Oi, you cheeky bastards, Georgy boy here again. Thought you'd get rid of me after the first chapter? Nah, mate. I'm stuck in your head now like a terrible hangover. Reckon you're wondering' what kinda shitshow living with Martin turned into? Grab a cold one, settle in—it's only goanna get feral from here. Bloody oath.
We rocked, checking' the apartment, Martin rabbiting' on about how the place was a ripper—two solid bedrooms for his bullshit, open living' room with high ceilings big arseload windows letting' the sun pour in. Perfect for growing' green if you were so inclined. Not saying' I did.
You know how Brisbane rentals are either shotholes full of mould or priced like a politician's kickbacks? This one was the sort; splitting' the rent made it almost bearable. Almost.
Rent was a kick in the guts, but half-price between us two drongos, so we shook on it right there and moved in the same arvo. Me? Packed my crap in ten minutes—army duffel, couple changes of undies, Blue's lead. Rachel's Hilux did the job. Martin rolled up the next morning' with boxes of lab gear, looking dodgier than a servo hotdog after dark. Bloke packed like he was heading' to the apocalypse, but only for his test tubes.
Spent a couple of days unpacking, claiming' turf. I snagged the back bedroom—further from the road noise sets me nerves jangling'. Martin took the front one near the lounge. Blue approved by pissing' on both doors equally. Once sorted, we fell rhythm, like two stray dogs circling' the same food bin, not quite mates but not tearing' each other's throats either.
Livin' with a stranger's like picking a feral cat at the servo—you Dunno if it'll purr or take a chunk outta ya thigh. Martin? He was the purring' type. Mostly.
Turned out sharing' with Martin wasn't half bad. Quiet as a mouse with its throat cut, regular as clockwork. Lights out by ten most nights, gone before I could drag my wrecked carcass outta bed. Hospital lab days, uni morgue others, or those marathons walks taking him through the Valley's roughest bits. When something' gripped him, energy like a bull ant on speed. But the crash—sprawled on the couch for days, staring' at the wall like it owed him money. Wouldn't say boo, barely twitched.
Those crash days, his eyes went dead milky faraway, like he was chasing' ghosts in his skull. I'd bet on ice or something' heavier if not for how cleanly he lived—no grog, scrubbed his benches spotless, riddles in the Martin puzzle. Bloke was cleaner than a nun's search history but weirder than a three-headed galah.
Think I'm being' a stickybeak? Fair go. Try bunking' with a corpse-whacker who ghosts for days. You'd be watching' too. Admit it, ya snoop.
Weeks ticked by; I got hooked watching' him. The bloke stood out like a sore thumb. Six feet plus, lean as a whippet, made him look taller. Eyes sharp as a hawk's, cut right through ya—'kept crash mode, they were empty pits. Nose hooked like a dingo's, gave his mug a "don't fuck with me" edge. Chin jutted like it were carved for arguing'.
Hands always filthy with ink or acid burns but touch delicate as a thief lifting' a wallet. I'd clock him setting' gear—pipettes, vials, all precise, no shake after black coffee marathons. Fingers dancing' over equipment worth more than my pension, handling' glass tubes thinner than a politician's promise without breaking' a sweat.
Blue loved him instant, which threw me. Dogs smell bullshit, but mine'd park at Martin's feet during' zombie hours. Martin scratches his ears absent, never breaking' stare. Blue's a righteous judge of character usually—but the postie twice hates me Cousin Davo, who turned out to be nicking' me painkillers. So, Martin passing' the blue test meant something', though I couldn't figure what.
Yeah, yeah, Georgy boy's nosey as a crow. Guilty. Life was drier than a drought paddock—shoulders throbbed constantly, couldn't wander far, Rachel flat with shifts. You'd snoop too, sitting' there rotting'.
Martin was my only entertainment, obsessed with cracking' his code. them wildlife shows where they tag a croc to see where it goes—I was tagging' Martin in me head, tracking' his habits, trying' to make sense bloke I was sharing' four walls with.
