BATAVIA SHORES

by Ken STEWART

BOOK ID-504603

Ken Stewart about 70,700 words

15 Glenwood Way plus index of 300 words

Balcatta, 6021.

Western Australia

(08) 93443859

kjstew@iinet.net.au

BATAVIA SHORES contents (hyperlinked)

CONTENTS

PART ONE

Chapter 01 – Death at Sea – October 1720’s

Chapter 02 – The Hearing – October 1720’s

Chapter 03 – Trial and Sentence – October 1720’s

PART TWO

Chapter 04 – Car-Jacked – Sunday afternoon, Early June

Chapter 05 – Geraldton at Night – Sunday night

Chapter 06 – Visiting Crazy Daisys – Monday morning

Chapter 07 – Gunshot Victim – Tuesday morning

Chapter 08 – South Fremantle Shootout – Tuesday afternoon

Chapter 09 – Mullewa Creek-bed – Sunday afternoon, Mid-June

PART THREE

Chapter 10 – Adolescent Drugs – Monday morning, 30^th June

Chapter 11 – The Body – Monday morning

Chapter 12 – Joey, Polly and Sandy – Monday morning

Chapter 13 – Law Office Interviews – Tuesday morning

Chapter 14 – The Bus Station – Tuesday afternoon

Chapter 15 – Moonyoonooka Farm – Wednesday morning

Chapter 16 – Several Suspects – Wednesday morning

Chapter 17 – Another Body – Wednesday afternoon

Chapter 18 – The Third Body – Thursday morning

Chapter 19 – Visit to Perth – Friday morning

PART FOUR

Chapter 20 – DNA Revelations – Saturday afternoon

Chapter 21 – Railways vs. Northampton – Sunday afternoon

Chapter 22 – The Place of Initiations – Sunday night

Chapter 23 – Off to Rat Island – Monday morning, 7^th July

Chapter 24 – Fozzy’s Story – Monday afternoon

Chapter 25 – Conflict on Rat Island – Monday afternoon

Chapter 26 – The Crayboat Returns – Tuesday morning

Chapter 27 – Painstaking Detective Work – Wednesday morning

Chapter 28 – The Dero of Gero – Friday night

Chapter 29 – A Quiet Saturday – Saturday

Chapter 30 – Northampton Match – Sunday morning

Chapter 31 – Post Match Blues – Sunday afternoon

PART FIVE

Chapter 32 – An Assassin Interviewed – Monday morning, 14^th July

Chapter 33 – Fozzy’s Second Story – Tuesday morning

Chapter 34 – Breaking Down a Killer – Wednesday morning

Chapter 35 – Shipping Intelligence – Thursday morning

Chapter 36 – Ship to Ship Chase – Thursday evening

Chapter 37 – Follow the Money – Friday morning

Chapter 38 – Just another Saturday – Saturday

Chapter 39 – End Game – Sunday afternoon

PART I

Chapter 1

Death at Sea – October 1722

“You’re cheating,” the crusty seadog declared vehemently in his raspy breath. His opponent glanced up furtively, not daring to look anyone in the face.

The four crewmen had gathered in secrecy in the ship’s galley to take part in a game of cards. The captain, Niels de Rooy, had very specifically banned the playing of these Devil’s Games because his religious convictions opposed them. He also believed that it was a waste of the energies of the crew and in the past had seen harmless card games in taverns that had ended in violence. The crew in their down time should be sleeping, reading the Bible or making something with their hands, scrimshaw or whittling or the like, or even better - mending sails, making nets or splicing ropes.

The four were seated in a quiet corner of the galley, where the gangway could be continuously observed for the arrival of any officers. When the need arose, the cards could be quickly whisked away. The game was just a simple game of Ruff and Honours, a variation of Whist.

The sailors had used up their meagre supply of cash and were now wagering the money from their forthcoming pay. Each pair was gambling on scoring more points than their opponents. The combination of the tall, wiry Karl Dekker and the stocky Andro de Wit, two top-mastmen, were up against the scrawny Rutger Van der Linden and pudgy Ditmar Mesman, both cook’s helpers and general servants. In the previous few weeks, the lower-deck-men, Rutger and Ditmar had been gaining the ascendancy over the upper-deck pair of Karl and Andro. They were almost a week’s pay in front and had been quietly needling their opponents during the day as everyone went about their shipboard duties.

The Dutch East Indiaman, the Gulden Broeck, was twelve days out of Cape Town crossing the Indian Ocean, driven on by the reliable Roaring Forties from the west. This was a mighty ship of the Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie or United East India Company, usually just designated as The VOC, so the Captain was compelled to sail the Brouwer Route to Jakarta. This also required him to travel east utilising these prevailing strong westerlies for as long as possible, before turning north to be carried by the southerlies up the western coast of Terra Australis. This was a known hazardous route and at least two VOC ships in the last century had waited too long to turn north and were wrecked on the western shores: the Batavia in 1629 and the Vergulde Draeck in 1656. But it was the fastest route to the spice treasures of the East Indies. The Dutch had a strangle hold over the trading fortune of cloves, nutmeg, pepper, cinnamon, cassia, cardamom, ginger and turmeric. And time was money.

