Whoever tried to beat the life out of Noel Weston did a fairly good job of it. The forty year old building foreman was found unconscious at seven o'clock in the morning, lying in a pool of blood behind an unused warehouse in Brisbane 's eastern suburbs.

As a homicide detective, I suppose it was a bit premature of me to be investigating his attack while he was still breathing, but the severity of it made me feel that whoever did it really intended to kill him.

Hospital visits were never my first choice of location to begin an investigation, but that is what circumstances required and I just about managed to put my dislike of medical science aside.

On arrival at the hospital, I managed to get some of the basic details of the attack from the first two police officers to arrive at the scene. Sergeant Torrens and Constable Chassing had been on near the end of a routine patrol in Murrarie when a call came over their radio regarding a man found with severe injuries.

Sergeant Torrens explained that the warehouse had been in use for a party, and they had already visited the site a few hours earlier. "We got a call about two o'clock this morning, saying there was a party and it was getting rough", he explained. "But when we got here it seemed all in order".

"No, it was a rough party all right, a gang of builders celebrating the end of a big construction job. We had a look around but there wasn't anything illegal going on. No drugs, no underage, so we let them go on".

Chassing spoke up, "They were even embarrassed that we had been called, and they promised to keep the noise down". He shrugged his shoulders, "But who was going to hear them in the middle of an industrial estate. We left after about ten minutes".

"A warehouse worker found him a few minutes before seven. The poor bugger was there for a few hours. We got an ambulance, and escorted it here".

I went into the building and up to the Intensive Care Unit. A nurse provided me with a gown and mask and directed me to a wash basin where I spent a few minutes scrubbing my arms with antiseptic solution. It seemed like I was going to spend more time cleaning than I would with the victim or his doctor.

I turned to see a doctor emerging from the ward. "I'm Doctor Lucas Paveljeck", he announced as he pulled off his green scrubs and ripped a pair of disposable gloves from his hands. He was a tall man with dark hair, a wisp of a moustache, and a slight guttural accent; features that I imagined matched his east European roots. He stood back as I stretched out my hand. "Forgive me, Detective, but we don't shake hands in this ward, to prevent cross-infection".

He put on a fresh set of scrubs and led me into the ward, a dimly lit large room where most of the light seemed to come from the bank of monitors and equipment surrounding each patient.

"If he survives today, he might live. Since he came in, we've noticed severe bruising on one kidney, and his lungs are might be damaged due to the inhalation of his own vomit".

Glad that I hadn't yet had breakfast, I listened as the doctor continued. "Due to the high levels of alcohol in his system, we can't operate for a few hours yet".

He further explained that it seemed to have been only one attacker, hitting from behind. "The first blow seems to have knocked him out and he fell on his face.

Noel Weston's wife was waiting outside with other family members. She mistook me for a doctor and started firing questions until I identified myself.

They were blocking the door, stopping several heavily built men from entering. It wasn't hard to guess they were the remains of last night's party. I heard Chassing warn one of the men, a thinner tall man with glassy eyes. "This is the last time, Ethan, get out of here or you'll spend the day in the watchhouse".

Ethan saw me, and guessed I was involved. He turned his scrawny features to me, and I could smell the drink from several paces away. "You missed a great party, cop".

He jabbed his finger defiantly in my direction. "Listen, if she's paid to dance naked on a table then I'm not paid to be nice to her".

I pointed at the car park behind him, stuffed with a variety of builders trucks and cars. "You're right", I said, "And if you are not out of here immediately, I'm going to start checking your vehicles for faults". I turned to Torrens , "Have you got your ticket book with you?. There should be a few illegal modifications and bald tires among them".

Most of the morning was spent back at the assault scene. Our forensic team had found a tyre iron nearby, with a promising set of fingerprints smeared among the blood and hairs. It was already on its way to the Forensic Services Branch, but I knew it would be some time before a comparison with known prints could be made. I asked for a DNA match to be made with the blood, for comparison with the victim.

Motive was a tough guess. Weston's work mates said he was a hard-line boss, but fair in his decisions and unlikely to be the victim of a grudge attack. His wallet was still in his pocket, ruling out robbery; and my quick chat with his wife and family at the hospital had indicated an amicable home life.

By mid afternoon the entire area had been searched thoroughly and I headed back to town, hoping to trim some of my overdue paperwork and type up a report on the case so far. Fuelled by a hamburger and copious amounts of coffee, I was just coming to the end of the pile when the front desk rang. I looked at the clock, it was nearly five thirty . There went my idea of an early knock off.

The desk sergeant said that a man had appeared downstairs and wanted to talk to the officer in charge of the Weston assault. It was one of those moments, do you do what you are paid to do, or hope someone else will take care of it and allow you to get home as some sort of a reasonable hour. I chose the former, and told the sergeant I was on my way down.