No med student—he owned up to. No degree chase neither. But certain rabbit holes? He'd dive deep as the Marianas, knowing' every fact. No casual dabbler works without a plan. Caught him once with a human finger in a jar—an actual finger, mind you—testing' how fast the nail kept growing' after death. Who does that? Martin fuckin' does.
Gaps pissed me off the most. Sweet fuck-all on news, politics, world shit. Mentioned Albanese once—blank stare. "Who's that, mate?"
"The Prime Minister of Australia, your drongo," "Albanese. The Labour bloke who took over in 2022. The one who pissed off half the country with stage three tax cuts flip-flop, copped it for the cost-of-living crisis while jetting around overseas for photo ops. The same Albanese who's letting power bills skyrocket after promising they'd drop by $275?"
Martin shrugged. "Ain't my game."
Dead set. Didn't know the head honcho. Must be bliss—no inflation rage, energy bill nightmares. pure brain space for whatever the fuck he chased.
Solar system ignorance topped it. Bloke didn't know Earth spins 'round the sun. No blush, nothing'. blinked at me as if I'd told him water's wet.
"You look like I shat in your Corn Flakes," he smirked, noticing' me gobsmacked face.
"Cause a brainiac like you misses Year 5 basics!"
"Now I know, I'll scrub it," tapping' his laptop back on.
"Scrub it? Why?"
Sighed heavily, like explaining' to a kid why the sky's blue. "Brain's a tinnie fridge—limited room. Smart cunts stock only useful shit. Idiots cram every servo factoid, burying' gold under junk. Mine's tidy tools for the job, nothing' extra. Add one thing, lose another."
"Solar system's useless?" I couldn't believe me ears. Bloke could tell you how many hairs on a dead man's knuckle but didn't know we orbit the sun.
"Orbits the sun, moon, Jupiter—what the fuck ever — helps catch killers? Nah? Bin it."
Nearly probed the "killers" bit, but his jaw set hard—back off. Stuck though. All knowledge served something'. What? What was this weird bastard doing' with his brain full of death trivia and chemical formulas?
Met obsessives? Chess nuts who can't feed 'themselves? Math whizzes mumbling' to walls? Martins was darker, sneakier. Still hunting' it.
Listed his quirks in a notebook one night while he was out. Felt like a cop building' a profile, but curiosity was eating' me alive:
Martin's Brain Dump:
Lit/News—Zilch. Philosophy—fuck off. Stars—Earth-sun? News to him. Politics—Albanese, who? Plants—poison expert, lawn? Clueless. Rocks—IDs Brisbane dirt by boot scrapes. Chem—bloody wizard. Bodies—morgue-deep, systematic no. Murders–knows every gut-spill since Federation. Fiddle—rips violin like a pro. Fists—Spar's living room shadows. Law—Quotes acts verbatim.
Stared at it, head spinning'. Job needing' all? Scrubbed it, chucked in the bin. "Crack this nut, pack it in," I grumbled. Felt like trying' to solve a Rubik's cube in the dark with me dick. Impossible.
You're puzzling' now too, eh? Tough luck. Lived with him, still stumped. Violin next—purely weird.
Violin? Next level odd. On demand, nailed Paganini's shit. Solo? Armchair slouch, eyes shut, bow scraping' random. Dark melancholy one tune, jaunty the next. Brain music. Helped thinking' or habit? Dunno. Would've griped, but he'd cap with my fav—like an apology for torment.
Nights he'd drag a bow across strings, making sounds that'd curl your toes—not bad, strange. He was having' a conversation with himself through the fiddle., when I was about to tell him to knock it off, he'd launch into "Kha Sanh, Powderfinger track I loved. Knew exactly what I wanted to hear, the crafty bastard.
Musician flatmates? Chord hell. Martin conversed with the thing. Creepy, mesmerizing'. Par for his course.
