COVER PAGE

PRAISE

PRAISE FOR

THE UNBELIEVED

‘A beating heart of a novel, The Unbelieved sweeps you up in its rhythms from the very first pages. Petraitis handles this exploration of the corrosive consequences of not believing women with such assurance, it really does seem impossible this is her crime fiction debut. Compelling, clever and utterly convincing, readers are going to love Senior Detective Antigone Pollard—and her dog!’

—Jacqueline Bublitz, bestselling author of Before You Knew My Name

‘A true crime expert wielding skilful prose, Petraitis’s The Unbelieved is tight, tense and unrelenting.’

—Candice Fox, bestselling author of The Chase

‘A rally cry of a crime book jam-packed with great characters. Don’t pick it up unless you’re prepared to be held hostage. Antigone Pollard explodes off the page, she’s such a fearless memorable character.’

—Sarah Bailey, bestselling author of The Housemate

‘Fast-paced and gripping, The Unbelieved follows a strong, determined female detective in her search for the truth. The climax will have you questioning concepts of justice and fairness, and how we can all do better. A riveting novel tackling today’s issues.’

—Petronella McGovern, author of Six Minutes

‘A fast, hard ride through the zeitgeist. Gripping, important, funny—and with a great swerve in the tail.’

—Matthew Spencer, author of Black River

‘The Unbelieved springs from a place of anguish and rage in that all too familiar gap between the law and justice when it comes to prosecuting violence against women. Vikki Petraitis has written a ripper of a story, a novel that is both important and unputdownable. Senior Detective Antigone Pollard is the avenging angel we need for these times.’

—Angela Savage, author of Mother of Pearl

‘Vikki Petraitis has skilfully woven chilling facts and compelling fiction to create an utterly gripping read. With a kick-ass female cop untangling layers of lies and fear as crimes against women escalate in a country town, The Unbelieved explodes with twists and turns played out by a cast of unforgettable characters. But much more importantly, it places issues relating to gender-based violence at its centre—making them impossible to ignore, and leaving you holding your breath with both alarm and admiration.’

—Lyn Yeowart, award-winning author of The Silent Listener

‘Timely, pacey and lit by a burning anger. Petraitis’s deep knowledge of real-life crime shines through in this twisting story about power, violence and lies.’

—Emma Viskic, author of Those Who Perish

‘Tough, dogged, vital and utterly consumed by her pursuit of justice—Antigone Pollard is Australia’s answer to Harry Bosch. The Unbelieved is my favourite kind of crime-writing—a riveting page-turner, with a beating, moral heart. This novel shines a compelling light on the cycle of violence we routinely see in Australia, and the victims at the centre of it.’

—Ben Hobson, author of Snake Island

‘A cracking good story fuelled by righteous anger.’

—Maryrose Cuskelly, bestselling author of The Cane

‘Vikki Petraitis’s voice is strong and witty, and her gaze unflinching. The Unbelieved is a must read.’

—Sulari Gentill, author of the Rowland Sinclair series

‘Gripping read; couldn’t put it down. Great final twist.’

—Anonymous Casefile Host

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Vikki Petraitis is best known for her true crime books including the bestselling book The Frankston Murders about serial killer Paul Denyer, and her first book, The Phillip Island Murder, which has been featured in several TV shows and podcasts. In her true crime books, Vikki has covered everything from police dogs to Lawyer X, the Russell Street bombing and sex crimes. Her expertise lies in interviewing police and victims to create compelling narratives. In recent years, Vikki has made two hugely successful podcast series with Casefile Presents, which have topped charts around the world and been downloaded millions of times. She is now working with the Casefile team developing new true crime projects. Vikki began a PhD in Creative Writing at La Trobe University in 2017 in order to continue to expand her writing skills. She brought thirty years of true crime writing and investigating to create her first work of fiction, The Unbelieved. In a parallel career, Vikki is also a teacher with a Master’s degree in IT Education. She runs creative writing workshops and short courses in schools and local libraries. She is also a popular presenter, well known for her compelling true crime talks and keynote addresses.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my mum,

Helen Burke,

my first and always reader and champion.