He was young, about thirty. Professional looking - neat hair and close shaved, but dressed more casually in smart jeans and a Bronco's T-shirt. He didn't see me coming and paced the floor like an expectant father of twins.

In a dozen years on the force I'd never seen a more panicked informant. Even at the front desk of a police station he was tense. "Follow me", I commanded and led him through the security door and down towards one of the interview rooms.

He started talking before we even got that far. "There's something I need to tell you, but it's vital that you don't all charge in with sirens blaring or somebody could get hurt. Whatever you need to do has to be done quietly".

I opened the door and guided him in. It occurred to me that I could have pushed him out a window and he wouldn't have noticed. "Go on", I said. "What is it you need to tell me?".

Curiosity drove me on, but this guy was too nice to beat it out of. "Mister Peterson...", I exclaimed. "...please continue, and I promise I'll take your concerns into account".

Peterson nodded, drew a breath and blurted it all out. "I'm the next door neighbour of Doctor Paveljeck. His son Isaac was kidnapped this afternoon when he came home from school".

He persevered. "She, the one who took Isaac, said that if they wanted to see him again then Doctor Paveljeck had to make sure that Noel Weston died".

It was my turn to be nervous. Most of my investigations occur after the fact, and although there was a sense of urgency in most of my work, never before did a child's life depend on it.

I quickly explained the case to my superior and then headed in an unmarked car to the Paveljeck's home near Griffith on the southside. On the way I called the nearby Mount Gravatt police station, but asked them to keep a low profile until I had more information.

Mila Paveljeck only gave me a passing glance as I followed Ton Peterson swiftly into her house. I wasn't Isaac and that was all that mattered to her at that moment. There were several others there, Doctor Paveljeck, her parents, one of her sisters, and some more neighbours and friends. The first thing I did was to get them to move all their cars from the front drive, as the gathering was making it obvious that something was wrong and I feared the kidnapper might drive by and notice.

"It was almost three and I opened the door when I thought I heard the Peterson's drive up", she said. "But it was different car, a red one, and this young black woman got out". Mila shrugged her shoulders, "I just thought she'd come to the wrong place, but she burst in and started yelling that my husband had to kill someone for her". The doctor hugged her as she continued, "I told her to leave, or I would call the police, but she grabbed a knife from the kitchen bench and pushed me in to the corner".

Mila began crying again, but was determined to go on. "Just then Isaac came through the door, and she took him and told me she'd hold him until that man died".

She was able to provide a basic description of the car, an old red sedan, but I also recalled something James Ethan had said about the party.

There was a knock at the door and another man entered. He introduced himself as DeLille, a detective from Mount Gravatt police. The details were quickly explained to him, and I told him of the possible link to the previous night's events.

Several unmarked police cars were arranged, and officers spent the rest of the evening patrolling the surrounding suburbs. We arranged for the Paveljeck's phone to be monitored in case any calls were made to the house.

It was surprisingly easy to kill someone, or at least to give the impression that you had done so. The hospital's database was updated with the information that Noel Weston had died of a brain haemorrhage sustained as a result of his injuries, and the Queensland Police issued a press statement stating they were now conducting a murder investigation and were again seeking the public's assistance. And as the first reports of his 'death' were going out over the airwaves, Noel Weston was discreetly moved into another part of the hospital under an assumed name.

It actually worked out better than we had expected. Outside of his family and close friends, less than a dozen of my colleagues and a few of the hospital staff knew the truth. By late evening his death was being reported throughout the state. I had feared that the kidnapper would most likely not have access to a television, so I was delighted to see the "BASHING VICTIM DIES" headlined on posters outside a handful of newsagents, ready for the morning editions until some more entertaining news came along.

Mila Paveljeck glanced over my shoulder as I sat at their kitchen table reading the early morning edition of the Courier Mail. It was only six thirty , the sun was just peaking over the horizon. Two kookaburras chattered noisily in a ghost gum behind the house, competing with each other and the increasing traffic noise nearby. She had awoken at four, and defied her husband's instructions to 'get some more sleep'.

I had arrived at the house early, but did not plan on staying long. It was certain that Isaac's kidnapping was connected with the builders' party, and I headed off mid morning to their local pub, The Anarchy. The local police had said the builders were still spending their bonus money, and I arrived soon after opening time.

The Anarchy pub wasn't the roughest place in Brisbane but it put in a commendable effort. Its decor had been adjusted accordingly, wooden floors, tin-foil ashtrays, tables bolted down and a Perspex screen over the television ready for the next melee. Although I was not in uniform it must have been obvious I was a cop, and what little morning conversation there was deteriorated to a murmur as I crossed the dirty ash-strewn floor.

He shrugged, "Can't hear you over the noise", and he pointed at the music machine. He was a scrawny shit, with sunken eyes that looked almost macabre. He took another swig from his beer bottle and ignored me.