The accused Rutger Van der Linden, a small man with rat-like features, looked quickly down again at his cards. He was the dealer for this round and always seemed to have that extra luck with the honours on his deal. His last furtive card flip had aroused the suspicions of Karl Dekker, his tall and sinewy opponent. Karl had called him out, glaring straight at him, his sea-weathered cheeks reddening in anger. The two other partners of the arguing parties, both fearfully glanced towards the gangway and hissed for Karl to be a little quieter in case they drew attention to themselves.

“U zijn bedrog,” Karl Dekker rasped again, and reached his strong calloused hands over the mess table to grab and shake the scrawny wrist of Rutger Van der Linden. The gruff roll of his native Dutch snarled, “I know you are cheating.”

From under the wrist, out of the sleeve, an extra card fell into view. Both Karl and Rutger stood up, thrusting back the bench seats on either side of the mess table. With years of precarious working above with sails, the quick reaction of Andro enabled him to grab hold of the table to prevent himself from being propelled backwards, but the overweight Ditmar wasn’t so agile. Both he and the seat toppled heavily to the floor.

“Let go,” growled Rutger. He smashed across with the scrawny knuckles of his free hand to forcefully strike Karl’s grip from his wrist.

“So this is how you have been robbing us for the last month,” snarled Andro. “You hide an extra honour card so you can claim the extra points on it.” He was standing on the same side of the table as Rutger, so a single step thrust him into the personal space of the card cheat. He bent down and glared straight into his face. “You are lower than a bilge-rat.”

“This means you will have to pay back all the money you stole from us during the first part of the voyage,” seethed Karl from across the mess table, “and all other debts are cancelled.”

“No!” Rutger’s slimy voice rang out over the tense table of sneers. “We won that all fair and square. It was only tonight that I was messing around with that extra card.”

As Ditmar began to sort himself out from the upturned bench, Karl snapped gruffly, “You stay there. Keep out of it, unless you were involved.”

“But . . .” began Ditmar.

“And keep quiet,” growled Andro.

Ditmar stayed seated on the floor. He was ashamed and disgusted with his partner and could fully understand the intense anger of the other two. He was also furious that all the winnings they were to share could now never be claimed.

“You will pay our money back,” Andro declared hotly.

“I can’t. I spent it on grog and tobacco,” smirked Rutger, staring defiantly at de Wit, and then in a quavering voice began to back away as Andro took a forward step, “Get away from me.”

Andro reached out and grabbed him by the shirtfront and pulled him forward. At the same moment Rutger swung a left arm across to shake himself free, followed by a roundhouse right fist which connected solidly to the side of Andro’s head. Both stepped apart and reached swiftly for their knives.

As Rutger stepped back he came within the grasp of Karl, now coming around the mess table in hostile confrontation. Karl, on seeing the drawn knife, moved deftly away from the glinting blade and pushed him aside. Rutger staggered off balance. Andro stepped in and thrust his blade into the stomach of Rutger, who winced with the sudden pain and dropped his knife.

Knowing that his stomach wound was serious, Rutger tightly clutched his belly and staggered to the gangway, and slowly climbed up to the deck. Andro and Karl followed. The open deck was rolling with the surge of the following winds. Rutger staggered ungainly forward, as he appeared to be making for the officer’s cabins, probably for the ship’s surgeon. The deck was deserted and quiet except for the creaking timbers and flapping sails. Fully realising that they had probably killed him, Andro and Karl purposefully moved in on each side of Rutger. A stomach wound was likely a fatal blow, especially on board a ship. Together they covered his mouth, grabbed both his arms and forced him to the railings. One concerted heave from them and he was over the side. The heavy swells thudded against the hull. There was no splash to be heard. His vital fluids had drained into his eviscerated stomach while slowly robbing him of life. There was no visible blood to be seen.

Andro and Karl turned in time to see the portly Ditmar, cowering with an ashen face at the doorway to the gangway. They cornered him and forced him back down into the galley.

“You have two options,” hissed Andro, staring him straight in the eyes. “You can keep your damned trap shut, or you can join Rutger over the side. Your price will be the cancellation of all your debts and you will get a quarter of each of our pay at the end of the trip.”

“Half,” demanded Ditmar quickly and brazenly.

“You are pushing your luck,” snapped Karl angrily. “I’m beginning to think it will be easier and safer to put him over the side,” he snarled.

“No!” said Andro. “There’s been enough killing already. One accident is enough for this night. Half of each of our pay is agreed.”

As the cold wind whistled eerily through the rigging above, the pact of silence was sealed as the three sailor’s calloused palms shook together in a bond forged in fear.

