An Eye for an Eye presents a riveting story of a questionable death set in Melbourne in the 1970s. The characters in the story are alluring. They come from different cultural and social backgrounds. The story leaves one wondering how nature, nurture and relationships contribute to life’s experiences. An Eye for an Eye is a very insightful book and a very good read.

      - Dr. MINA SHAFER, Psychologist and published Author.

      Part thriller, part pulp fiction type novel - it’s a page-turner. Human frailties, which are sometimes brutally, sometimes subtly experienced and exposed by the well-rounded characters, are described with gentle insight. Moral dilemmas, consequences of vindictive actions and the obsessive pursuit for revenge drive the story to a suspenseful resolution. It had me hooked from page 1.

      - VICTOR MAJZNER, Artist and Author.

       CHAPTER ONE

      Tuesday, 8 January 1988

      3.02 a.m.

      ‘I could be screwing a dead mullet!’

      The profanity polluted the air and drained away any remaining dignity in the room.

      He rolled off the slight shadow, his right foot angrily shoving aside the girlish figure. No clothing masked her small, slender body and no emotion penetrated her doll-like features.

      ‘If you want to stay in this country, you're going to have to do better than this. Otherwise you're out. Back into your leaking boat, eating noodles,’ he snarled.

      Still no response.

      Brett knelt naked on the bed. He pushed up the girl’s eyelids. Staring vacantly at him were non-comprehending almond eyes, no longer witness to her life's shame. He searched for the missing pulse in her neck.

      ‘Fuck!

      He was oblivious to the sadness and squalor of his surroundings. His concern was protecting himself and the sight of the young woman’s body lying naked amongst the stained sheets did not arouse any other emotion. His mind raced, weighing up the options available to him, whilst the slivers of early morning light intruded through the tattered blinds, unable to purge the image contained in that room.

      The light was cast mainly by the sentinel-like street poles surrounding the dingy boarding house, which doubled as a brothel and was run by Brett’s business partner, Vladimir. Outside, the darkness of the night was beginning to fade, whilst inside, it would never lift.

      For a heavy, thickset man, Brett could move quickly. He felt he needed to, in his line of work. Detectives in the Victorian Homicide Squad didn't always get a second chance, dealing with the lowlife they encountered.

      Brett Maloney was not one for introspection. He figured that he would leave that to the effeminate Chardonnay set, but he knew that he had a bit of a problem here. He'd left his signature in the dead girl. He guessed the media would highlight her youth, manipulating reader’s emotions. As far as he was concerned, chinks always looked younger than they were.

      He brushed aside any vestige of doubt, reassuring himself that he could not be held accountable for her death, sure, he’d given her speed – lots of it – to make her come alive when they screwed, and had taken some himself, enjoying the high that it gave him. He’d promised her that she would get a fix of heroin if she pleased him.

      It was only later that a vague memory elbowed its way into his thoughts. He reluctantly recalled her whispering some words as he entered her, but they were words he ignored, as he had no interest in what she was saying.

      Now, the only faint recollection was her mentioning drugs, and he recalled her popping further pills of her own. At the time, her words were only a distraction which he ignored, allowing her voice to drift away. Belatedly, he now wondered if she was telling him about drugs she had already taken that day, but reassured himself that she had only herself to blame if that was the case.

      He left her lying naked in the bed, believing that any attempt to hide the body would only heighten suspicion about the cause of death. This way, she would be found within hours at most, leaving open the possibility that she had suicided or accidentally overdosed on drugs she had taken herself.

      Brett believed that the other girls working at the brothel would be too scared to give evidence of him having been there the night of Candy’s death on the 8 January, 1988, and he knew his name was not listed in the brothel appointment book on that date, nor on any other date.

      Brett's features were a caricature of a cop, highlighted by a beefy red face, and a bulbous nose with his upper lip covered by a traditional moustache. He hated being asked why so many cops had moustaches – but wondered the same thing himself.

      He avoided mirrors, except when imposed by the necessity of shaving. His was a face that scared the shit out of people, he'd realised years ago, and it wasn't a face that even he particularly liked. However, he was stuck with it, much as a Bull Terrier is slave to its own features and personality. His consolation was that you can't fight genetics, absolving himself of any responsibility for the ravages that he'd inflicted on his own body. Deep down, he knew that the cigarettes, the alcohol, the lack of sleep and the screwing around had not helped the way he looked. What he refused to acknowledge however, was how much of the inner person his features reflected. He used to joke with his mates that he had a face only a mother could love. Not that his had.

      4.30 a.m.

      Approaching dawn, Brett slipped into bed, grateful for the stuporous form lying beside him.

      His wife Jenny had probably loved him early on. She didn't know better at seventeen years of age. He was a twenty-five-year-old constable when they