I walked over to the jukebox and pulled the plug from the wall. The silence got everyone's attention, and I repeated myself loudly. "I asked if anyone had any reason to kill your boss".

Ethan started to speak but was interrupted by another beer swilling oaf. "Hey, prick. Put that music back on now". He started towards me but I took two long strides and stood face to face with him.

It worked, he backed away. He wasn't yet drunk enough to fight and he knew no-one would help him if he tried to assault a police detective.

Ethan shrugged, eager to finish and get me out of his hangout. "How the shit would I know. We had a few strippers at the party, maybe it was one of them", he said through a smart-assed grin.

The question surprised him, perhaps he had forgotten already. But I couldn't help noticing it made him uncomfortable. He shifted nervously in his seat, and shrugged. "What black girl?. I didn't see any".

He glared at me, and I could see him sizing me up. Ethan leaned forward and hissed under his breath, "You're really starting to piss me off, just watch yourself".

The oaf who had been complaining about the jukebox stepped forward again. "Stop spending your damn time in here and go and find out who beat up our boss". He walked away. "You pigs are all the same". It was obvious that I was wasting my time, they weren't going to help and I had this dreadful feeling that they might try and take out rough justice on whoever they thought responsible for the attack. I went back to my car and drove off.

Less than a mile from the pub I knew I was being followed. A white ute with a roo-bar turned off the main road and came up close behind me. Just when I was starting to wonder if I was in danger he flashed his headlights and indicated that he wanted to pull in to the roadside.

He veered on to the dry grass ahead of me and got out of his car. I knew I had seen him before, both at the hospital and at the pub. A young lad, early twenties with ginger hair and a slim build.

"I'm Mick. I have been working for Noel Weston for the last few weeks". He was nervous. "Sorry to follow you, but I didn't want anyone to know I was talking to the cops". Mick turned his back on the passing cars and continued. "I don't know who smacked Weston over the head, but I think he deserved it".

"Weston's the biggest dickhead that God put on this earth", he replied. "He prances about like he's some sort of big businessman, but he's a little wife-beating creep that gets his kicks pushing women around".

He reached into his shorts pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. "Listen to this", he said as he pushed a few of the buttons. "This things got a camera, I recorded the party when things started getting violent".

A rowdy party. A blurry image appeared, a young Aboriginal girl, topless and afraid. She was standing on a table, crossing her hands in front of her chest, while a horde of drunken idiots yelled at her.

I recognised Weston, and heard him call out Ã¢â‚¬â€œ sickeningly . "Listen to me, you little black cunt. Get the rest of your clothes off now or I'll take them off for you". Her reply went unheard, and I winced as the drama proceeded. Weston grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her legs from under her. She fell on to the table with a thud and curled into a ball in agony. From the background James Ethan appeared and grabbed her by the hair, then poured beer over her face.

She tried to break free from Ethan's grip but Westen punched her hard in the face and screamed a torrent of abuse. "You little black shit, you know why you were brought here. You dirty cunt...".

He nodded, "Yeah, from the phone box near the airport turn-off". That confirmed what I already knew, a triple-0 call made at ten past two . "I just told the cops that there was a party getting violent, but I didn't say anything about the girl, because if I did, the guys would guessed that it was one of us that rang them.

Mick nodded. "About half an hour later. I told them that I had gone outside for some fresh air when I saw the cop car, so that was my reason for not going back in straight away".

"No, she'd gone, and wasn't mentioned again". He scratched his head and looked around nervously again. "The strippers had shot through also. I just thought the cops had sent them packing".

"Don't say anything about me talking to you", he pleaded as he dashed back to his ute. He did a quick U-turn back towards the north and sped off.

I followed briefly, making sure that no-one had been watching us, and when I felt we were in the clear I turned towards the city. On-route I started making a few calls. There was a chance the two strippers might have seen something, so my first call was to a friend in the Vice-Squad asking for any info on working girls in the eastern pubs. Then I called the Child Protection Unit who started looking for reports of any Aboriginal teenage girls listed as missing or runaways.

By this time I'd realised that Noel Weston wasn't the gallant family man that I had been lead to believe he was. And neither were most of his friends.

When I got back to Roma Street I started looking up the CrimTrac database and received a pleasant surprise - James Ethan was on bail for an assault during a bar fight last week. I quickly had the video image taken off the mobile phone and enhanced, and my superiors agreed it clearly showed him attacking the young girl.

Less than an hour later, his bail was revoked, and I was given the pleasure of breaking the news to him.

I radioed ahead, and met two other patrol cars a half mile from the pub.

"What's happening?", one of the officers remarked.

"It's time to scrape some shit of a pub floor", I replied as we headed off.

The revelry in the Anarchy Pub went down a tone as I entered. Ethan looked over, but went to great pains to ignore me.