Chapter 2

The Hearing. – October 1722

For the next two days the Gulden Broeck was hurled eastwards with the relentless strength of the Roaring Forties. By sustaining this reliable speed, they expected to sight land sometime during the next day.

With the strong following wind, the Captain had ordered full sail to maximise the breezes. There were times when the ship heeled over in response to a sudden gust that was a little stronger than usual. However the three-masted Indiaman was purpose built, a reliable old pachyderm of these waters, robustly designed to take these strong winds and carry big cargoes.

She was also well defended against the likelihood of pirates, both locally in the East Indies, or from roving brigands out of Africa or Europe on the way home. With thirty-six cannons and six swivel guns she could easily match anything. Anything that is, except ships of the line. In addition she had a ship’s complement of 200 men that included more than a dozen disciplined and highly trained soldiers.

Deep in the cargo hold on the outward trip sat five boxes of gleaming guilders. With each rolling wave, these riches shifted slightly in their restraining lashings. They were on their way to buying spices, the ultimate prize for which the empire and beyond would pay handsomely. Stowed around them were also general building supplies for the construction of further Dutch East India Company’s offices and employees residences, more edifices of power of the colonial rulers. The Gulden Broeck’s homeward bound journey would hold the precious cargo from the Spice Islands. The jewels of the East Indies paid for by the gold and silver of Europe.

#

It was before dawn, when most people are at their deepest sleep, that they came for Karl and Andro. Each was awakened roughly to stare into the barrels of two muskets and half a dozen faces behind the lanterns. With the flickering of the lamp wicks the faces appeared as demons, glaring ghostly from the gloom, with their shadows dancing on the hull behind. The resonant voice of the bosun, a voice capable of being heard above a gale force wind, ordered them to get up and turn around. The strong calloused hands of ship’s carpenter hammered rivets into the heavy iron shackles around their wrists and then onto their ankles.

Both prisoners were roughly manhandled up to the quarterdeck where the first mate, Lieutenant Sven Koening, was on duty. In the hour before dawn, there was a light mist and a slight breeze. The ship creaked ahead slowly. Lookouts on the foc’sle up front were those with the best ears, as well as eyes. They didn’t want land to find them before they found its treacherous edges.

In the background, watching from behind the first mate, stood Ditmar Mesman. He was not altogether happy to be there, but he was not shackled.

They stood in the dim light, surrounded by four soldiers, as the first mate Sven Koening leant over and glanced at the compass bearing and growled, “Two points off, helmsman. Wake up lad. Keep your mind on your job.”

Turning to the two prisoners, dropping his tone into a soothing manner, he inquired, “Well boys. What’s your story about Rutger Van der Linden?”

“What do you mean, Sir?,” stammered Karl in a quavering voice.

“Ah yes, I see it will be Seaman Karl Dekker to speak first,” announced Lieutenant Koening. “Guards, take Seaman Andro de Wit for a walk down to the foc’sle for a while. I’ll send for you when we want him.”

Two of the guards prodded Andro down the steps and across the main deck. He staggered, and with his hands shackled behind, almost toppled, finding it difficult to walk in the leg irons, especially down the gangway to the main deck.

“Now talk, Dekker,” ordered Lieutenant Koening. A chilly wind blew in from the rear and Karl shivered as the ship responded and increased in speed.

“About what?” enquired Karl in an attempt to sound more confident than he actually felt.

“The unfortunate death of the missing Mr. Van der Linden,” prompted the first mate sarcastically. “Seaman Mesman has told us of your involvement, so now I want to hear it from you.”

Not having the chance to co-prepare any story with Andro, Karl told it as close to the truth as he dared, but with enough flexibility to enable the truth to be glossed over.

“We were all playing cards in the mess, Sir,” he admitted and paused for the officer’s comment on the illegal activity. On receiving no interruption he continued. “Rutger was found to be cheating and a fight started between Andro and Rutger. I tried to stop Rutger by holding him back but he broke free and fell forward onto Andro’s knife. It was an accident.”

“How did he go overboard?” prompted the lieutenant.

“He was in total agony and rushed up onto the deck, staggered towards the railings and fell over as the ship rolled,” was the reply. “He didn’t seem to know what he was doing or where he was going.”

“Why was this incident not reported immediately?” probed Lieutenant Koening.

“Well, Sir,” continued Karl. “We all knew we would be in serious trouble from the Captain. We were playing cards when a friend and fellow seaman died, but since he had disappeared overboard without a trace we hoped it would not come out. We kept quiet and hoped it would eventually be brushed off as missing unknown.”

“Guards, take him forward and send back the other man,” ordered Lieutenant Sven Koening.

The interview with Andro de Wit proceeded along the same lines. Andro’s story was that Karl attempted to stop the fight but Rutger turned on him and as he thrust him away he was pushed onto the knife. Both men had followed him to try to help, but as they approached him on the deck, he panicked and dived overboard.

“Take them both to the brig. They will go before the Captain at this morning’s nine o’clock hearings,” ordered the first mate.

