As the syndicate puts pressure on him to fill the shoes of his murdered boss, Murdoch is cornered by an equally formidable foe: the Australian Tax Office demanding an explanation for his sizeable cash income.

Murdoch spins a beautiful lie, telling tax inspector, Hannah Simms, he’s a private detective. When Simms asks him to investigate the mystery of her niece’s disappearance, Murdoch grabs what he thinks is a golden opportunity to outrun the syndicate. But his arrival in the missing girl’s small coastal home town causes an unexpected stir and the reluctant PI soon realises his troubles are only just beginning.

HEADLAND is noir crime at its best, a thriller to keep you guessing until the very end.

Chapter One

She came for Murdoch on a Tuesday night, like maybe she knew it was the night he sorted his stock. Later, of course, there was no maybe about it. She knew all right, the same way she knew to bring six big men.

In the moments before they kicked his door in, Murdoch had been standing in the dark at the grubby window of his rooftop shack. Heavy winter clouds rolled across the Sydney sky and the cold night air outside had left a thick layer of condensation inside the panes. Murdoch wiped it off with his forearm and stared out at the next building along: a stubby block of flats (or ‘units’ as the locals called them), lit up like a dozen little stages. He did this too often, hidden in the dark of his unlit shack on the unlit roof of the warehouse, peering down at his neighbours like a dirty old man. But what else was he supposed to do: turn on the light and stare at his own reflection instead? There was nothing of interest there. A pale face too old for its thirty-something years, coal black eyes, ginger hair he’d never worn longer than a skinhead. He’d rather look at anyone else in the world. Besides, there was something about the building next door that kept pulling him back. The fighting couples, the kids chasing in and out of view, the women walking around in towels: they were a puzzle Murdoch couldn’t solve, but still couldn’t leave alone. He’d toyed with the idea of breaking in over there; hiding microphones in the lives he could see from a distance and learning what normal people spoke about. But there was a rule about avoiding unnecessary risks and, besides, he wasn’t mental.

On this mid-winter Tuesday night, Murdoch watched a young Asian bloke moving around his kitchen: choosing, chopping, frying in bursts of steam. A dark-haired woman came into view and said something that made the bloke laugh, made him reach for her until she danced out of the way. A light rain was beginning to obscure the view and the smell of Murdoch’s own dinner was demanding his attention; a tinfoil lasagne was thawing in the oven that provided his shack’s only heating. But Murdoch wanted to know if the Chinese guy would stop his cooking and go after the girl. If maybe they’d leave the curtains open for that too. He never found out because, just then, his door screamed into splinters.

Murdoch made it less than halfway to the Beretta under his bed before they had him down. They were very professional, one on each limb, none of them firmer than they needed to be. But when he tried to thrash himself free, he could hardly move.

‘Get off me, you bastards. I’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve got the wrong bloke …’

Soon he heard his noise was the only noise there was, and heard it wasn’t helping. He stopped struggling then and focused on his breath instead, heavy and liquid against the concrete floor. This was what they were waiting for. The guy on his right arm, the only one Murdoch could see, was a huge Islander, all neck and perfect teeth, an All Black in another life. Drops of rain glistened on his tattoos as he shouted through the broken front door.

‘Down!’

The message was repeated across the warehouse roof – ‘Down’, ‘Down’ – so now there were at least six of them and Murdoch began to sweat. The huge goods lift started grinding down to the ground floor.

A woman had once told Murdoch he was like a cattle dog – all prick and sinew, and not an ounce of fat. Murdoch had been happy with that. You get too big, he’d told her, and some bastard’s always got to prove he’s bigger. But these blokes didn’t have to prove a thing.

‘Relax.’ The Islander grinned down at him. ‘You behave, buddy, and you won’t get hurt.’

Murdoch knew what he must look like: the cattle dog after losing a fight, eyes wild, but nothing much else able to move.

‘Get off me, then!’

He’d wanted to keep the fear from his voice, but it came out as aggression.

‘Soon, buddy. Soon.’

The lift creaked and slammed in the distance and, too soon, started its way back up the warehouse floors. Then the concrete beneath Murdoch vibrated as the huge car shuddered to a halt and the rumble of its cables was replaced by the shriek of its heavy metal doors. After that there was no sound but the rain until the broken door of the shack whined on its hinges and firm footsteps entered the room. A pair of shoes – black and business-like – stopped close to Murdoch’s face.

‘Bill Murdoch. Sorry about the unexpected visit.’

A woman’s voice. Well-spoken, but so husky it croaked, like she’d started smoking in the womb. Then silence again.

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to talk to you, Bill.’

‘Who are you?’

‘We’ll get to that.’

‘Get these bastards off me.’

The shoes adjusted and pinstriped trousers bent at the knee until she was squatting close above him: a big woman with thick hair and strong features. Straight nose, clear skin, bright blue eyes under shaped eyebrows. She tilted her head to one side and examined him – should she put the dog down or spend the money on a vet? She unbuttoned her pinstriped jacket and held it open to reveal a Glock 26, snug in its Serpa.

‘There’s a round in the chamber, Bill. You sure I can let you up?’

This was when you were supposed to give in. Sigh, cry, look at the floor and promise to be a good boy. Murdoch held the woman’s eye and nodded slowly.

The heavies picked him up like boys playing with a toy they’d promised not to break. They dropped him into the only chair in the shack, then started up a silent card game standing around the table near the oven. Murdoch recognised one of them. A big pink guy he did business with most Saturdays, face like a butcher in an ad on the telly. The woman stood apart, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. She glanced at the remnants of Murdoch’s shattered door, rolled her eyes, then looked back at him with an apologetic smile.

‘I’m Maria Dinos. You won’t have heard of me. But I’ve heard all about you, Bill, and what I hear is good. So, I’m here to make you an offer. If you turn me down we’ll be off again and none of this ever happened. You won’t see Tommy here,’ – she nodded towards the pink-faced man – ‘on a Saturday night. If you see any of us again, we won’t recognise you. And you won’t recognise us, you got that?’

Murdoch held her eye but said nothing. His dinner was burning, he was surprised none of them could smell it. Maria Dinos smiled.

‘That’s smart, Bill, letting me do the talking. I like that. It’s an example of why we’d like to work with you. Put that down!’

Murdoch followed her glare to the shortest of the heavies, a cube of a man with dreadlocks and a bulbous nose. He had picked up a beer bottle from the work surface next to the oven. The cube blushed and apologised, said he was just moving it out the way of his elbow, boss, then watched shamefaced as the Islander with the tattoos reached past him with gloved hands, wiped the bottle down on his T-shirt and put it back in its original position.

‘Oven’s on, boss,’ said the Islander. ‘Something’s burning in there.’

‘Well, bloody well turn it off then.’

The breezeblock wall had left grey dust on Maria Dinos’s sleeve and now she was smacking at the pinstripes like a woman too harsh with a child. She gave up on the job and looked around at the rest of the spartan shack, eyebrows raised at how little there was to see. Spotting Murdoch’s noticeboard, a riot of colour amongst the grey, she wandered over to inspect its contents. A year’s worth of pages pulled from magazines: comfortable houses overlapping with gardens, creased living rooms hiding smoothed out kitchens. She poked through the pages, smirking at the flinch this produced in Murdoch.

‘So, I’m guessing you’d like me to cut the bull and just get on with my offer?’

Still Murdoch just sat and looked at her, the only noise the slap of the cards on the table. Maria smiled, less kindly than before.

‘The thing is, Bill, I’m here to offer you a job.’

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