I walked up behind him as he sat on a bar stool. "Get up, you're coming with me".

He held up his stubbie. "I haven't finished my beer, now fuck off". He looked around, encouraged by the sniggers of his workmates.

The chair disappeared from under him so fast that he didn't have time to react. He hit the floor and his bottle spun noisily across the floorboards, leaving a swirling trail of froth. "You're finished now", I said.

He came up fighting, but I was ready. His first punch went wildly past my head, the second was so predictable it was almost funny. I grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and used his headlong rush to slam him into the opposite wall. He bounced back and I flung him facedown on the ground. I grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back, slapping the handcuffs on him - maybe a bit tighter than was required. His fair-weather friends abandoned him, scurrying like rats to the fringes of the room.

"Get up", I yelled as he staggered to his feet. I pushed him towards the door, and noticed two of the officers lounging nonchalantly. "Is this your lunch break?", I huffed. "Next time lend a hand".

The officer glared at James Ethan. "We've dealt with this little idiot before. We knew you could handle him".

The car door was held open and one of the officers yelled at him. "Get in and shut up".

Tough neighbourhood, I thought.

James Ethan wasn't so smart once I got him alone, but he still had a surly look on his face as he glared across the table in the interview room. He declined a lawyer, claiming that only criminals needed them. He leant back on the chair and put his feet up on the table. "So, what have I done to piss you off?".

I pushed his feet back to the floor and grinned. "First of all, your bail has been revoked, so you're going back to jail today".

The smug grin disappeared. "What for? I haven't done anything".

"You violated the terms of your bail". I stood and went over to a DVD player in the corner, and pushed the PLAY button. His jaw dropped as he realised that he and Noel Weston were the stars of the show.

"We have you for assault", I said, "and if it is confirmed that this young lady is underage, then you will have additional charges of supplying her with alcohol".

He jumped up from his seat. "Where did you get that?".

The police officer behind him grabbed him with a firm grip and pushed him back down.

"You'll have several months in prison to figure that out".

"So what if that black tart came along", he said, "I didn't bring her to the party and she told everyone she was eighteen".

"Age doesn't matter when you are slamming her down on a table and force feeding her a beer".

All bravado had gone by now, as Ethan realised the hole he had dug for himself. He glanced around the room a few times, as if it would provide him with some witty 'bon mot' but he merely shrugged his shoulders and sat back.

"Who was this girl, and where did she come from?", I asked.

He shook his head and said he didn't know.

"Give me the names of the other two women there, the strippers".

Ethan scowled. "Find them yourself. Don't expect any help from me".

"Then I'm wasting my time with you", I said. I turned to the officer. "Throw him back in the cells".

"Anything else you need, Detective", the officer asked.

I laughed. "Yes, I'm going out looking for strippers".

They were easy enough to track down. Vice had no record of them, but the eastern suburbs police were able to identify them from my basic description, and rang me soon after with their names, Marie Juxon and Liz Dowdall.

Marie Juxon worked in a real estate office in the city, not far from Queen Street Mall. I took a lift in a marked police car but decided to walk the last block to her agency.

She came to the front desk when paged, and I announced that I was from the police and asked if we could talk. A few nervous moments later she finally spoke, "Maybe we should talk outside".

I followed her out onto the footpath, trying to ignore the sound of the afternoon traffic buzzing past. She was a bit frumpier than I expected for a stripper, but I suppose drunks aren't fussy. Her hair was a brazen red colour, obviously unnatural, and I couldn't help recalling that old joke about the 'collar not matching the cuffs'.

"What seems to be the problem?", Marie said innocently. Her eyes never met mine, and I could see her glancing back through the glass pane at her work colleagues.

I sniggered. "Don't waste my time, Miss. I'm asking about you the builders' party Sunday night".

"What's wrong with that. So I do a bit of bar work for functions, that's all".

"It wasn't bar work, but that's not what I want to know. What happened that got Noel Weston beaten senseless?"

"I didn't see anything", she said abruptly as she turned to go. "Sorry, I can't help you".

Her defiance was building up, and I knew I'd have to get tough. "Miss Juxon, I am five seconds away from marching into your office and talking to you manager about your stripping career unless I start hearing what I need to know".

She stopped momentarily. "You can't do that".

I laughed in her face, noting that our entire conversation was being observed from inside her workplace. "You obviously don't know how I operate, so let me tell you". Finally she knew I mean business, but I continued anyway. "I'll talk to you boss, then I'll find some excuse to contact you at your parent's place, and when it is all over, I am going to ring the Tax Department and tell them about your undeclared employment".

She was mine, all her huffing and puffing abated. "OK, wait a sec". She opened the door and called in. "I will be gone for fifteen minutes".

"Anything wrong?", a co-worker asked.

"No, I just need to, um, give a statement to the police. I saw a purse snatcher last week".

