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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  watch the world burn

  ePub ISBN 9781864716047

  Kindle ISBN 9781864716351

  Watch the World Burn is a work of fi ction. All the characters and scenes in this book are fi ctitious and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, or to any current or past event, is purely coincidental.

  A Bantam book

  Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Level 3, 100 Pacifi c Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060

  www.randomhouse.com.au

  First published by Bantam in 2010

  Copyright © Leah Giarratano 2010

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.

  Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/offices

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

  Giarratano, Leah.

  Watch the world burn.

  ISBN 978 1 74166 814 8 (pbk).

  Policewomen New South Wales – Sydney – Fiction.

  Detective and mystery stories, Australian.

  A823.4

  Cover illustration by SuperStock

  Cover design by www.blacksheep-uk.com

  Internal design and typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  Praise for Black Ice

  ‘With plenty happening, Giarratano is cool and calm at the controls. In a word – suspenseful.’ Gold Coast Bullletin

  ‘Leah’s writing remains tight and true and really quite exciting.’ Courier-Mail

  ‘This stands up against any bestseller of the genre, and then its local setting makes it better.’ West Australian

  ‘Definitely one for those who like their crime novels tough and demanding.’ Australian Bookseller and Publisher

  Praise for Voodoo Doll

  ‘Clinical psychologist turned thriller writer Leah Giarratano brings a wealth of professional experience to her art ... a page-turner, note-worthy for its expert characterisation and often chilling psychological veracity.’ The Age

  ‘Voodoo Doll is more chiller than thriller. It’s cleverly plotted and crackles along at an electric pace. I’m sure Giarratano has a growing fan base and it’s great to see local talent getting an outing.’ Good Reading

  ‘This is a seriously good read. Giarratano is taking on the big guns, and winning.’ MX Melbourne, Brisbane, Sydney

  ‘I suspect a series. Bring it on.’ Sue Turnbull, Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘Plumbing the depths of her experience ... Giarratano’s writing has an air of authenticity missing from the work of her peers. Creepy, nasty and oddly compelling, it’s definitely not light reading.’ GQ Australia

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Praise

  By Same Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  More Stuff

  Also by Leah Giarratano

  Vodka Doesn’t Freeze

  Voodoo Doll

  Black Ice

  For Joshua George. Major Arcana 8

  This book is dedicated to

  Zac, Alexandra, Dominique, Gabriella, Jake,

  Kimberly, Kirra, Luke, Max,

  Rebecca and Samantha

  Evil indeed is the man who has not one woman to mourn him.

  The Hound of the Baskervilles, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  1

  Thursday, 25 November, 8pm

  At eight pm, Troy Berrigan knew everything was going perfectly.

  And then the screaming began.

  Although afterwards he’d cringe remembering it for days to come, Troy actually dropped to the ground. Right there in the restaurant. Fucking training. But he snapped to his feet almost immediately and spun around. Oh for fuck’s sake, look at her! He lurched to his right and ripped off a tablecloth. Plates and glasses smashed through the air. More diners screamed. Troy crash-tackled the burning woman and, on the floor with her, held her writhing body close, smothering her moans and the flames with the cloth. The stench of smoke and burnt hair and flesh filled his lungs. ‘You’re all right,’ he coughed. ‘I’ve got you. You’re going to be all right.’

  He was lying, of course. Which is what you do at times like this.

  Rolling with her on the hundred-dollar-a-metre carpet of his restaurant, Troy blinked away images of the old woman – her head on fire, her arms reaching out to him, her face pleading, melting. Even then he knew he’d be replaying that scene in his head for years.

  ‘Get the ambos!’ he bellowed. ‘Has anyone called the ambulance?’

  ‘They’re on their way, boss, they’re coming. Is she all right?’

  Tro
y hadn’t looked up, but he knew that James, his head waiter, stood above him. In fact, Troy could probably have described every person within a five-metre perimeter. His senses were electric, and the moments clicked by in scene-by-scene frames. The woman was out. Fire too. Her heartbeat was like a trapped bird beneath him. He blinked rapidly a few times to halt the images that threatened to return from the past, trying to stop Jonno’s blood staining everything red. His well-worn distraction technique was successful until the screaming started up again. Suddenly he sat in the middle of a park and it was his sergeant bleeding out in his arms.

  ‘Troy,’ said James, squatting next to him. ‘What can I do?’

  Back on the carpet in the restaurant, Troy turned to his waiter. He realised the shouting came from a male diner on his knees next to him, who was reaching out to the woman wrapped in the tablecloth. ‘Help her,’ the man begged. ‘Oh my God, please help her!’

  Dominique, another staff member, bent to try to console the customer.

  ‘Is everyone else okay?’ Troy asked James.

  ‘Well, no one else is hurt,’ said James. ‘But people are pretty upset.’ He moved closer to Troy. ‘This gentleman here is her son.’

  ‘Right.’ Troy turned to the middle-aged man sobbing at his left. ‘No, don’t touch her, mate,’ he said, blocking the man’s clutching hands. ‘Get everyone out, James. I want you to evacuate.’

