Ok, now, what you have read so far with ‘SHIRE OF VICTORIA PLAINS – PERDITION & RETRIBUTION’, comes from the opening parts of a novel I have penned, that I am yet to edited fully. Now, as such, I am not going to continue with the rest of the 102059 words. I was going to leave it as a bit of a cliff hanger to be honest.
However, there is a rather impressive reader that has been following this wee story of mine, and specifically because of that awesome person, I am bending the rules a bit. Before I say who this is, I now need to fill in the gaps somewhat between what you have read so far, and what happens up until the point of the story that I have added below.
Several more lasses disappear after leaving well known pubs and night spots in Perth. Their bodies are found within a day of their disappearances, none died well.
Four Vietnam Veterans, the same that caught up at Webleys, are amongst the fathers of the girls that have gone missing. As a result, they partner up, slowly piece together all of the events, and build a suspect list. Once they have eliminated all other suspects, they then begin to hunt for the last two suspects.
So, all of that said, and to repeat myself, I wasn’t going to post this very last bit. However, Darcie Eddington, this is just for you.
Epilogue – Peep Sight
Tool box open, he extracted those pieces specific to the job ahead, placing the lot into the centre, and then wrapped with finite care into his forty something year old hoochie, the plastic sheet he had been issued and used as a shelter in the field. Lastly, the hoochie went into the bottom of his croquet bag. Mallets and balls put in Tetris like after it. From there he placed the whole lot onto the back seat of his Audi, shut the door, and went inside to make a cup of tea, read the paper, and wait for his Grandchildren to arrive.
In a house three suburbs away, something similar was happening. The bits and pieces and tools of his now long retired trade were being carefully placed into a khaki kit bag that had see quite a few years, and a lot of better days. He tied the top as per instruction, and placed it just inside the front door. Without a second thought, he then strolled into the bathroom, showered, shaved, and dressed. On completion he called down the passage to his wife, and not unkindly bellowed “I’m ready to go dear. Let’s get going.” To which he opened the front door for his wife of thirty seven years, then collected his kit bag, and placed it into the boot of his pride and joy. A moment later the matt black 1968 Mustang roared into life, and off they went. Ten minutes on, his wife now dropped off at her elderly mothers nursing home flat, he went to work.
Professionals, true professionals, are never late. They are never half prepared. Generally they need not even speak when dealing with others like themselves in their trade. The job they have before them is undertaken with the minimum of fuss, and inspires no emotion. Emotion is for the ill prepared and the incompetent. It is the result that counts.
The two men that were now pulling away from the curb in a late model Landrover Defender had just finished attaching a tradesman’s trailer to the vehicle. They chatted amiably as anyone does when on the way to work. No need to talk over the job, they are already as efficient and effective as any professional can be. Why waste the breath? Other tool bags and equipment had been neatly stowed in the rear of the vehicle between a blue 5ltr water bottle, and an Engel car fridge.
In perfect synchronisation each of the three vehicles pulled up and stopped at their individual workplaces. All occupants exited their vehicles, grabbed their respective kits, and unhurriedly got on with it. Work benches and all other necessary equipment was carefully put together; deft fingers belonging to hands that knew each piece of kit so intimately that thought was not required in the construction.
Parked on the corner of Parker St., a wet saw was removed from the trailer behind the Landrover, placed on the verge, water was attached and the generator started. Pavers were stacked beside it, one of the men started marking them for cutting. The other was putting down the back seats of the vehicle, and beginning to arrange the water bottle, a jerry can, the Engel, and one or two other implements strategically in the rear of the vehicle. When he had finished, a narrow gap formed from the now folded down back seats, creating a passage and clear firing line leading through the space now formed by the slightly open back door. Once complete, he arranged the cement mixer and the wheelbarrow on the trailer similarly, aligning everything perfectly. The gaps made between the gear in the trailer, the bits and pieces in the rear of the vehicle, and the space formed by the open door were all perfectly positioned. The view it offered was down the hill, to the footpath fifteen metres away.
WIth the vehicle just up the hill from the corner of Darley, some eighty metres downhill from the rear of the trailer, running parallel to a three metre high brick garden fence; ivy was creeping over the top. A large green skip bin filled the verge, covering one third of the footpath, unwittingly creating a narrow walk way of approximately five metres in length, roughly one in width. The Audi driver was now hobbling up the hill between them, his walking stick taking his weight, the incline slowing him. He stopped at the end of the narrow passage, stepped off the footpath, onto the verge, and leant against the edge of the large rectangular bin to regain his breath.
It was 9 o’clock, their routine Saturday morning run around the bridges complete, a pair of fashionably attired joggers entered a cafe on Mends Street in South Perth, exactly as they had every Saturday for the last three years. The staff, familiar with the pair and their routine had ensured the usual table was waiting for them. No order was required, within a minute two plates, one bearing Eggs Benedict, the other Eggs Florentine, were placed politely in front of them. A pot of tea with one cup appeared as if by magic next, to be finally joined by a large flat white coffee and two orange juices over ice.
He was 34, and had finished his Articles four years prior. Now profession had him practicing Criminal Law as a Barrister. She, 32, was Doctor of Medicine; training as a Senior Registrar in Psychiatry, with leanings toward Forensic Psychiatry. She would complete her studies in seven weeks time.