She led me away quickly, before anyone else could get involved, escorting me to the coffee shop around the corner. In her haste, she hadn't thought to bring her purse so reluctantly it was my treat. Two coffees, one bun - she was on a diet apparently. We sat at a table away from the few other customers and she started talking immediately. "Look, all I do is a bit of stripping occasionally. Nothing more, so don't you go thinking I'm a prostitute or anything like that. It pays well, but I keep it quiet...".

I held up my hand to stop her. "I don't care who sees you naked, I want to know specifically about an Aboriginal teenage girl who was at the party".

She paused her headlong spiel, as if it had not occurred to her that this girl was the focus of the investigation. "I remember her being there, but she wasn't with us. Her name was Lilly".

"How were you arranged?"

"Liz and I met some builders in a club and they promised us two hundred dollars, each, to serve drinks in the nude all night". She noticed my perplexed look.

"But like I said, nothing more. No sex or any perverted stuff, just serving drinks and dancing".

"And who brought Lilly?".

"She arrived a few minutes after we got there...". Marie pondered for a moment, "...and now that I think of it, she came in Noel Weston's car".

I took a swig of coffee. Marie sat thinking, hoping that I had heard enough to placate me.

"What happened as the night went on?", I asked. "Did you see any violence against her?".

She seemed offended. "Listen to me, I might make a few bucks doing things that the 'God squad' doesn't like, but I would not stand by and see a young girl hurt". She glared at me. "Are we clear on that?".

I nodded, and nearly missed the point she had just made. "What age was this girl?".

"Eighteen if you believe what she said, about fifteen if you don't".

I mulled over what she had said, trying to remember that I was involved in an attempted murder investigation, but it was becoming more and more evident that Lilly, not merely being a criminal was also a victim.

The questioning continued, much to Marie Juxon's frustration. Her hopes of a prompt dash back to her workplace were diminishing by the minute.

"How did you get home?".

We both took a taxi, about two thirty ", she replied. "I live near Spring Hill, Liz lives a few miles further on in Windsor ".

"Do either of you have boyfriends or husbands?".

She looked at me impertinently, and declared. "That is none of your business".

"It is my business if it is possible that he might have beaten Noel Weston. Maybe he doesn't like you flashing your tits at anyone willing to pay".

She scowled at me for a moment, then gave in. "Yes, I do have a boyfriend. But if you must know, he's been away on business in Sydney and won't be back for another few days".

I passed her my notebook and told her to write his name and address down on the page. She went pale, as expected. "He doesn't need to know anything", she said, with her voice almost pleading.

A slight smile broke across my face. "Keep the details coming and I will be of the utmost discretion".

"What about Liz, any husband?".

She shook her head. "She got divorced, about a year ago", and she handed the book back to me.

"Did you leave the room where the party was being held for any reason?".

She didn't answer as quickly as I would have liked. I was still mulling over possible reasons when she spoke up. "Yeah, about two o'clock , I went outside for a smoke".

"No, Liz came out with me, just for safety". She shrugged, "We were nude, remember".

"You didn't see anyone out there did you?".

A cop can usually tell when someone is lying from a long way off. Proving it is harder.

I took another swig of coffee, thought about what she had said, and knew the best way to check it out.

"Thank you for your time", I said, "I'll have a word to Liz now and see if she can add anything".

I met Liz in the Queen Street Mall, meeting at a pre-arranged spot like a couple of blind dates. We sat at a juice bar, and she insisted on buying me an orange juice and biscuits. My reputation had preceded me. She couldn't wait to help out, on the understanding that all my enquiries regarding her nocturnal work would be discrete. Most of her information was the same as Marie had provided, and it was painfully obvious that they had spoken before I got there. But almost as an afterthought, she recalled one important detail. "Lilly said she was from Rockhampton".

It was the sort of small detail that can open up a whole new tangent. Now I knew why she had not been known to our local missing persons unit.

There was too much similarity between their anecdotes, and I quickly became aware that they had co-ordinated their stories. Same timeframes, same people they spoke with, the same time outside in the car park. I tried to think of some way to break the connection.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?", she asked, "I really must get back to the office".

I feigned a memory flash. "Yes, nearly forgot". I opened my notebook and pretended to read from a blank page. "Just for our forensic guys, I need to know what brand of cigarettes you and Marie smoke".

"I never smoked in my life", she said with a pious smile. But it was the rest of the sentence that got my attention. "And Marie gave them up a few years ago when her grandfather died of lung cancer".

I leant across the table a bit closer. "Then why are you both lying about going outside the room at the same time, when she claimed it was to have a cigarette?".

She remained quiet for several second, and I grew impatient.

"You have five seconds to answer, or all these people sitting over there are going to have a story to tell their families when they get home tonight about the arrest they saw in Queen Street. Do you understand?"

