The envelope had been lying on Sam’s desk since the postage arrived earlier that morning. All other correspondence had been dealt with, but the letter from a firm of Adelaide solicitors, Coen Coen, and Coen was just lying there like a grenade waiting to go off.
“Who did I piss off in Adelaide?”
It was a rhetorical question mostly because there was no one in the office to answer it.
“Better get it over with I guess,” said Sam reaching for the silver letter opener which was a trophy from a particularly difficult case.
Ricky DiMato had been found dangling from a tree, smoke still coming from his shredded clothing. It was obvious that someone had successfully managed to blow Ricky up, but the question was why?
He didn’t appear to be involved in anything nefarious.
He wasn’t fooling around with anyone’s significant other, and he didn’t owe anyone anything.
To be brutally honest, he was a boring little bastard who would never have come across anyone’s radar except for his sudden detonation.
It seemed that his mum loved him, as did his enormous extended family and they paid handsomely to find out who tried to put Ricky into orbit.
The beautifully sculpted silver and amber letter opener had once belonged to Sulfur McWilliams, otherwise known as the ‘mad bomber’. It wasn’t a very original nickname, but it was accurate.
Sulfur McWilliams was well prepared for the day that the good guys caught up with him.
In this instance, it was Sam who confronted him on a sunny afternoon in May. The trail led directly from Ricky’s smoldering corpse to Sulfur McWilliams bungalow on Best Street Northcote.
Sam knocked on the front of number 66 and the man who opened the door fitted the description Sam had been given.
“I’ve been expecting you,” said Sulfur. “You’d better come in.”
Sam put it to him and Sulfur didn’t deny Sam’s accusation, but he did walk across the loungeroom and flick a switch that was concealed behind a portrait of what Sam presumed was Guy Fawkes. To this day, he can remember the smile on Sulfur’s ugly mug.