Chapter 3

Trial and Punishment – October 1722

At the mid-morning hearings by Captain Niels de Rooy, the first mate presented his summary of the event, with a bias on the original story as reported by Ditmar Mesman. The knifing was deliberate and the man who fell overboard was, in all probability, assisted. The three men faced the Captain, who solemnly enquired, “Anything to add?”

“It was an accident,” pleaded Karl Dekker.

“No one was meant to die,” appealed Andro de Wit.

“Both guilty,” declared the Captain. “And Ditmar Mesman too.”

He slowly turned to the shocked accuser. “Seaman Mesman, you are guilty of breaking the Captain’s specific orders about cards. Because of this, a seaman is dead. Your sentence will be the forfeiture of pay for this voyage and your dismissal at the end of the voyage. If you do not behave for the rest of the trip you will be charged with accessory to murder, and hung.”

From the top of the mainmast came the faint call that was then echoed by other voices who yelled jubilantly throughout the ship. “Land ho! Dead in front.”

“Tell the quarterdeck that I’m on the way,” announced Captain de Rooy to his man-servant. “But first for you two. Hanging is too good for you. You deliberately threw him overboard to cover up your card game dispute. I sentence you both to be marooned and I will determine where shortly.” With that brief statement the Captain left the three convicted sailors in the charge of the first mate and strode away to take command of his ship. The two wretched prisoners in shackles were forcefully steered back to the brig.

#

The thin profile of the shore that was visible in the distance had the second mate, the specialist navigating officer, reaching for the charts of the known coast of Terra Australis. As the ship drew nearer to the shore he could make out separate hills and, by their profile, he determined they were near a known promontory. He informed the Captain of their location who just nodded with satisfaction. He already knew approximately where they were. They were exactly on course.

The Gulden Broeck turned north to travel up inside the channel between the coast of Terra Australis and the offshore coral islands where the Batavia was wrecked a hundred years earlier. By staying near the shoreline the ship could make good use of the land and sea breezes to get a fast run up the coast.

He finally turned his thoughts to the prisoners. He could veer his course seaward and drop them on the uninhabited coral islands where there was a little water and not much else. Or he could veer towards the mainland and dump them on a beach. He discussed the options with the first mate, who recommended leniency, so the ship slightly altered course to starboard and edged towards the mainland.

As they neared the coast, a thin visible reef prevented the ship from getting too near. Karl and Andro were brought up on deck and each was issued with a pottery jug for carrying water and a knife for butchering game. These and the clothes they stood in were to be their only provisions. As the order to heave-to was given, the prisoners were paraded through the bustling crew to the side of the ship, their hand shackles rattling and leg irons scraping the deck. The ship’s carpenter was on hand to hammer apart the riveted shackles before they were escorted down to a longboat and rowed to shore. Captain de Rooy was pleased with the spectacle it made, quite comfortable with the loss of a couple of hours sailing time, as it would reinforce his standing orders and enhance his stature as the captain.

Calm water enabled the longboat to negotiate a wide channel between the rocks as they went in and out. Within an hour the Gulden Broeck was under way again and was sailing away to her East Indies destination.

#

Karl and Andro found themselves on a long white sandy beach. Bordering the beach, for as far as they could see, were low gleaming sandhills covered in places with tufts of spiny grasses. They walked along the beach for about two miles, in some places climbing over a couple of brush covered dunes to bypass a rocky part of the foreshore. The white dunes gave way to pink as the presence of ochre clays coloured the sands. The dunes became darker and more reddish as they went along. When they came to a small stream, they drank sparingly to taste the tepid, almost fresh water as it flowed out between the sand hills. Beyond these, arose a bastion of rugged limestone slopes, with their facia tinted a deep red-brown.

They followed the small tree-lined stream inland as it narrowed into a deep limestone valley and then opened into a wider plane. Here the water was flowing fresh and crystal clear, though there wasn’t much of it. Walking beside the stream they saw in the distance where the opposite side of the valley had a ridge of solid, large brown rocks. The near side of the valley was quite steep with an overhang part way up, so they climbed towards it to seek a shelter from the sun and perhaps later from rain. They would need to plan how to escape from this wide open prison, or slowly perish together amid the nothingness.

From the first moment they had set foot on this God forsaken shore, they were both talking about options. If they walked south it would be towards a cooler climate, but in an unknown land there may be nothing there. They could walk north towards the Tropics, and hope to reach a place to build a boat strong enough to sail to the East Indies. Or they could try to construct a raft here from the limited timber and use it to travel up or down the coast. These thoughts permeated their minds as they climbed up the steep side of the valley.

The overhang which promised shelter revealed even more. There was a deep cave, and in the gloom inside, they could see that it had been previously inhabited. The walls were daubed with ochre paintings. There were stick-like men with spears hunting large two legged rat-like creatures and ostrich shaped birds. There were pictures of snakes and lizards and fish dotted all over the wall. In places there were handprints of many different sizes that seemed to be the signature of the wall artists. This was definitely a living space and it showed there was game out there to catch.