Once the pair had finished eating, payment for the meal was made via credit card produced from a small slim leather wallet, extracted like a rabbit from a hat from somewhere about his body. Breakfast complete, the pair left without thinking of offering a word of thanks, strode purposely out of the little cafe. Turning south, they crossed the road whilst moving toward a corner hotel, east onto Mill Point Road, and began a slow jog up a hill bordering the Perth Zoo. Nora led, knowing Jacks focus was on her small neat buttocks, passing an awkwardly parked Mustang as she smiled at the thought. There was a green skip bin taking up the verge and part of the foot path just ahead of her. This irritated her. This was change; changes to routine irritated her immensely.
Seated in the rear seat of the immaculate old Ford, he gazed through the peep sight of an old .303 Lee-Enfield rifle. A relic of the Second World War left to him by his now dead father; a tool in his hands and nothing more, the rifle extending diagonally across the interior of the vehicle. The end of the barrel stopping 15cm from the 6cm gap formed between the glass and window frame of the almost wound up passenger window.
A deafening high pitched squeal cracked the morning, as someone started cutting pavers not more than forty metre’s away. This irritated her further.
At exactly the same moment as the cacophony tore into the otherwise quiet morning, Jack jogged behind the petite Nora, and found that due to the obstruction on the verge, they were forced to run between the skip bin and the fence. Seemingly from nowhere, an elderly chap with a walking stick, blocked their path entirely as he slowly plodded up the hill toward the gap at the other end. Reaching the end of the skip bin, the man collapsed, falling face forward to the footpath, rolled onto his side, giving the impression of one in enormous pain, pathetically grasping his chest; eye’s screwed shut, anguish written across his creased and weathered face.
The uninhibited view across the open sights of his old, and similarly inherited .303, filled with petite female jogger. He heard the saw stop and start twice.
Within one hundredth of a second of each other, two hair triggers had the minimum amount of pressure applied, and roared, sounding as one. The blast was greatly diminished by the deafening saw, and the generator powering it.
Red mist clouded from the back of one, and the chest of the other jogger.
The chap on the ground with the walking stick was on his feet as soon as the pair fell. Moving with the vitality of a man dramatically younger than the one so recently held in throes of cardiac failure.
He walked over to the pair, his stick now in two, transforming into two .303 loaded smokies, a bullet encased in the end of each stick, holding half in either hand.
The girl was the first encountered. He turned her wide eyed head to the side with his boot and pressed the end of the smoky firmly against her temple, creating enough downward force for the rear of the bullet, centrefire, to hit its firing pin; there was a muffled bang, and he moved to the male on the ground behind, repeating the process. Job complete, he screwed the two pieces back together, strolled back around the industrial bin, and moved back into the role of ‘doddery old man struggling up hill’. Behind him, on the uphill side of the skip bin, a wooden pallet was lifted from the ground on the verge, and settled on its narrow edge across the space between bin and wall, blocking the path. This was mirrored at the other by the man recently seated in a Mustang. A a pair of orange ‘A’ framed ‘Detour’ signs, arrows pointing toward the road, were put onto the footpath, placing them a metre distant from the pallets. A sheet of old canvas was thrown over the bodies, paver’s were added to hold it down, stopping it from blowing, exposing the bodies to the rest of the world.
The trailer was neatly loaded, and the men left.
By Saturday night –
One of the men had played an above average game of croquet, and was enjoying a beer with his son.
One of the men managed a smile for his aged mother in law.
One of the men took his sister out for lunch at ‘The Secret Garden’ on Angelo Street in South Perth.
One of the men mowed his lawn, and spent the rest of the day watching the football.
The two bodies had been found by three inquisitive ten year old boys in search of wet cement, and the hope of scrawling their names within it at about two that afternoon.
That evening, unknown to the rest of the world, the bodies of the worst serial killers in Australia’s short history, lay unidentified in a Perth morgue fridge. It would be ten days before the identity of the pair would be established.
Western Australian Police would unsuccessfully investigate the double murder for the following four and a half years. Forensic pathology would tell them that the pair had been shot from opposite angles, through the chest, and both through the side of the head at point blank range.
The four bullets that were extracted from the Mill Point Road footpath and residential garden wall were all identified as the same calibre, .303. Yet further investigation proved that whilst the same calibre, each bullet had been fired from different firearm’s. Two being identified as rifles, fired over a relatively short distance. The other two bullets, whilst again having been fired from different weapons, remained a mystery as to the design of firearm used at point blank range. Speculation, however, was that the head shots most likely came from either a pair of cut down rifles, or, more likely, by a pair of ‘smokies’ as used by fishermen. The serial killings plaguing Perth ceased. The murderer or murderers never found.
Four men ran into each other sporadically at the ANZAC Day parade in Perth, never speaking of the lives laid to waste that particular Saturday morning.
As with all life, over time they passed quietly away. Headstones declared them fathers, husbands, and ‘dearly beloved’. At their separate wakes, people spoke of them as Vietnam Veterans, but in a manner of mostly general ignorance.
So there you go, and Darcie, I hope you enjoyed it. When I eventually get around to publishing that particular novel, expect a copy in the mail.
Darcie, click the picture.
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