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george overton intervenes

In the 1950s, ex-Sydney detective, George Overton, should be enjoying his retirement, but his friends keep involving him in their problems. 

Can he stop a feud between two restaurants and is he going too far when he searches three states to find two burglars? 

Was an army general really killed with a gun that could have been at the Battle of Waterloo? 

George can’t help getting in a fix when even a weekend in Wollongong with his wife is not what it seems.


In Store Price: $25.95 
Online Price:   $24.95



Ebook version - $AUD9.00 upload.

Format: Paperback
Number of pages: 240

Cover: Clive Dalkins


Also by Roger Wood... 

The George Overton Series 

George Overton (Retired) (Zeus, 2009)

Detective George Overton (Zeus, 2010)

George Overton’s Casebook (Zeus, 2011)

George Overton Investigates (Zeus, 2012)

Send for George Overton (Zeus, 2013)

George Overton’s Justice (Zeus 2015)  

Historical Stories 

The MacArthur Diversion (Zeus, 2014)

My Name is Patrick Hagen (Zeus, 2016)

Roger Wood
Publisher: Zeus Publications
Date Published:  2017
Language: English


     Read a sample:

Chapter One 

The Hunter Valley, New South Wales. Spring 1952 


A line of men wearing baggy jackets crested the grassy hillside with their expensive guns clutched in their hands. When they approached a cluster of trees they raised their weapons in readiness.

Amongst the trees beaters waited until the shooters had silently spread out in an arc that almost surrounded the trees.

A rattling sound came from the trees, and then another; it was a sound not unlike a machine gun firing and all of a sudden a flock of birds burst from the cover of the foliage.

Pop, pop, pop, pop, each gun went off as the birds flew in all directions and the shooters turned and twisted, aiming, firing, re-loading, aiming and firing again. Finally when the birds that had escaped were out of sight the dogs were released and scampered off to retrieve dead birds from where they had fallen from the sky.

In a minute it was all over and the seven men broke their smoking shotguns and surveyed the now-quiet hillside. They passed around the cigars and lit up as they congratulated each other. No-one had noticed that one of them was missing until their attention was drawn to a man signalling.

‘Over here!’ A man employed as beater was shouting and waving his hands in the air.

When they reached him they found the body of their host, Brigadier General Richard Sheffield, face down in the grass and seemingly shot in the back.

‘Father!’ The youngest member of the shooting party threw himself down beside the prostrate man. The general’s son Stephen rolled him over onto his back and lifted his head; it was obvious he was dead.

‘One of you has shot my father!’ screamed the young lieutenant.


The dead man had been carried back to the house and the police had been called. As they gathered in the drawing room they tried to work out what had gone wrong.

The general’s son Stephen sat in a chair, stunned.

‘Are you alright?’ asked Captain Miller.

‘Yes, thank you John, it’s just such a shock.’

‘I’ll get you a drink.’

‘I was at the other end of the stand,’ said retired judge Samuel Napier. ‘I would have had to shoot through you all to hit Richard.’

‘I was next to him,’ said Doctor Thomas Hill, ‘but I never had a bird in that direction.’

‘Why don’t we try to work out where we all were?’ said Chief Superintendent Williamson as he walked to an ornate desk and picked up a piece of paper and a pencil.

‘Now, Richard was here,’ he said as he put a cross on the paper. ‘You were next to him, Thomas,’ and he wrote a T.

‘I was behind you all,’ said Liam Sullivan. ‘About here,’ and he pointed to a spot on the paper.

‘I was next to the judge,’ said Lieutenant Stephen Sheffield.

‘I can’t see how he could have been shot when all our guns were aimed at the birds,’ said the doctor.

‘I was late firing,’ said Captain John Miller. ‘Damn safety catch jammed on.’

‘Who’s going to have a drink?’ asked Sullivan as he poured himself a large Scotch.

‘Yes,’ said Napier and Williamson as they surrounded the drinks tray.


After about an hour Constable Jones from Maitland Police Station arrived in a borrowed car and was shown the body. Jones could see straight away that this was way out of his league and said he would arrange for the body to be taken to Maitland Hospital.