#

Three weeks later, a foraging tribe of the local inhabitants camped briefly in the numerous caves among the ridge of brown rocks, in their journey from one hunting ground camp to the next one. They sat in the creek bed and drank from the last trickle of water as the stream was being dried out by the coming of the summer heat. It didn’t bother them that the surface water was going, because they knew the places where it flowed underground all year long, cool and sweet, even through the longest droughts.

As the adults talked and joked among themselves, and the children played or rested in the shade of trees, a man crawled out of the bushes. He was dressed in strange clothing and with skin as pale as the moon. He collapsed face down into the drying riverbed.

PART II

Chapter 4

Car Jacked – Sunday Afternoon, Early June

“Behind you,” came the warning. Barney could sense the footfalls as the attacker closed in. He feinted right and veered left, knowing that would be the unexpected. But another was closing from that direction. He quickly handballed the football in the direction of the still active voice, and sprinted on. Both attackers changed direction.

“Here,” he called back, and the football was passed his way again. He was now slightly more in the open and able to turn onto his favoured foot to kick straight for the goals. Success. The home crowd roared.

Barney Merrick had done a hard pre-season training before the start of the local football rounds. Now at the halfway point in the season he was beginning to reap the benefit. After eight games of tough physical football in the first ten weeks, with two restful byes, he was comfortable dashing about for the full game. He enjoyed running the legs off blokes nearly ten years younger than himself. The Railways Football Club was having one of their best seasons and Barney was an integral part of it.

Charles Barnabas Merrick, Barney to everybody, was a young successful Detective in the Geraldton Police Station. He had been in Geraldton for nearly six years and had no plans to move anywhere else. Football was his second love and he had found a niche in this club and in this town.

He also enjoyed showing off in front of his number one supporter, Carleen Camello, who was also first in his affection. They were still together after eight months and were regarded by most as an old married couple. She was there in the football crowd, seated with Zep and Shirley Marcon and their three teenage children.

Zep was Barney’s immediate boss. Seeing both of the Marcons and all three children at a football match was an uncommon occurrence. This weekend there was a bye in the Marcon children’s hockey. It was School’s Country Week Hockey in Perth, taking the local sporting talent to the capital to compete against other rural cities. With so many teams being short of their best players, this weekend’s round was rostered as a bye for all junior hockey teams. Zep and his family had grabbed the opportunity to attend a football game instead.

#

It was the last quarter and Railways had eased off the pressure against Chapman Valley. The Valley was a struggling football team as many farmer’s sons had left the land, and ‘imports’ co-opted from all around the State were all too often just young inexperienced lads. For some years now the heart had gone out of this once strong club. Against the might of Railways and with their home ground advantage, the Chapman Valley Royals had struggled to score only three goals, while Barney alone had kicked four of the Railways’ total of twenty-five. Early in the final quarter, he was withdrawn from the game to be given his usual spell on the bench, which was part of the rotation to allow everyone a breather.

“Go and have a shower Barney,” the coach advised, as his eyes continued to scan the ground. “I’m going to leave the youngsters on for the rest of the game. It will give them some valuable game time.”

“But . . .” began Barney.

“Old legs, Merrick,” jested the coach and winked at him. “Save them for later.”

Barney walked off to the change rooms and was met by Steve Tipping.

“Steve, I thought you were playing today,” he said curiously. “We had to drag Bill Armstrong in from the reserves side to play a second game. He’s back after three weeks off with that injured arm. We’re lucky he’s extra fit, but his arse was dragging on the ground by half time.”

Steve shrugged his hunched shoulders, and with a miserable face, began his tale of woe.

“Barney. I’m in trouble,” he started. “We got car-jacked in Perth.”

“Come into the change rooms and tell me all about it,” Barney said to his drinking buddy and playing team mate. “The game’s all over, and it’s so one-sided that it’s not worth watching.”

As Barney showered and changed, Steve sat on the side benches, with his head in his hands and related the story.

“Last Friday in Perth we were in the Morley Galleria car park looking for an empty bay, when a young man stepped out in front of the car waving his arms. I had Sarah and the two kids in the car and we were going to a movie. The man walked around to the driver’s side, pulled a gun and stuck it in my face and growled at me to “Get out.” He then yelled at the family to get out too. Sarah started to argue and the kids started bawling, but he just said “Do it or I start shooting.” You hear about these sorts of things in America in the evening news, but you don’t expect it to happen in Australia. He even looked like he would start shooting so I got the family out as quickly as I could.

“This bloke then demanded where I got the car from. So I told him that I had bought it in Geraldton a week ago.” Then to Barney he added wryly. “I paid $23,000 for it on time payment. When he asked who it was from, I told him it was from the used car dealer Crazy Daisys. You know the one, in Spalding. The bastard then got in my car and just sped off.”