Early weeks, no knocks. Thought he matched my loner vibe. parade. Steady stream strangest mob you've ever clapped eyes on, like he was running' freak convention in the lounge room.
Lestrade first—weasel mug, dark peepers. Thrice weekly, sweating' through his cheap suit, looking' like he'd rather eat glass than ask Martin for help. Fancy chick next morn, lingering' hour, designer handbag worth more than me car. Arvo brought a seedy watch-pedlar twitching', a slovenly old bag with missing' teeth; a story had her bawling'.
Silver fox one day, bailie in uniform next. Company? Martin's commandeer lounge: "Business time, clients." I'd bail—blue walk or bedroom stare. Felt like living' with a dodgy psychic or a bookie.
"Using' lounge for work," casual. Clients. Like it was normal to have this parade of desperate looking' bastards through ya rental.
Could've grilled. Didn't. He'd spill voluntary. The bloke kept his cards close, but I knew he'd show his hand, eventually. Had to wait.
Guesses? Ice? Pokies syndicate? Nah. Weirder.
March 4th—shot anniversary. Woke early, shoulder ripping' like someone was digging' around with a rusty spoon. Martin's kitchen, phone scrolling, toast crunching. Brodie skipped my usual breakfast — self-serve. The landlady knew I slept till the cows came home.
Kettle waits, nabbed magazine. Highlighted article—dove in. Something' to kill time while the coffee brewed.
"Book of Life"—observe right, read lives. Sharp bits, mostly wank. Twitch or glance = soul's secrets. Lies? Impossible for the trained eye. Euclid-solid. The writer had his head so far his arse he could see daylight from the other side.
"Drop by drop, the ocean is filled unseen," it boasted. "Life chain—one link shows all. Deduction science: years grinding', never perfect. Basics first: ID stranger's past/job instant. Nails, cuff, boot, knee callus, cuff—job screams. Clues fail expert? Unthinkable."
Read so smug ya wanna lamp the author? Like a uni tosser who's never left his office telling farmers how to milk cows.
"Bullshit mountain!" slammed Mag. "Pretentious crap!"
"What?" Martin glanced, butter knife frozen mid-air.
"Article," spoon-jabbed brekkie. "You marked it. Smart ink, irritation. ' Armchair genius theorising'. Chuck him on the train, ID jobs? Thousand bucks sez no."
"Lost cash," calm as ya like. "I wrote it."
"You?" Nearly choked on me coffee.
"Aye. Observation, deduction talent. 'Chimerical' theories? Bread-winning' practical."
"How?" couldn't help asking'. Bloke finally opening'.
"Trade: only one. Consulting detective."
Consulting' what? PI? Nah, a fancier label for a barfly. Sounded like something' ya make when Centrelink asks what you do.
"What?"
"Consulting' detective. Brisbane's cops, PIs stuck? Me. Evidence dump, right scent. Crimes pattern. Study thousands, thousand-first easy. Lestrade? Qld copper. Forgery fog. Hence visits."
Pieces clicking'. The visitors. The weird knowledge. The corpse-poking'.
"Others?"
"PI referrals, lawyers. Troubled punters need light. Stories in, comments on, fee pocketed."
"You solve sans leaving' lounge? Knots others can't untie despite seeing'?"
"Aye. Intuition. Complex? Bustle, eyes on. Special knowledge speeds. Article scorn rules? Workhorses. Observation instinct. First meet, Afghanistan spot?"
"Rachel snitched." Only explanation.
"Bullshit. Observed: med type, army stink. Tropics fresh—tan wrists pale. Haggard combat. Arm stiff wound. Aussie army doc action-wounded? Afghan. Second flat."
Half bullshit call, half wow. Magician vibe—knows tricks, can't spot sleight. Like he was reading' me mind, but really reading' me boots, haircut.
"Simple, broken down," grinned. "Dupin Poe stories."