She nodded, sighed deeply, and confessed. "OK, I don't want to make a big deal about it". Her voice was croaking, and she looked around to make sure that no-one else would overhear. "One of the builders paid us for a hand-job", she said. "We went outside to get some privacy".

"What time was that?".

"Roughly two o'clock ".

"And how long were you outside?".

She shrugged, "We were on our way back in when we saw the cop car, so we stayed outside for a while, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes until they had gone".

"Do you have your mobile phone on you?", I asked. She pulled it out of her bag and I asked her to call Marie for me. The number was dialled, and after explaining to Marie that I wanted to talk to her, she passed the phone to me. I took the phone, and announced, "You lied about smoking outside and you lied that you were only with Liz". Marie spluttered briefly, and I said tersely, "If either of you two bitches ever lie to me again, I'll make you front page news for a week".

I dumped the phone on the table, stood without further comment, and headed down the mall.

It only took one phone call to Rockhampton and I had a name ten minutes later. Lillian 'Lilly' Chandler , she had run away from home several weeks ago, father in prison, mother had several arrests for drunkenness. But the most disturbing fact I was told - Lilly was only fifteen.

She had been caught a week ago for shoplifting in the city, but had not been arrested and had been taken to her grandmother's home on the southern outskirts of the city.

Her grandma lived in an old weather-board house near the

Gold Coast Highway

. But location did not make up for the dilapidated exterior of a once proud home. I parked my car and noticed her grandmother apprehension build as I approached. I showed my identification and asked if she had any contact from Lilly.

"Why do you want her?. Cops are always looking for us".

"She is a suspect in an assault", I replied. I had decided not to mention Isaac's kidnapping, as it was felt that too much publicity might push an already distraught teenager over the edge. But as a form of compassion, I added. "But I think she may have been attacked herself".

That got her grandmother's attention, and I continued. "There is the possibility that the man she hit might have been trying to harm her".

"Then that's self-defence", she stated curtly. "Nothing wrong with a girl defending herself".

I nodded. "Ma'am, I totally agree. And I suspect when we speak to her that is what we will ascertain. But in the meantime, we are very worried about her safety".

"I brought her up tough", Grandma replied. "But I don't know where she is".

"Could she be trying to go back home to Rockhampton".

"There's nothing for her there", she said. "My daughter can't handle her, and her useless father is in Etna Creek for robbery".

She invited me off the landing. "Sit down, you look like you could use a drink".

Over a cold soft drink she explained that Lilly had been caught stealing a sandwich at a local shop, and the police had brought her back here. Her grandmother cringed. "There's always plenty of food in my cupboard for her. She didn't need to steal any".

Grandma shrugged. "Then I got up the day Saturday morning and she'd gone. Sneaked out the back door in the middle of the night".

I recalled something from outside and I moved to the window and looked out. A strip of grass had an oil patch in the middle, obviously a parking spot.

"She has your car?", I said, more as a statement than a question.

She nodded. "It's an old red Holden. Lilly's a country kid, she's been driving around farmland since she was twelve".

Before I left, I asked for her rego documents and copied down the make, model, and number plate.

"Lilly's a good kid", Grandma said.

I paused. "Maybe you're right", I said, "But we really do need to find her".

Talking to the shopkeeper was a waste of breath, as he seemed more concerned with stolen sandwiches than homeless teenagers. He promised to call me if he saw here again, but did not know where she had been living.

When I got back to Mount Gravatt station, I reported the car as stolen, but added notes that a minor was the suspect. The last thing I wanted now was for her to injure herself in a high-speed chase with police.

DeLille promised to keep up surveillance on the area, and had arranged for several unmarked cars to patrol around the Paveljeck's home.

By the following morning, hope was a distant memory. So many times we hear of the importance of the first twenty-four hours when finding a kidnap victim - Isaac had passed that milestone already. It was hard to imagine the terror such a young child, only five years old, would feel in the circumstance.

As DeLille was staying with the Paveljecks, I remained in Roma Street HQ, co-ordinating with the various departments and fielding several calls to the Federal Police in Canberra .

Midway through another of these calls, my office door flew open and the sergeant shouted. "Just got a call from Mount Gravatt . Isaac was found safe. She dropped him off in a shopping centre".

Twenty five minutes later I sped into Mount Gravatt station, not far from where Isaac had been abandoned.

The officer on the desk escorted me into one of the interview rooms. Isaac was with his mother on the other side of the glass, oblivious to our presence.

Several officers were in the room, listening on small speakers as Isaac was interviewed. He was sitting on his mother's lap, a little teary, and cuddling up to his mother for comfort. A young policewoman, the epitome of gentle questioning, was slowly coaxing information out of him, almost as if it was a normal conversation.