Steve sat back with his hands behind his head and looked to the heavens, and sighed deeply. “We were left in the middle of the Galleria car park with nothing. All our holiday suitcases were in the back of that car. The bill of sale for the car was in the glove-box, but the car registration hadn’t yet been posted out from the car yard.”

“What did the police do and say?” questioned Barney, towelling himself.

“They immediately put out an APB for an armed suspect and a stolen vehicle,” Steve continued. “There were no security cameras in the area to see him coming or going. I tried to give them a photo-fit sketch of the young bloke but I have a lot of trouble picturing faces, even that one. I’d probably recognise him again, but I just couldn’t describe him.”

“Your new car?” questioned Barney.

“A 2009 Toyota Kluger, white with the usual markings. There was nothing different or outstanding about it, except that it had a damaged right front headlight when I bought it. Crazy Daisys have it booked into the panel-beaters for repairs tomorrow, but because I needed the car for the family holiday in Perth, I took early delivery of it last week.”

“What else did the police say?” asked Barney.

“My Kluger does not come up on current vehicle checks,” groaned Steve as he stood and raised his hands in exasperation. “The license plates weren’t even in the system. They weren’t found until they checked in the defunct plate’s database. They reckon my car’s number plates belonged to a Toyota Kluger. The plates were stolen in a Fremantle car park back in November 2010. My new car doesn’t exist and the comprehensive insurance policy may be a serious problem.” Steve sighed in frustration, with his normally strong physique hunched down like a defeated dog.

“Buck up Steve. We’ll get it sorted,” piped Barney in a perky optimistic voice designed to revive his mate.

Barney, who had finally finished dressing, grabbed his gear and they both wandered out to join Carleen, Zep and Shirley on the grassy banks. The children were all off elsewhere around the grounds, socialising with school friends. They were told to return at the sound of the final siren.

Guiseppe Marcon, or Zep as everyone called him, was the senior detective in the Geraldton Police CIB. Technically he was Barney’s boss but they didn’t work that way. Their approach to crime was in tandem, each keen to find enough real evidence to ensure that villains were removed from circulation as effectively as possible. Zep had been in Geraldton for nearly nine years and with wife Shirley and their three children - Andy aged seventeen, Billy aged fifteen and Jeannie aged thirteen - they were a strong family centred group. The quiet and reserved young Andy was in his final year of high school, and would sit his major exams in November. In his spare time alone he generally tinkered away studying computer science, focused on this as his future career. Today was a holiday from hockey and study for him, so he was enjoying the rare freedom with schoolmates. The high-spirited youngsters, Billy and Jeannie, were still in junior grades so had more time for socialising, so they did.

“Zep,” began Barney. “Has anything come in to the office about a white Toyota Kluger, sold in Geraldton with false ID and car-jacked in Morley?”

“Nothing’s come to my notice yet,” was the reply.

“Steve. Tell him your story,” invited Barney.

Steve, now with a lot more composure, retold the story, giving Barney a chance to consolidate his thoughts and ask a few questions about the attack and the assailant.

“It looks like we’ve got a car dealer to visit first thing tomorrow,” Zep stated to reassure Steve.

“I’ve got the beginnings of a story to write tonight, if it’s okay with you Steve. This may be a way to get people looking for your car,” suggested Carleen, who was already mentally preparing another article in her career as a Geraldton Guardian newspaper reporter. As Steve nodded his approval she turned to Barney saying, “Drop me off at my Beachlands office. I’ll call you later.”

Turning to Steve Tipping, Barney said resolutely, “Leave it to us, Steve. We’ll ring you if we want any more details.”

With the boisterous return of the Marcon children, Shirley collected the family’s belongings together, and said to Zep, “Take us home please love. “I’ve got English essays to mark before tomorrow’s classes, and the kids have homework. It looks like you are duty cook tonight.”

“I’m sure that Barney needs my help in the office,” Zep pleaded hopefully.

“Nope,” Barney stated bluntly.

“Gee, thanks partner,” laughed Zep.

While Zep took his family home, Barney dropped into the Geraldton police station to see if any details had been sent from Perth. A faxed report on the incident had arrived from the Perth Central detective branch at mid-day Sunday some six hours earlier. The Perth CIB branch was looking into the crime. The current online database had the armed holdup report with the very rough photo-fit picture provided by Steve, and the car was tagged as missing. Barney settled into some quiet paperwork.

Chapter 5

Geraldton at Night – Sunday Night

“Barney, I’ve done as much as I can do here,” murmured a tired Carleen when Barney picked up his mobile phone. “The article on the car-jacking is ready for the editor’s final say, so I’m ready to be picked up.”

“I’m on the way,” he responded, picking up his large overcoat which was his protection from the late evening cold south westerly winds. He drove from the police station car-park, and was outside the Guardian offices within ten minutes.

“I’m starving,” she sighed as she slid into passenger’s seat. “I haven’t had anything since lunch time and all I could find in the office was a mini Mars Bar. That’s not enough to keep a growing girl healthy.”