Martin scowled, smoke curling' round his face like a snake. "Dupin hack. Thought guess after silence? Flashy crap. Analytic ok, Poe hyped."
"Lecoq? French yarns?" Testing' his book knowledge.
Snorted smoke-ceiling'. "Lecoq bungler. Energy only plus. Book spew-inducing. Unknown prisoner ID? Me: day. Lecoq: months. Detective textbook: avoid."
Defensive liked 'em. Window pace, street gaze. "Smartarse conceited," I thought, watching' him dismiss fictional detectives like they'd personally insulted his mum.
"No crime is worth brains," whined the couch. "I'd fame. No history matches my study-talent crime-crack. Result? Obvious villainy Scotland Yard sees."
Arrogance ground. Topic swap before I decked him.
"That bloke's hunting?" nodded toward sturdy plain-clothes bloke slow-walk numbers, blue envelope grip. A fellow outside our building, checking' addresses like he was lost.
"Retired Marine sergeant," Martin no-looked, not glancing' out the window.
"Braggart," thought. "Can't prove." No way he could tell that from a bloke across the street.
Mind-flash, bloke spots number, bolts road. A loud knock, a deep bellow from downstairs, boots thundered. Heavy footfalls like a bloody elephant.
"Martin delivery," the envelope thrust through the door. Burly bloke, crew cut, standing' ramrod straight.
Conceit-killer shot. "Mate," the blandest voice I could muster, "trade?"
"Courier, sir," gruff. "Uniform cleaning'."
"Before?" I couldn't help myself.
"Sergeant, Royal Australian M and Marines. No reply? Gone."
Heel click, salute snap, vanished down the stairs like the devil was chasing' him.
Jaw dropped. Couldn't hide it. Martin smirked behind his phone, not looking'.
Boom. Genius or wizard? Life reviving'—any sane cunt would bolt. But me? I was hooked. Like watching' a car crash in slow motion—horrible, but ya can't look away.
I'm in for a ride with Martin.
DEDUCTIONS, DETECTIVES AND DRONGOS
3
Christ on a bike, you lot are still here? Georgy boy back again. Thought that last bit would scare you off, but nah — you're sticking' around for the gore. Fair enough. Let's see how deep this rabbit hole goes.
I was still standing' there like a stunned mullet after Martin's little performance with the courier. One second, I thought he was just a weird cunt, the next he was pulling' facts out of thin air like it was nothing'. Part of me still reckoned he might've set the whole thing up just to look flash, but I couldn't work out what he'd get out of impression' a busted-up medic with a fucked shoulder. When I looked across, he'd already finished reading' the note. His eyes had gone glassy again, staring' at nothing' like he was halfway to another planet.
"How the fuck did you work that out?" I asked.
"Work what out?" he snapped, clearly pissed off at the interruption.
"That the courier was an ex-Marine sergeant."
"No time for this shit," he muttered, then let out a small sigh. "Sorry. You killed me train of thought. But maybe it's for the best. You seriously couldn't tell he used to be a Marine sergeant?"
"Not a clue."
"Easier to see it than to explain it. From across the street, I clocked the anchor tattoo on the back of his hand. That screams navy. But the way he stood and the cut of his sideburns? That's pure Marine. The bloke carried himself like he were used to governing' orders and being obeyed. Steady, middle-aged, a bit of a strut. All added up to sergeant."
"Fuck me," I said under my breath.
"Basic stuff," Martin shrugged, though I could see he was quietly chuffed. "I said the other day there were no decent crimes anymore. Looks like I spoke too soon — have a read of this." He flicked the note across to me.