  ‘What about him?’ James indicated towards the distressed man, who shrugged free of Dominique. Her face was white, mascara smeared across her cheeks and the backs of her hands. Troy’s ordinarily poised, unflappable sommelier now resembled a frightened fourteen-year-old.

  ‘Just leave him with me, James,’ said Troy.

  Troy turned to face the man, who was still grasping at the woman. ‘Please,’ he said, restraining the man’s arm. ‘Don’t touch her. You’ll hurt her. She’s alive, but I’m pretty sure she’s unconscious. The ambulance is coming.’ He looked towards the dining room. ‘Dominique,’ he called to the waitress, who’d already moved to direct the shocked, whispering diners towards the door. She turned to face him, her blue eyes tight, wincing. ‘Call the police,’ he said. She put a hand to her throat, nodded once.

  Troy tuned out the noise of the patrons leaving the restaurant and the man sobbing beside him. Leaning over the elderly woman on the floor, he held his breath and tested the tablecloth over her face, lifting it carefully, almost imperceptibly, willing his hands to stop shaking. The cloth stuck. He let go, knowing that to pull further would dislodge lumps of burned flesh and skin. Fortunately, the fabric was cotton; other materials had a tendency to melt right into a burn. Where was the fucking ambulance?

  ‘How did this happen?’ Troy asked the woman’s son.

  ‘I don’t know. I was on my way back to the table and I just saw her in flames, and then you pushing her down. Oh my God ... Is she going to be all right?’

  No, they never are. ‘She’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.’ Troy rocked back into a squat and put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  Managing Incendie had been Troy’s big break. Even the name was his idea – incendie, French for ‘fire’. Fucking perfect, Troy thought, pushing his hand into his dark hair. What the hell is Caesar going to say about this? He hoped that James had called their boss. Caesar O’Brien, owner of five world-class restaurants, had given Troy the chance to run his newest and biggest, and he’d fucked it up. If James had reached him, Caesar would already be on his way here. Troy’s gut recoiled at the thought.

  ‘Mum ... it’s going to be all right, Mum,’ said the man at Troy’s side. ‘Help is coming.’

  ‘I think she’s still out,’ said Troy. ‘My name’s Troy Berrigan. I used to be a police officer. Sometimes the body shuts itself down when it’s had a shock this bad. It’s for the best, Mr...’

  ‘Caine,’ said the man at his side. ‘David Caine.’

  ‘And your mum, David?’ said Troy. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Miriam.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Seventy. It’s her birthday.’ David began to cry again. ‘I brought her here for her birthday.’

  Troy’s head whipped around at the sound of movement behind him. Thank Christ, the ambos. ‘Over here!’ He stood and waved the officers over, then reached down to help the man on the floor to his feet. ‘Come on. Let’s wait over there, David. We’ve got to get out of their way.’ He turned back to the paramedics – a stolid, stone-faced young woman and an equally implacable, grey-faced man who appeared far too old for the job.

  ‘This is Miriam Caine,’ Troy said to them. ‘Seventy. She was alight. On fire. We still don’t know what happened. She’s breathing, but I’m pretty sure she’s unconscious. I haven’t lifted the cloth to make sure – some of the fabric has adhered to her face.’

  Troy leaned against the bar for support while the officers bent down to the woman. He clamped his teeth together when he realised he was shivering.

  ‘What – what is this?’ The grey paramedic was on his knees at the woman’s side. ‘This was an accident?’ He stared up into Troy’s face.

  Troy looked into the grey man’s eyes, then back at the covered shape on the ground. ‘I don’t know what the fuck this was,’ he said to the floor.

  ‘Stop. Gina, stop!’ The male paramedic used his shoulder to block his colleague as she drew out the patient’s arm, tapping for a vein. She turned to face him, her lips a hard line, a deep crease now visible between her eyes.

  ‘Preserve evidence,’ Troy just barely heard him say.

  The female ambo took a breath. The crease vanished with the lift of her eyebrows, and her face became stone again. She bent back to her kit and removed a hypodermic syringe.

  ‘You wanna wait for the cops?’ the man quietly asked his colleague.

  ‘She’ll die,’ his partner answered.

  Troy turned just in time to grip the arm of the man next to him before he fell to the floor. He used his bad arm, and his thumb and forefinger slipped from the man’s jacket. He steadied the woman’s son with both hands.

  ‘Help her, please,’ David Caine managed to say, his eyes closed.

  Troy led him to a bar stool. ‘They’ll take care of her, mate,’ he said.

  And then in walked the cavalry. Police. Troy didn’t recognise either of them, thank Christ. He definitely would have remembered the dark-haired female, and the big blond bastard wasn’t someone you’d forget either. He gave Caine’s shoulder a squeeze and walked forward to meet them.

  ‘My name’s Troy Berrigan,’ he said. ‘I’m the manager here.’ Troy kept his hands in his pockets.