And to all the other strong women in my family—

Stacy, Michele, Vanessa, Carol, Kym, Trish, Ella, Lily, Lina and Dainora.

When life is brutal, may we all have the courage to knee it in the groin.

EPIGRAPH

‘Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful. I will watch with the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall repent of the injuries you inflict.’

MARY SHELLEY, FRANKENSTEIN

PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

10 YEARS AGO

Sally’s husband, Herb, was ready at dawn for the round-up. He headed outside while she got started in the kitchen. The whiny sound of his dirt bike followed by the thunder of small hooves always brought her to the verandah. The breeze was blowing inland and she could smell the sea. Their farm bordered a national park that boasted a convergence of cliffs known as the Devil’s Corner. Jagged rocks and a current that swirled and writhed beneath a deceptively calm surface. Over the years, the area had snared many a fishing boat, dragging strong men to early graves, but for Sally and Herb the rugged beauty of the sweeping Deception Bay coastline was often ignored for more pressing duties, like sheep.

The paddocks were golden at this time of the morning in early spring. Like scurrying children in fleecy pyjamas, the sheep moved in waves, reined in by Herb on the bike and the dogs circling the herd in a frenzy of barking. Sally straightened her apron and went back inside. She had the shearers’ breakfast to finish.

Half an hour later, Sally was covering a baking dish of scrambled eggs when the bang of the wire door announced Herb.

‘Bloody Millard hasn’t turned up again. Will you get on the phone and see where he is?’

Sally sighed. She had little time for Brett Millard. Unreliable shearers were the worst. When he turned up, Brett could match the other blokes sheep for sheep, but it fell to Sally to chase him when he was a no-show. Sometimes it was Brett’s wife, Shayna, who answered the phone. She’d apologise, exasperated, and say, Sorry, Sal! I’ll make sure he’s there tomorrow. Good shearer or not, Brett Millard was easily distracted; Shayna was the opposite. Worked up at the hospital. Backbone of the young family. Problem was, thought Sally as she dialled the number, men like Brett rarely improved with age—Shayna had a tough road ahead of her.

The landline at the Millard farmhouse rang for so long, Sally thought it would ring out. Then, just as she was about to replace the receiver, she heard a clunk. It sounded like the phone had been picked up and dropped.

‘Hello?’ said Sally.

More clunking and, finally, breathing.

‘Hello?’ she repeated. For a moment, she was worried.

‘Hello.’ The voice was very young. Probably little Crissy.

‘Crissy? Is that you? It’s Sally here from your dad’s work.’

‘Sally!’ Crissy sounded excited.

What was she now? Three? Four? Sally hadn’t seen her in a while. Shayna used to drop Brett off to work and stop in for a cuppa when Crissy was younger but hadn’t been by since she started working.

‘Is your mummy or daddy there?’

‘Yep.’ More clunking.

Sally didn’t have kids of her own and made her words slow and clear, like she was talking to someone hard of hearing. ‘Can you get them for me?’

‘They asleep,’ said the little girl.

Sally checked her watch. A little late for a lie-in, especially on a weekday. ‘Can you go and wake them?’

There was a wail on the other end of the line. ‘No! They won’t wake up.’

Sally’s heart beat a little faster. ‘Crissy, where are they?’

‘Mummy’s in bed but Daddy’s silly.’

‘What do you mean, Crissy? Why is Daddy silly?’

‘He’s sleeping in the kitchen. Silly Daddy.’

‘Where in the kitchen?’ Sally’s voice, suddenly urgent, made her husband look over at her, eyebrows raised.

‘He’s asleep on the floor,’ said little Crissy and laughed like it was funny. Then there was a scratching sound and the line went dead. Crissy was gone.

Sally turned to Herb: ‘There’s something wrong at the Millard farm.’