Donald Williamson took him to one side and said, ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Er…no, sir,’ said Jones. ‘I was just about to take all the names.’

‘I’m Chief Superintendent Williamson from police headquarters in Sydney.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is yours the highest rank on duty today?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Jones. ‘There’s just me and Constable Fulton, he’s on the desk.’

‘Who is your senior officer?’

‘That would be Inspector Moore, sir.’

‘Can he be sent for?’ asked Williamson.

‘He’d be at the footy, sir, in Sydney.’

‘Do you have any detectives on duty?’

‘There’s just DS Boyd,’ said Jones.

‘Can you notify him?’

‘He’s at the footy with the inspector, sir.’

‘I marked the place where the general was shot before he was moved.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Jones.

‘I’ll have to get someone sent from Sydney, is that alright with you?’

‘Yes, sir. What do you think I should do now?’

Williamson told the constable to start taking statements while he made a phone call.

It was almost the same situation in Sydney; it seemed a Saturday towards the end of the football season was not the best time to start an investigation.

He was told Detective Sergeant Tiveton from Central Police Station was on stand-by and they would try and locate him.


The Darling Hotel was not one of the oldest pubs in the inner city suburb of Balmain, nor was it one of the most comfortable, but for the regulars it was their home from home. It was Saturday afternoon and the bar was packed. Most of the drinkers were having a quick drink before heading towards Leichhardt Oval to watch the Balmain Tigers at home to South Sydney, their last game before the finals.

‘One more?’ asked the one-armed Lefty.

‘Yeah,’ said ex-detective George Overton. ‘We’ve got time,’ and up came two more drinks.

Detective Sergeant Clive Tiveton arrived hot and sweaty, pushing his way through the crowd until he stood at the bar. ‘I’ll have a beer, Mickey,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think I’d make it.’

‘I don’t know how you do it, Clive,’ said Overton. ‘I thought you were on stand-by.’

‘They won’t be able to find me,’ he said sipping his beer. ‘Are you just about to leave?’

‘Last drink,’ said Lefty.

‘Won’t you get in trouble?’ asked the bartender called the Cap’n. He got the nickname from when he skippered a harbour ferry.

‘I’ll just say there was a ruckus at the Trocadero and it took me all afternoon to sort it out.’

‘What about a report? You’ll have to fill out a report.’

‘I’ll just make up some names,’ said Tiveton. ‘That’s all the larrikins do anyway.’

‘Alright, let’s go,’ said Lefty. ‘Or we’ll miss the kick off.’

They came out of the pub with most of the men from the bar and stood waiting for a tram to take them through Rozelle to Leichhardt Oval.

A black Morris Oxford car with a police sign on the roof cruised slowly passed the waiting men and pulled to a stop in front of Overton and Tiveton. What’s this? they thought as Constable Joe Colyer from Central Police Station got out of the driving seat and stepped up onto the kerb.

‘I’m glad I found you, sir. There’s a panic on.’

‘How did you find me?’ asked Tiveton.

‘Everybody at the Court House knew where you were.’

‘What’s the panic then?’

‘Headquarters want you to go to Maitland, there’s been a shooting, a man’s dead.’


‘You’re to use this car; I’ve got to take the ferry and get back on the desk.’

‘Who’s been shot?’

‘General Sheffield,’ said Colyer. ‘Chief Superintendent Williamson is up there.’

‘Then why can’t Don Williamson deal with it?’ asked Overton.

‘It appears he’s a suspect.’

‘Alright,’ said Tiveton. ‘Sorry, George, I’ll have to dip out on the footy.’

‘Actually, can I come along?’ asked Overton.

‘You’ll miss the game.’

‘Don Williamson was my old Super at George Street, so if I can help in any way—’

‘Alright, come on then.’

‘Will you tell Margaret for me, Cap’n?’ asked Overton and the bartender nodded.

As they got into the police car Constable Colyer gave Tiveton a sheet of paper. ‘That’s the address; it should take you about three hours.’






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