I read it out loud:
"Martin,
There's been a nasty one overnight at the old Redcliffe Speedway complex off Anzac Avenue. Some of the burnout boys were setting' up for this weekend's smoke show when they called us around 2 am. They found the main building door wide open. That place has been abandoned for years except for the illegal car meets and burnout events that happen there on weekends — usually loud as fuck with engines revving' and tyres screaming'. But they said it was dead quiet when they rocked up. Patrol went in and found a well-dressed male body in the old announcer's box. ID in his pocket belongs to Jack Winters, that big-shot Gold Coast property developer who's always on the news. Nothing' appears to have been stolen, and there's no obvious cause of death. Plenty of blood spatter in the room, but no wounds on the body. We're completely stumped on how he even got into the locked section of the complex. The whole thing's a proper head-scratcher. If you can get here before noon, I'll be waiting'. Left everything exactly as we found it. If you can't make it, I'll send more details, but I'd appreciate your thoughts on this one.
Yours,
Sean"
"Sean's the least useless copper in Queensland," Martin said, stretching' his arms. "He and Joel are the best of a bad bunch. Both fast and keen, but they think like textbooks. They can't stand each other either — jealous as two dogs with one bone. This should be entertaining' if they're both running' around the same case."
I stared at him. "There's a dead bloke lying' there and you're talking' like it's a Saturday arvo footy match."
"I'm not sure I can be bothered going'," he yawned, sinking' back into the couch. "I'm the laziest bastard alive when the mood takes me — though I can shift when I want to."
"But this is exactly the thing you've been complaining' doesn't happen anymore!"
"What's it got to do with me? Even if I sort the whole thing out, Sean and Joel will still take all the glory. That's what happens when you're not official."
"But he's asking,' for your help."
"Yeah, because he knows I'm better than him. He just won't admit it to anyone else. Still... we might as well go have a look. I'll work it out my own way. At the very least, I can have a laugh at those two clowns. Come on."
He pulled his jacket on with sudden energy; someone had flipped a switch inside him.
"Get your hat," he said.
"You want me coming'?"
"Yeah, if you've got nothing' better to do." A minute later, we were in an Uber headed north toward Redcliffe.
The old speedway looked exactly like the place trouble would pick for a Friday night. Abandoned for years except for the underground burnout events and car shows the boys ran there on weekends. Usually, the place was loud as hell — engines revving', tyres screaming', music blaring'. But this time, when the crew turned up to set up, they found the main building door hanging' open and the whole site dead quiet. That's when they called the patrol.
Fuck me, it almost felt like home. Abandoned, half-broken, full of ghosts and burnt rubber. Just how I like it. Do you ever find yourself drawn to places that should repel ya? Like your brain knows it's bad news, but something' in your gut feels right at home in the wreckage?
Martin wandered around the outside first, eyes on the ground, the fence, the sky, the tyre marks — taking his sweet time while the rest of us stood there like spare pricks at a wedding'. Then he finally headed inside.
A short concrete hallway led to what used to be the main office. Two doors — one locked tight, the other opening' into the old announcer's box where they'd found the body. Martin walked in without a word. I followed that same icy feeling' sliding' into my guts that always hits when death is in the room.
It was a big, empty square. Faded posters of old race days peeled off the walls. A long bench where the announcer once sat overlooked the track through a filthy window. An old candle stub sat in one corner. The light coming' through the dirty glass was grey and weak. Dust coated everything.
But none of that mattered in the first few seconds.
All I could see was the body on the floor.
Jack Winters. Forty-five, broad-shouldered, expensive suit, curly black hair, short beard. Arms flung out, legs twisted, hands clenched tight. His face was frozen in an expression of pure terror and hatred that made my skin crawl. I'd seen plenty of dead men in Afghanistan, but none of them looked like they'd died hating' the world this much.
You think you know what a dead body looks like from the movies? Fuck off. Real death ain't peaceful. It's ugly, and it stinks, and it stays with ya. This poor bastard looked like he'd seen the devil himself before checking' out. Ever had a nightmare so bad you woke up screaming'? Imagine if you never woke up.
Joel stood by the doorway looking' smug.
"This one's goanna be all over the news," he said. "Weirdest thing I've seen in years."