“We have missed all the restaurants,” he consoled her by considering the options after checking the clock on the car dashboard. “If you want to eat out we are left with the fast food outlets which will be open for just a short while longer.”

“Fast food and now!” she demanded impetuously and giggled.

“Your wish is my command,” he saluted with two fingers to his forehead and, driving around a couple of corners, drove into the car park of the KFC restaurant. As they stepped from the car, he said, “I’ll have a take-away chook burger with chips. You get what you want too out of this fifty dollars. I’m just going over the road to the Gero for a few beers.” He strolled purposefully away towards the brightly lit Geraldton Hotel.

She was just emerging from KFC when he returned with a six pack of bottles of Little Creatures Pale Ale.

“Voila, we have the proverbial feast. Home or the beach-front?” suggested Barney.

“The beach is much closer,” came the muffled reply from Carleen as she spoke through a mouthful of chips. The wafted smell of salt and vinegar filled the car. He grabbed a handful while driving, just to keep the hunger demons at bay.

Barney stopped the car on the breakwater next to the town boat ramp, between the harbour and the town beaches. They sat in the car eating their burgers and sipping a beer. It was not as salubrious as the restaurants overlooking the beach, but it had a similar great view and it was out of the wind.

“This car will smell of fat and salt and vinegar for days,” murmured Barney. “It will cause me to think about food every time I get into it.”

“I don’t have to worry,” laughed Carleen. “It’s not my car. To help you clear the air we can have the windows down a little.”

On the western side was the harbour. In the foreground were three tugboats anchored in their pens, and behind them were the lights of the working harbour. The clanking of the conveyor belt could be heard through the partly opened windows as it was bulk loading a ship at the berth.

“Another shipload of grain, or is it ore?” thought Carleen out aloud.

“Definitely grain,” decided Barney. “There’d be more rumbling if it was ore.” As an afterthought he added, “For it rumbles more on Point Moore if it was ore.”

She punched his arm.

“Let’s go for a walk?” she suggested, getting out and looking around. As Barney got out of the car he grabbed his Dry-as-a-bone stockman’s overcoat from the back seat for himself and passed Carleen one of his heavy pullovers.

Together they walked over to the town side of the jetty so they could overlook the now deserted town boat ramp. Beyond, they could see the town light’s reflections dancing in the semi-serene waters between the series of small breakwaters that protected the beach sands on the foreshore.

“Feel like a walk to the end?” he asked.

“No bloody fear,” she quickly responded. “It’s too cold in this wind.”

They stopped there and looked at the view. He opened his overcoat and allowed her to back in and snuggle so that his body and the coat kept her warm and out of the whistling wind. He wrapped his arms around her and they gazed at the night lights.

“The town lights seem to go forever,” she murmured.

“You can pick out the suburbs by the clustering of lights,” he whispered in quiet reply. “That is Beresford about two kilometres away, just to the north of the darker area that is the Marina. Bluff Point is that cluster at five kilometres and the last lights are Drummonds Cove at twelve kilometres. In a few more years there may be the big development of the Oakajee deep water port twenty kilometres away. We probably won’t see the lights from here. There will be just a big glow in sky in that area when they work day and night loading ore.”

As she nestled into his body heat, out of the wind, she felt the stirring in his loins.

“Down boy,” she said. “Time to get you home.”

#

Home was a small house on Willcock Drive across the road from the sandhills above Back Beach, which he considered to be one of the best surfing beaches in Western Australia. Barney had bought it when he had first been transferred to Geraldton because the price was right and he could enjoy the freedom of the surf whenever he liked. Winter was sometimes a problem as every year the seaweed would bank up and cover the beach creating a difficult access to the water. The smell of rotting weed was usually quite strong, but was not a problem to local beach lovers. It was the perfume of the neighbourhood and most people became either immune or moved away.

Carleen immediately settled for a hot shower to get the last of the wind chill out of her bones. Barney wasn’t bothered too much by heat or cold, but to keep Carleen happy he turned on the room heater in the bedroom to take the edge off the night air. Using the remote thermostat he dialled the setting for just thirty minutes of warming.

The whistling wind could be felt on the shaking pane of the bedroom window facing the sea. The thunderous waves crashing onto the sand and weed of Back Beach caused a vibration that could be felt in the air and earth. Carleen climbed into the bed naked to find Barney the same. As they snuggled under the doona, there was a feeling of security against the elements.

They lay facing each other with hands caressing and warming, kissing gently and staring into each other’s eyes. Barney moved in closer pressed against her and ran his hands up and down her spine, tickling the small of her back and squeezing her smooth buttocks. She began to breathe a little heavier. She kissed him with a more demanding urgency and he responded.

She rolled onto her back clasping him so that he rolled on top of her. He took his weight onto his elbows and knees and began to flick his tongue at each nipple in turn, making them wet. As he began to blow gently through the cool night air, they became rock hard pinnacles. Barney lifted himself onto his hands and knees and moved his pelvis forward so that he entered her with just the one point of contact between their two bodies. He moved gently for quite a while, until she reached up and dragged him down, covering herself with his full weight.

