ankh, and it got him killed.

Her scruffy informant had done well, and Scarlett momentarily wondered how she came by such detailed information. She put the fat envelope into the P.O. box and gave it a pat for good luck. The dishevelled Ms Clark had earned her money. Scarlett doubted she would spend it wisely. Most probably she would splash it around and draw attention to herself. Assuming that Bill Deaks was not a complete idiot, he would probably work out that something was up, and a beating was coming her way. She’d eventually confess her deal with Scarlett, which would end her life. Scarlett could see it unfolding like a cheap movie, and she was powerless to stop it. Her concern was how long this scenario would take to play out. If she got lucky it might take weeks; unlucky and it could be days. Either way, she needed to move quickly.

Instinct told her that Deaks did not yet have the Ankh, and it also told her that Sam probably knew where it was. Deaks was probably waiting for Sam’s memory to return.

Assuming her theories were correct, it did not make any sense for Deaks to try and kill Sam. She was hoping that he wanted Sam alive, and the accident was just that — an accident.

Finding the missing Ankh seemed like a good idea, “But where does one start.”

Scarlett realised that her last thought was said out loud, and the girl mopping floors looked at her as though an answer was required.

“Sorry, just thinking out loud,” said Scarlett.

“That’s okay; I do that all the time. Drives my husband crazy, but he’s a bastard, so I don’t care. Oops! There I go again.”