Beside me, DeLille tapped me on the shoulder as he cradled the handset of a phone to his ear. "We just got one important lead", he said. "Isaac said they had to stop the car while a train went across the road". He pointed at a large map of Brisbane spread out on a table. "Could have been

Boundary Road

. It has boom gates, and I'm just on the phone to Queensland Rail to see if the timeframe fits".

Another of the officers spoke to me, "We are narrowing in on where he was taken. He said they didn't cross any river, so that puts him on the south-side but north of Logan ".

By this time, the policewoman had charmed another clue from Isaac, as he started talking about 'big trucks parked on the lawn'. Mrs Paveljeck spoke up gently to him. "Do you mean big trucks like your uncle drives?". Isaac nodded and exclaimed, "I was trying to see if he was out there".

Mrs Paveljeck turned to the policewoman. "My brother drives the big interstate stuff. Macs and Kenilworths. The ones with the long trailers".

The policewoman asked Isaac, "Where they driving along, or were they stopped near you?".

His eyes lit up as he described the scene, a source of wonder for a five year old boy. "There were lots of them stopped there, and in the morning there was lots of noise as they drove away".

I looked at the other police in the room. One officer was flicking through a phone book, and announced, "I'm on it now, I'll ring some of the trucking companies and find out where they park in this area".

The house description was difficult to get, with Isaac continually stating how dirty the place had been. I watched as she continued.

"It was cold", he said.

"Did you have a blanket?".

"No, but it was cold because the windows on the house were all broken".

The pieces were falling into place, we knew it was a derelict house, somewhere next to a truck park. Throughout south-west Brisbane , all police cars were instructed to look out for the car and house, but not to approach until advised.

Half an hour passed. Isaac was growing tired.

Just as I thought we would not get anywhere, the phone rang in the incident room. The sergeant listened for a moment then exclaimed. "We've got it. Red Holden seen beside an old house near Archerfield. There's a truck service area next door".

DeLille turned to me, "You've got us this far. You can handle the arrest".

Using the radios, we co-ordinated our approach. There were no sirens, and the unmarked cars went in first. I could see the house from about half a kilometre away. It was a worn out weatherboard house, no idea of the colour as it had faded long ago. There wasn't even any grass, except for small tufts that grew up through cracks in the concrete surrounds. As Isaac had remembered, there was evidence of trucks having parked there previously, with oil drums and packing crates abandoned nearby.

When I was assured that everyone was in position, I gave the order to move in. The cars moved forward quietly, and pulled up at the base of the house's stairs. I went for the steps, carefully glancing in the living-room window as I passed. It looked quiet. To my surprise I found the door unlocked and slightly ajar. I pushed it gently, and it opened, almost as silently as if a breeze had moved it. I peered in, the room was empty, an absolute mess. I jolted my head slightly, indicating for the officers to follow me. From where I stood I could see into the kitchen, it too was empty. The counters and floor were littered with strewn fast-food packets and beer bottles.

I pointed my gun down the corridor. We knew the house wasn't empty, as we could hear feint breathing noises coming from a room down the hallway.

Three of us proceeded cautiously down the hall, stepping over rubbish strewn on the carpeted floor. There was a door to our right and I peered in carefully. A look of horror stared at me from the other side of the room.

"Jesus", one of the policemen said as we noticed the figure. It was Lilly, propped up against the opposite wall like a skinny Buddha, barely alive, gasping for air. Her lower body was covered in blood, which spread out from her to the knife lying nearby.

I holstered my gun and yelled at the two other men. "Call an ambulance and get your first-aid kit. Quickly". Another officer followed me into the room and he kicked the knife across the floor. Lilly had several large gashes across her wrists.

"Give me your tie", I called to the officer. "Find me some more items to use as a tourniquet". I quickly grabbed her right wrist and wound the tie around it tightly. Even a quick glance at the pool of blood told me that she was not likely to survive. I snatched her other hand and wound a shirt sleeve across the slice marks.

We turned her into the recovery position, but that only made me realise we were battling against the tide. More than her wrists had been slashed, she had also stabbed herself once in each of her thighs.

The green first-aid box was dropped beside me and swiftly opened. I pulled out a wad of gauze and parted it in two, giving it to each of the officers. "Hold that against her thigh wounds, we have to stop her bleeding".

"Lilly", I called, "Hang on, the ambulance is on its way".

She spoke, and for some reason it startled me. "Just let me die".

"That's not what we do, love. You hang on and we'll get you to a hospital in a couple of minutes".

Her serenity was noticeable, her dark eyes managed to focus on me briefly. "Is that bastard really dead?".

I nodded. Now was not the time to be telling lies.

She could hardly be heard now, and I leant in close to hear her speak. She drew in a breath and blurted out her story. "He raped me, right there in front of everyone". Tears started streaming down her bloodied face. "I wanted someone to help me, but...". She fought to keep her eyes open.

Lilly seemed to be lapsing into unconsciousness, and I thought it best to keep her alert and to distract her from her ordeal.