CHAPTER 1: A QUIET DRINK ON THE WAY HOME

CHAPTER 1

A QUIET DRINK ON THE WAY HOME

PRESENT DAY

By the time I sat at the bar and ordered a drink, the pub was almost empty. A few stalwarts remained; older men mostly. Only one other woman besides me. The threadbare towel along the top of the bar was beer-soaked and pungent. A barman appeared like a cockroach from a small doorway to serve me.

‘You new in town?’ he said accusingly.

‘Antigone Pollard.’ I stretched my hand out over the bar.

He looked at it with suspicion, like newcomers might bring disease or something. Eventually, he shook it, then when I asked for a wine he sloshed a house white into a glass. An old jukebox in the far corner pumped out country hits from another time—the central theme: he done me wrong and my heart’s a-breakin’. I took a deep breath, then a long sip of wine. I knew all about heartbreak, but the real stuff was so much more complicated than country singers could capture. I exhaled, still not sure I’d made the right decision to come back to Deception Bay after all these years. But sometimes a lack of choice is a decision itself.

‘Well, aren’t you a pretty one,’ slurred a drunk, appearing suddenly at my side. He was twice my age. Chin carpeted in salt-and-pepper prickles. Breath that could stop a truck. ‘How about a dance, luv?’ A leering grin and a nod towards the small empty dance floor in front of the jukebox. His watery eyes lingered momentarily on my face before dropping lower.

‘Um, no thanks,’ I said, trying to strike just the right chord that every woman knows so well: assertive dipped in polite.

His voice steamrolled over my refusal. ‘Ah, don’t be stuck-up, luv.’ The drunk lost his balance and bumped into me, splashing beer down the front of his shirt. ‘Ah, look what you made me do!’ His tone slipped from friendly to angry in a heartbeat.

‘Sorry.’ I slid off my barstool putting it between me and him. I eyed my glass of wine. The drunk let out a wet-lunged cough and a mist of phlegm and beer sprayed out, befouling my drink and the bar.

‘You’ll be bloody sorry in a minute.’ His voice was low and laced with threat.

I looked him up and down; he was unsteady on his feet and didn’t pose any real threat. Still. I was backing away prudently when a man approached on my other side.

He leaned on the bar and spoke to the drunk. ‘C’mon, Merv. Give it a rest.’

I looked from the newcomer to Merv and saw him narrow his eyes and take in the guy: half his age and sober. He muttered something, then grabbed his near-empty beer glass and shuffled away.

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding. ‘Thanks!’

‘No worries,’ said the newcomer. ‘The name’s Jack.’ He stuck out a large tanned hand and I shook it.

‘Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m Antigone.’ Self-consciously, I pushed a stray tendril of dark hair behind my ear.

‘Unique name.’ Jack grinned.

‘My mother was way too fond of Greek mythology.’ When I was younger, I used to tell people about the heroic Antigone, courageous and passionate, who lay down her life for what she believed. Over the years, I’ve whittled the spiel down to a one-liner. Saves time.

‘Ha!’ said Jack. ‘I’m probably named after “Jack and the Beanstalk”.’

‘Or the candlestick jumper,’ I suggested, appraising the man in front of me. He had piercing blue eyes, the perfect amount of stubble, and the kind of fair hair that used to be blond but had darkened in places, leaving golden highlights behind.

Jack looked amused, then took a long sip of beer.

‘So, Jack, do you make a habit of saving women in bars?’ I let a tiny flirtatious note slip into my voice.

Jack affected a cowboy twang. ‘Sure do, ma’am.’ He waved the barman over. ‘What’ll it be?’

‘A wine would be great,’ I said, nodding towards my old glass with an involuntary shudder. ‘He coughed in that one.’

The barman poured a new glass and swept the tainted one away.

‘Thanks.’ I raised the glass. ‘To my rescuer.’

Jack raised his beer and clinked it against my wine. ‘You local? Haven’t seen you around.’

‘Just moved to town.’

‘You here on your own?’

‘Not if you count my dog, Waffles.’

He laughed. ‘Waffles sounds cute.’