"No clues at all?" Sean asked.
"Sweet fuck all," Joel replied.
Martin knelt beside the body and started his examination, fingers moving' fast. "You're certain there's no wound?" he asked, pointing' at the blood sprayed across the floor and walls.
"Positive," both detectives answered.
"Then this blood belongs to someone else," Martin said. "Probably the killer — if it is murder. Reminds me of the Mc Tavish up in Cairns back in '09. Remember that one, Sean?"
"Nah."
"Look it up. Nothing' new under the sun."
While he worked, his hands moved like they had a mind of their own — checking', pressing', measuring'. He even sniffed the dead man's lips and studied the soles of his shoes. Then he stood up.
"You can take him away now," he said. "There's nothing' else to learn from the body."
As the ambos lifted Winters, a small gold ring slipped from his clothing and rolled across the concrete. Joel snatched it up.
"There's been a woman here," he said, holding' it out. "It's a wedding ring."
We all crowded around. Plain gold band. No doubt it had once belonged to a bride.
"Complicates things," Sean muttered.
"Or simplifies them," Martin mumbled. "What else was in his pockets?"
"Got it all here," Sean said, pointing' to a pile on a plastic chair. "Gold watch, heavy gold chain, Masonic ring, gold bulldog tie pin with ruby eyes, leather card holder with Jack Winters' details, some cash, a copy of a book with Joseph Stangerson's name in it, and two letters — one for Winters, one for Stangerson."
"What address on the letters?"
"American Express in the city. From a cruise line about sailing' from Sydney. Looks like he was planning' to leave the country."
"Any word on this Stangerson fella?" Martin asked.
"Sent notices out and got one of the boys checking' American Express," Sean replied.
Martin gave a small nod, but I could tell his mind was already moving' somewhere else.
I stood back and watched the three of them. Two coppers trying' to look important, and one strange, skinny bastard who already seemed ten steps ahead of everyone else.
This is it. This is the exact moment I realised I'd moved in with someone who wasn't just odd. He was a fucking' force of nature. Like living' with a cyclone that wore human skin. And I'd just signed up for the full ride. Ever had that feeling' when you suddenly understand you've made a choice you can't take back? Like you've stepped off a cliff and there's nothing' to do but fall?
Just then, Joel, who'd been poking' around in the front room while we were talking' in the hallway, came back in, rubbing' his hands together like he'd just won the meat raffle at the local pub.
"Sean," he announced, "I've just discovered that would've been completely missed if I hadn't checked the walls properly."
The little bloke's eyes were gleaming' with triumph, obviously stoked to have one-upped his colleague.
"Come over here," he said, bustling' back into the room, which felt less oppressive now the body was gone. "Stand right there."
He struck a match on his boot and held it up to the wall.
"Look at that!" he crowed.
I'd noticed earlier that some of the old race posters had peeled away in places. In this corner, a large section had come off, leaving' a square of bare concrete. Across this patch, someone had scrawled in blood-red letters a single word:
RACHE
Fuck me sideways. Nothing' like a bit of blood graffiti to really set the mood. Have you ever walked into a room and just known something' terrible happened there? This was like that, but with a bloody signature left behind. Like the killer was saying, "G'day, I was here, and I'm a proper psycho."
"What, ya reckon?" Joel asked, grinning' like a kid who'd just found a twenty-dollar note. "Missed it cause it's in the darkest corner, and no one thought to look there. The killer wrote it in their own blood. See where it's dripped down the wall? Rules out suicide. Why pick this corner? I'll tell ya — see that candle on the bench? If it were lit, this corner would be the brightest, not the darkest part of the room."
"And what's it mean, now you've found it?" Sean asked, sounding' unimpressed.
"Means the writer was goanna put the name Rachel but got interrupted before finishing'. Mark my words — when this case breaks, you'll find some Sheila named Rachel mixed up in it. Laugh all you want, Martin. You might be clever, but the old dog knows the best tricks."