"What happened to Noel Weston?", I asked.

She opened her eyes again and whispered, "I was going to sleep in the car park among the bushes, and I saw him coming out for a piss".

She drifted off again, and I called her loudly.

Her eyes flickered open again. "I belted him with a metal bar I found. That's all I wanted to do, but for some reason, I just kept hitting him over and over again.

The words were slowing down again, and she started gasping for air once more.

In the distance I could hear an ambulance approaching, but even then I feared it would be too late. Lilly opened her eyes again. "Tell Grandma I'm sorry. But I just can't go on".

I nodded and took her hand. She gave it a gentle squeeze, and managed to get out a few more words.

"I'm sorry I took that little boy".

"He's fine. He is back with his parents now".

She spluttered again, and once more I had to lean in, trying to hear over the noise of the ambulance pulling up outside. "I couldn't hear you, Lilly".

She took a deep breath and repeated herself. "Tell Isaac not to hate me".

I shook her hand again and continued. "I'll do that, don't you worry".

Two ambulance officers burst in to the room and shoved us aside. "Clear the room, be ready to escort us".

I moved back to the hallway as they put a oxygen mask over Lilly's face and wound tight strips around her wrists. They hoisted her on to a stretcher and carried her out to the waiting vehicle. It screamed off across the tarmac with one of police cars clearing the way ahead. As they wailed out of sight, I had the awful premonition that our first aid had only delayed the inevitable.

One of the cars drove me back to Mount Gravatt station, where I tried to wash off the blood from the most disturbing case I had ever worked on.

I was lost in my thoughts when DeLille appeared behind me. "Sorry, mate. We just heard from the guys at the hospital. Lilly was dead on arrival".

Lilly's funeral took place in a small chapel west of Brisbane , a place I must have passed a dozen times but had never noticed previously. I had not been specifically invited, but for some reason felt that it would be the right thing to attend.

As I approached, Grandma saw me and beckoned me over. She introduced me to her daughter, Lilly's mother, who embraced me warmly. "Thank you", she said through her tears. "They told me you fought hard to save her life. Thank you for trying". I started to speak, but no sound came out, the words were choking in my throat. I merely shook her hand as she was led into the small red roofed building.

I followed them inside, and took a seat in one of the back pews, until the pastor insisted that I come forward and join them. Several nearby shook my hand, and I quickly forgot that I was possibly the only white person there. But it reminded me of something I had heard in my youth from another cleric -

'black or white, the tears are the same'.

The chapel filled quickly, augmented by a busload that had come from her home up north. I already knew that her father was not there. He had not applied for compassionate leave from jail, but judging by the description of him I had received from Grandma I was not surprised.

The service began with some solemn hymns, followed by more traditional music.

In keeping with Aboriginal custom, Lilly's name was not mentioned, but the pastor introduced a long line of people who spoke highly of 'our cousin', 'our good friend', 'our sweet grandchild'.

I couldn't help thinking it was the type of service that Lilly would have wanted.

They say that revenge is a dish best served cold, but I always felt that the same was true of justice. Two weeks later, after completing my investigations, I found myself back at the hospital again waiting outside for Noel Weston.

During his time in hospital, Noel Weston had become a bit of a 'cause celebre' for the local media, the poor businessman beaten in the middle of the night while entertaining his workers at the end of a successful job.

I felt it was about time the public knew the truth. A crowd of family and workmates had gathered outside the hospital building, watching through the large plate glass windows as he emerged, stepping unsteadily aided by a pair of crutches. They were joined by a large group of reporters and support vehicles, all eager to meet the man himself.

I gave them a few minutes to settle in around him, firing inane questions to fill the evening bulletins.

He was still bandaged around his head, giving him a pathetic "war wounded" appearance. He started pontificating about his plans to get back to work as soon as possible.

I'd had enough. The crowd parted as I stepped though with two uniformed officers. His wife recognised me, and I heard her saying who I was. But in his wildest dreams could not have guessed why I was there.

He put out his hand and smiled. "Detective Blake, it's a pleasure to meet you", he said as the cameras rolled.

The smile disappeared as I clamped a handcuff on his wrist. "Noel Weston, you are under arrest".

All the cameras and microphones turned towards me, and for once in my life I was glad they were there. "You're being charged with the assault and rape of a minor".

For a moment, I thought he would fall over, but the two officers caught him by the arms and started walking him to their car. Weston glared at me, and leant forward to whisper. "She's dead, and none of my guys will testify against me".

I turned to the media, and announced loudly. "You're right, the victim is dead". Cameras flashed in my face, and I made sure I spoke clearly in to their microphones. "But guess what we found inside the victim".

The door was slammed shut, and I yelled though the glass. "Your DNA, Weston. And we have the attack on film". I climbed in the passenger side as the driver sped off, leaving his demoralised family behind.