‘He is,’ I said, smiling.

‘I’m on my own too. Drive a long-haul rig. No room for the picket fence and the wife and two kids.’

‘No partner, then?’ I took his measure and pushed further than I normally would because there was something about him that reminded me of a man I’d known back in Melbourne. The confidence. The look.

‘Tried it once,’ said Jack. ‘Didn’t take. You?’

‘Not even close.’ I studied him and took a sip of wine. ‘Actually, I tell a lie. I did come close once.’

Jack waited.

I felt a nostalgic smile engage my dimples. ‘He was a bad boy. We took a class together.’

His return smile could weaken knees. ‘What class was it?’

‘Year three,’ I admitted. We both laughed. ‘Although I think he might have been a cradle snatcher. I’m pretty sure I was eight and he was nine.’

I caught sight of myself in the mirror behind the bar, eyes shining. It’d been a long time since I’d laughed. And in that moment, I caught a flash of my old self—the person I used to be before. At the same time, I caught Merv’s reflection. He’d retreated back to his table in the corner with a couple of other blokes. When our eyes met, a look of unchecked hatred crossed his face. And then it was gone. He turned back to his mates and emptied his glass. The moment of unveiled malevolence was startling.

Jack noticed. ‘Are you okay?’

‘That drunk guy … if looks could kill.’

‘Merv’s pretty harmless.’

‘Of course he is … It’s just …’

‘I’m here now. Merv better watch himself.’ Jack gestured to the barman. ‘Same again.’

The wine arrived, and just as I was about to reach for my glass, Jack took it, picked up his own, and headed towards an empty table in the far corner, as far away from Merv and his cronies as we could get.

‘Won’t be a moment,’ I said, spying a rack of chips down the end of the bar. I asked for a pack of salt and vinegar. ‘And maybe one more glass of that wine,’ I said to the barman.

As I headed to the corner, I waved the salt and vinegar chips at Jack. He grinned and nodded approvingly. The table he’d chosen had a faux leather wraparound seat. He sat in the middle, back to the wall. I reached down to push the frond of a potted palm out of the way, then slid in beside him.

Tearing open the chips, I put the packet on the table. ‘Cheers,’ I said, taking the wineglass he offered.

‘Your good health.’ Jack raised his beer and took a generous swallow.

With perfect timing, a new song came onto the jukebox—‘Stand By Your Man’.

‘Oh God,’ I groaned. ‘I can’t take another country song! Save me!’

‘Twice in one night?’ Jack slid out of his side of the seat. ‘Let’s see what we can do about that.’ He fished in his pocket for a coin and spent several minutes studying the playlist on the old juke box. Before long, Loretta Lynn’s twang was replaced by Helen Reddy’s ‘I Am Woman’.

He strode back to the table. ‘Better?’

‘Much.’ I nodded approvingly. ‘You’re a true hero, Jack.’ The man beside me was certainly charming. I picked up my wineglass and swirled the straw-coloured liquid. ‘Cheers,’ I said, and drank deeply.

‘Ever gone out with a truck driver before?’ His tone was casual. His grin cheeky.

‘Can’t say I have.’ Our eyes met.

‘Well, maybe we can change that.’ He clinked my glass.

I took another sip and curled a tendril of hair around my finger.

‘So, what do you do for a living?’ he asked.

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Guess.’ I loved this game; it was astonishing, the limited number of things men in pubs thought women were capable of doing.

Jack rubbed his chin. He considered me, tapping a tanned forefinger to his cheek. ‘Could be a hairdresser—your hair is amazing …’

I was rather proud of my hair, which I kept shoulder-length. It was thick and brown and kicked up at the ends. I shook my head and took another sip of wine.

‘Nurse … I bet you have a great bedside manner.’

I almost snorted, but stopped myself in time. He really was the most outrageous flirt.

‘Flight attendant?’

I shook my head. Then stopped. I blinked rapidly and bowed my head a little.

Jack looked amused. ‘Am I keeping you up?’

