Dead Man's Footsteps

to help him in a moment. But first he had to try to save his own life. He wasn’t going to be of any help to either of them dead.
    ‘Royyyyyyyyyyyyyy!’
    He kicked with his left foot, digging that in too. After a short while, with both feet planted, he felt a little better, though not exactly secure.
    ‘I’m falling. Royyyyyyyy! Oh, God, get me out of here. Please don’t let me fall. Don’t let me die.’
    Roy craned his neck up, taking his time on every movement, until he could see Pewe’s face about ten feet above him.
    ‘Keep calm!’ he called out. ‘Try not to move.’
    He heard a loud crack as a branch gave way. His eyes shot up and he saw the car lurch. It dropped several inches, swaying even more precariously now. Shit. The whole fucking thing was going to crash down on top of him.
    Gingerly, inch by careful inch, he pulled his radio out, terrified of dropping it, and called for assistance. He was given reassurance that it was already on its way, that a rescue helicopter was being crewed up.
    Jesus. That will take an age.
    ‘Please don’t let me die!’ Pewe sobbed.
    He looked up again, carefully studying the webbing as best he could. It appeared well tangled around his colleague’s feet. The wind held the buckled passenger door open. Then he looked at the way the car was rocking.It was too much. The branches were straining, cracking, breaking. It was a terrible sound. How much longer would they hold? When they gave, the car would toboggan on its roof down the slope, which was as steep as a ski-jump ramp, and straight over the sheer drop.
    Pewe was making it worse by bending his body every few moments, trying to reach upwards, but he had no chance.
    ‘Cassian, stop wriggling,’ he yelled, his voice nearly hoarse. ‘Try to keep still. I need help to lift you. I daren’t do it myself. I don’t want to risk dislodging the car.’
    ‘Please don’t let me die, Roy!’ Pewe cried, squirming like a hooked fish.
    Another fierce gust blew. Grace clung to the branches, his jacket filling with wind, pulling like a sail, making it even harder for him. For several moments, until the gust eased, he didn’t dare move a muscle.
    ‘You won’t let me die, will you, Roy?’ Pewe pleaded.
    ‘You know what, Cassian?’ Grace shouted back. ‘I’m actually more concerned about my bloody car.’

120
OCTOBER 2007
    Grace sipped some coffee. It was 8.30 on Monday morning and they had just begun the fifteenth briefing of Operation Dingo . He had a sticking plaster on his forehead, covering a gash which had required five stitches, blister pads on the palms of both hands, and there wasn’t a bone in his body that wasn’t hurting.
    ‘Someone said you’re going to be tackling Everest next, Roy,’ quipped one of the DCs present.
    ‘Yes, and Detective Superintendent Pewe’s applying for a job as a circus high-wire act,’ Roy replied, unable to keep the smirk off his face.
    But deep down, he was still very badly shaken. And in truth there wasn’t a lot to smile about. Fine, they had Chad Skeggs banged up in the custody block. Abby Dawson and her mother were safe, and by a miracle no one had been seriously injured on Friday. But that was all a sideshow. They were investigating the murder of two women and their prime suspect could be anywhere. Even if he was still in Australia, he could be using yet another completely different identity by now, and, as he had already demonstrated, new identities did not seem to be a problem for Ronnie Wilson.
    There was just one ray of sunshine.
    ‘We’ve had something of a result in Melbourne,’ hecontinued. ‘I spoke to Norman earlier this morning. They’ve interviewed a woman today who claims to have been a close friend of Maggie Nelson, the woman we believe to be Lorraine Wilson.’
    ‘How certain are we that Ronnie and Lorraine Wilson became David and Margaret Nelson, Roy?’ Bella asked.
    ‘Melbourne police have dug up a ton of stuff from the drivers’ licensing offices, the tax office and the immigration services. It all seems to fit together. I’m getting a report faxed over, probably tonight.’
    Bella made a note, then plucked a Malteser from the box in front of her.
    Looking at his notes, Grace went on, ‘This woman’s name is Maxine Porter. Her ex-husband’s a mobster, currently on trial on a whole raft of tax-evasion and money-laundering charges, and looking at a long sentence. She got dumped by him for a younger woman just over a year ago, about three