Daniel Murtagh has spent the last eighteen months of his life living with the unwashed and homeless, the mentally disabled and the forgotten heroes. He spent most of his time pretending to sleep amongst overflowing garbage bins under the Seaton Jetty, but once a week he would report to the Port Adelaide police station and meet with his senior detective.
‘Any news from the cesspit?’ asked his senior.
‘There’s someone new on the scene, a 20-something named ‘Bluey’ on account of his ginger hair. He’s shot off his mouth a few times, claiming he’s broken into several shops in Glenelg after midnight, but none of it checks out. He’s probably a wannabe bad boy who’s been kicked out by his girlfriend and his family won’t have him back.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Well, ‘Smelly’ is back. He rode the Indian Pacific to Perth, allegedly, and only returned because his daughter has been busted for ice.’
‘Have you got any further with the Henderson murders?’ his senior asked.
‘Interestingly, I slept a few nights in the rose garden of the Hendersons, and watched various family members come and go, shout on the verandah, and drive off in their Beemers, Mercs, and Bentleys obviously very unhappy. I never knew that Bentleys could throw gravel like that.’