‘Phew. That wine has gone straight to my head,’ I said. ‘I think I’m a bit of a two-pot screamer tonight.’ I shook my head again, as if to clear it.

‘If you need a ride home …’

‘Nah, I’m good.’ My eyelids drooped. ‘Suddenly, I feel really tired …’ I yawned. ‘I’d better head off before I fall asleep.’ I slid along the seat and got to my feet.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Jack made to follow me.

‘I’m fine. Stay.’ I held up my hand. ‘I’ve just had a busy day. Must’ve worn myself out. Nice meeting you, Jack.’ I almost lost my balance when I reached the door but steadied myself, grabbing the back of a chair.

The air was brisk when I stepped out of the pub. Unlike the city night sky, which was never quite dark, in the country it was inky black, freckled with pinprick stars and a fingernail-clipping moon. I could smell the sea and hear the faint crashing of the waves against the jagged cliffs that circled Deception Bay like a strangler’s hands. I pulled up the collar of my denim jacket and shivered. I almost missed the second step down from the pavement to the car park and staggered sideways. I’d parked around the back of the pub. The single streetlight illuminating the car park flickered on for a moment, then melted into a toxic yellow colour and vanished. Seconds later, it buzzed on again and repeated the process. Moths circled it in crazy patterns. My boots crunched unevenly on the gravel. I fumbled in my front jeans pocket for the car key.

Rapid footsteps sounded behind me across the gravel.

I braced myself as someone slammed into me and grabbed my arms.

‘You’re not getting away that easily,’ snarled a voice in my ear.

Neither are you, I thought.

I flung my head back, confident it would hurt him much more than it would hurt me. The headbutt landed with a satisfying thud. Then, like I have done a thousand times before, I bent at the knees, dropping myself from his grip, and closed my right elbow like a vice under his arm, locking him in place. His own momentum kept him moving forward as I straightened my knees and threw him over my shoulder. It was a beautiful throw and he landed flat on his back with an oooomph that knocked the wind out of him.

I stood, looking down at Jack. He looked less attractive lying there winded and gasping, nose bleeding from the headbutt.

‘My profession?’ I asked in a voice very different from the one I’d used just a minute ago. ‘I’m a cop. And you’re under arrest.’ I pulled handcuffs from my jacket pocket. Using my boot, I rolled him over so he was face down, then grabbed his right hand and bent his arm up behind his back so it was near his shoulder blades.

‘Ahhh!’ Jack yelped in pain.

I half-knelt beside him and jammed my right knee against his ribcage and my left knee in the middle of his back, holding his hand in place with both of mine. ‘Now move your left hand behind your back,’ I ordered.

‘Fuck you!’ Jack said, his voice muffled by the dirt.

I pushed his right hand a fraction higher.

Jack screamed again. ‘Okay, okay,’ he gasped, struggling to manoeuvre his left hand behind him. I eased off a bit to let him.

I got the cuffs on and clicked them in place. Tight.

Once he was cuffed, I kept hold of his right hand, ready to nudge it into the pain position if he didn’t cooperate. I could see the block shape of a wallet in his back pocket. With my free hand, I pinched the edge of it and wrenched it free. Opened it. Driver’s licence. Truck licence. The usual. I placed it on the ground next to him. The other pocket had the phone. Screen locked, requiring a passcode. Keys. Once his pockets were empty, I patted him down for weapons. Nothing on his upper body. Since I was still leaning on his back, I ordered him to bend one leg up at a time. Socks and ankles clear.

Finally, I let go of his hand and stood up.

Jack had stopped struggling. ‘But how … ?’ His voice was raspy.

‘I suspected you the moment you “came to my rescue”. Exactly like an offender we’re looking for in a series of drug-facilitated sexual assaults.’

He tried to turn his head to look up at me.

‘I swapped the glass you bought me with one I bought myself. I suspect a tox screen on your glass will confirm my suspicions.’

‘Where’s your backup?’ he grunted, struggling against the handcuffs.

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