BLURB

       Her father is accused of murder ...

      Samantha Bretton takes over as skipper of her father's fishing trawler, the Sea Mistress, determined to clear his name.

       His job is to find out the truth ...

      Brisbane cop Chayse Jarrett, guilt-ridden by the death of a young woman on his last assignment, goes undercover on the vessel, and soon realises that Samantha is hiding something.

      Secrets that could implicate her father in more than murder.

      Secrets that Chayse becomes reluctant to uncover.

       Are friends really what they seem ...

      The case takes a sinister turn and Samantha is forced to relive the horrors of her past.

      In a night as deadly and unpredictable as the ocean that threatens his life, Chayse finds new allies, but now faces danger from old and bitter foes.

      Before that night has ended, even enemies will discover that things are not always as they seem ...

      In Deadly Tide, the truth proves to be a destructive force ...

      PROLOGUE

      Chayse Jarrett looked down at the body sprawled across the satin sheets.

      Soft blonde hair.

      Light, almost translucent blue eyes.

      No lipstick coloured the well-defined lips, no make-up enhanced the delicate complexion, her beauty spoiled only by an abrasion on the side of her jaw.

      His gaze followed the slender curve of her neck and narrow shoulders; lingered on the almost pubescent breasts with their slight swelling and pale pink areola.

      He didn't want to look any further. Didn't want to re-live the horror that had shot through him only a short time ago.

      'This the one?' The hefty sergeant from Homicide looked at Chayse, probing eyes seeing more than they revealed.

      Chayse nodded. 'Yes,' his voice a bare whisper, the sound almost absorbed by the room's plush furnishings.

      He forced his gaze slowly down, across the lightly fleshed ribs, to where the slash started. The knife had cut through the skin, the thin layer of fat, penetrated the bowel, and ripped through the folds of small intestine, spilling their contents to mingle with the red blood lying sticky on the white skin.

      The pubic bone had stopped the knife's downward thrust, but only briefly. Twice more the blade had slashed, creating ribbons of flesh and destroying what little innocence may have remained.

      Pain and guilt shafted through Chayse, and he closed his eyes for a second. Then he refocussed, concentrated on the girl's right hand still clutching strands of black hair.

      Clumping and shuffling of shoes in the hallway spun him around. Two uniformed officers were struggling with a tall, voluptuous woman who was trying to use her feet and teeth as weapons.

      'Look what we found hiding upstairs, Sarge,' the older officer called out.

      The woman's struggles ceased as she saw Chayse. Her mouth curled, a red gash that matched her hair and turned a passably pretty face into an ugly caricature. Her eyes, filled with hatred, bore into Chayse.

      She spat towards the mutilated body. 'Won't do much for you now, will she!'

      CHAPTER ONE

       Eight weeks later

      Chayse parked his battered Falcon in front of a small fish shop in Brisbane's eastern suburbs. Peeling paint was offset by a flashing light that drew attention to the day's specials chalked on a large board in the window. People drifted into the shop, to the newsagency next door, and the bakery next to that.

      People. Ordinary people. Ordinary people doing ordinary things like shopping, chatting to friends, watching the constant traffic on the narrow street. Other people. That's how he was beginning to think of them. Almost as though they, with their ordinary way of life, were aliens.

      He walked over to the fish shop, pushed open the glass door to the tinkling of a loud bell, and walked inside. A young woman, plump hips encased in tight black bike pants, was handing money over to the shopkeeper. She dropped the last coin onto the counter, grabbed her purchase, and walked out as another customer entered.

      Chayse gazed at the display of whole fish and fillets in their stainless steel trays. Glassy-eyed prawns stared at him from their beds of ice, and the smell of seafood permeated the air. He looked up at the young male customer. 'You go first, mate. I can't make up my mind.'

      Within a minute the young man had left, and Chayse nodded to the burly shopkeeper. The man inclined his head slightly towards the rear of the shop, and Chayse walked through a beaded curtain to a large room behind the sales area. He barely glanced at the gleaming stainless steel benches, the filleting knives and safety gloves, the enormous ice boxes stacked against two walls. The white tiled floor had recently been washed, and a chemical smell irritated his nostrils.

      He strode over to a staircase clinging to the back wall, and within seconds was knocking on a door at the top of the stairs. He waited the customary few seconds while he was assessed through the security viewing hole, then the door opened.

      'The victim was Ewan McKay, a deckhand on the Kladium, a trawler operating out of Bundaberg.' Peter, his supervisor, handed Chayse a photograph of a man sprawled on his back, the handle of a knife protruding from his chest.

      'He was found in the freezer room, and although the hatch was still open, the cold made it difficult for the coroner to determine the exact time of death. However, the owner of the house where the boat was moored came down to investigate after he'd heard yelling, and what sounded like fighting. The house was a bit of a distance from the jetty, but when he arrived he found this man,' he placed another photograph on the table in front of Chayse, 'trying to climb out of the freezer room.'

      Chayse studied the photograph. Mid-fifties, fair hair going grey at the temples, broad, tanned face. No hint of menace or aggression in the green eyes. 'Who is he?'

      'Allan Bretton. Known as Tug. Owns the trawler Sea Mistress.'

      'His knife?'

      'No. It belonged on the Kladium. Filleting knife. Bretton's fingerprints were on it though he swears he didn't touch it. Reckons he saw the hatch to the freezer room was open, looked down, saw the body, then someone hit him on the back of the head. When he woke up he was lying next to the body. And his leg was broken.'

      'What do the local boys think?'

      'Well, he did have a contusion on the back of his head. But they're convinced the two men were fighting and when Bretton stabbed McKay they both fell into the freezer room and that's how Bretton sustained his injuries.'

      'And there's only Bretton's word against pretty substantial evidence.'

      Peter nodded. 'Forensic couldn't prove he didn't do it, and the evidence was stacked against him. He's out on bail.'

      'So where do I come in? And why?'

      'Because it looked like a fight that'd ended badly, and Bretton wouldn't say why he was on board the Kladium, it appeared a closed case. Then some bright spark ran a check on both vessels and discovered that the Kladium is owned by AGZ Investments. When he dug a little deeper into the company, he found it was a subsidiary of another company that's owned by this man,' another photograph joined the other two, 'Stefan Kosanovos.'

      This