"Sorry, mate," Martin said, barely hiding' his amusement. "You definitely get credit for finding' it first. And you're right — it has all the signs of being' written by our mystery guest from last night. Haven't had time to check the room properly yet, but with your permission, I will now."
As he spoke, he pulled a tape measure and a massive magnifying' glass from his pocket. With these tools, he began moving' silently around the room, sometimes stopping', occasionally kneeling', and once lying' flat on his face on the filthy concrete. He was so into it he seemed to forget we were there, muttering' to himself the whole time, mixing' exclamations, groans, whistles, and little encouraging' noises.
Ever watched someone who's fucking' brilliant at what they do? It's like watching' a different species. The rest of us are just bumping' around in the dark while they're seeing' things we can't even imagine. Made me feel like a toddler watching' brain surgery.
Watching' him reminded me of a cattle dog working' a mob — darting' back and forth, totally focused, whining' with excitement until it picks up the scent. For twenty minutes he kept at it, measuring' distances between marks I couldn't even see, occasionally putting' the tape against the walls in ways that made no sense to me. At one point, he carefully collected a tiny pile of grey dust from the floor and sealed it in a ziplock bag. Finally, he examined the word on the wall with his glass, studying' each letter in detail.
When he finished, he looked satisfied, pocketing' his tools.
"They say genius is infinite patience," he remarked with a smile. "Shit definition, but it fits detective work."
Sean and Joel had watched Martin's performance with curiosity and obvious contempt. They clearly didn't get what I was starting' to understand — that every tiny thing Martin served a specific purpose.
"What do you reckon?" they both asked.
"I'd be stealing' your thunder if I helped," Martin replied. "You're doing' so well, be a shame for anyone to interfere." The sarcasm in his voice could've stripped paint. "Let me know how your investigation goes, and I'll help if I can. Meanwhile, I'd like to talk to the constable who found the body. Can you give me his name and address?"
Joel flipped through his notebook. "John Rance," he said. "He's off duty now. You'll find him at 46 Murrumba Drive, North Lakes."
Martin jotted down the address.
"Come on, Georgy," he said. "We'll have a chat with him. I'll tell you one thing that might help with the case," he continued, turning' to the two detectives. "There's been a murder done, and the murderer was a man. He was over six feet tall, in his prime, had small feet for his height, wore heavy work boots, and smoked Winfield Reds. He came here with his victim in a 4WD ute that was driven by a horse with three old shoes and one new one on the front right hoof. In all likelihood, the murderer had a florid face, and the fingernails on his right hand were unusually long. These are just a few pointers, but they might help you out."
I nearly pissed myself laughing'. The absolute balls on this bloke! Making up shit about horses pulling' utes just to take the piss. At least I thought he was taking the piss. With Martin, you could never be too sure.
Sean and Joel glanced at each other with identical looks of disbelief.
"If this bloke was murdered, how was it done?" Joel asked.
"Poison," Martin said curtly, and strode toward the door. "One more thing, Joel," he added, turning' around at the exit. "'Rache' is German for 'revenge,' so don't waste your time looking' for Miss Rachel."
With that parting' shot, he walked out, leaving' the two detectives standing' there with their mouths hanging' open.
And that, my friends, is when I knew for certain I'd hitched my wagon to a complete fucking' madman. But Christ, what a show! Have you ever seen someone just demolish a room full of professionals at their own game? It's like watching' a shark in a goldfish bowl — beautiful and terrifying all at once.
As we climbed into another Uber to head to North Lakes, I couldn't help wondering' what the hell I'd gotten myself into. But I also couldn't deny the buzz I was feeling'. For the first time since Afghanistan, I was interested in something'. And that something "was the mystery of Martin himself.
"You don't actually believe that horse and ute bullshit, do you?" I asked as we pulled away from the speedway.
Martin just smiled and stared out the window, already lost.