She grasped his hips and thrust herself at him. The moaning wind was joined by the rasping and moaning of two frantic bodies. They could not last long at that pace and both reached the simultaneous culmination with heavy gasps and moans.

Lying together with Carleen nestled on Barney’s shoulder both fell into a deep sleep.

Chapter 6

Visiting Crazy Daisys – Monday Morning

“Wanna buy it?” were his first words as Crazy Daisy appeared at his used car dealer’s yard just before 8 a.m. He was driving a near-new, brilliant red Holden Ute. Barney and Zep looked him over as he approached, a short stocky man, mid-thirties, blond hair slightly too long and a jovial face. He wore a leather jacket over a bright blue shirt, and jet black trousers.

They had arrived some fifteen minutes earlier and, while waiting for him to arrive, had used the opportunity to wander around his yard looking at his stock. The business plaque out the front gave his dealer’s license number, issued to Crazy Daisys with the proprietor named as David Joseph Combley.

“We’re here on official police business,” declared Zep flashing his credentials. Barney did likewise. “We’re investigating the identity of the car that you sold to Steve Tipping one week ago. We’d like you to show us the official paperwork when you received the car, and for your sale of the car.” The tone in Zep’s voice carried the implication that this was a direct order, and the request would be backed up with a warrant if this proved necessary.

“I had only just got that one in, and it needed a little work done on it. Panel-beating,” was his cheerful reply. “It came from the car wholesaler and they are a little slow with the paperwork.” He flapped his hands to express his exasperation. “They’re always slow with the paperwork. And it sold faster than I expected, so I went through with the deal. I gave Mr Tipping the bill of sale and told him I would forward the registration paperwork as soon as it arrived.”

As Crazy Daisy spoke, he checked his fingernails and used the nail-tip of the other index finger to clean under a couple of them. “It came in late on Friday, so I didn’t get to process it.”

“So you didn’t have the paperwork when you sold the car?” queried Barney. “How could you be sure it wasn’t a stolen car that you were unloading?”

“There has never been any problem with any vehicles from the car wholesalers before.” David Combley gave a reassuring smile. Turning, he took his keys from his pocket, sorted through them and turned to open the office door. “What’s this?” he exclaimed as the door swung open with his gentle push. “I’m positive I locked it last night.”

The three of them looked down at the splintered door jamb, where it had probably been kicked open. Barney pushed past Mr. Combley and entered the small office, closely followed by the other two. They could see that the room had been totally ransacked. All the filing cabinet drawers were pulled out and the papers from them had been dumped on the floor.

“I’d like to report a break and entering to the police,” said Crazy Daisy sardonically.

“Do you keep anything valuable in your office?” asked Barney.

“Definitely not. No security in here,” Combley waved his arm around the room and laughed uneasily. “All cash and cheques are dropped into the night safe at the bank every evening. The only thing stored here is the legal paperwork for incoming and outgoing cars. All other transaction data is on my laptop in this briefcase.”

Zep leaned over Mr. Combley and insisted in his Senior Detective voice, “I need you to find Mr Tipping’s paperwork please.”

Crazy Daisy looked up at him and nodded miserably, and with his shoulders stooped, moved towards the mess in the middle of the floor.

“Wait,” called Barney. “Use these plastic gloves so you don’t add to the carnage. We will get a forensic lad out to check for prints but I don’t hold much hope. Try not to disturb the place too much.”

“Yeah, sure,” groaned Combley as he surveyed his office in ruins. After he first leafed through his in-tray, and then glanced around the floor, he whined, “It’s missing. It was in here Friday night. I left it here myself ready to photocopy and send out today.”

“So it looks like it was that particular document that the burglar wanted.” Zep leaned his back against the hard wall of the office and stared upwards at the fluoro light as he conjectured, “I wonder why it was that paperwork.”

“The car-jacking seemed to focus on a specific vehicle,” responded Barney, thinking out aloud. “This B & E involves the same one, so there must be some connection. We need to find out more about that Kluger. We’ll have to trace it back through the car wholesalers.”

“Their address please,” Zep’s voice requested sternly.

Dave pointed dejectedly and shrugged at the heaped contents of his filing cabinet in the middle of the floor, where the address was most likely to be found. “It’s the one on the internet,” he moaned without bothering to start a search. “It’s called Cars All and they deliver anywhere in the state. A truck drops them off.”

Assuming that they now had all the information that they needed Barney changed the subject. “Why do you call your company Crazy Daisys?” he asked.

“That was my nickname at school,” came the reply. “There were two Davids in class, Dave C and Dave J. Dave C became Davesee, so I got Daisy as a nickname. Private schools can be real nasty sometimes.”

As they pulled away from the used car yard, Barney rang the station to get a forensic assistant to check out the car sales office.

“Waste of time,” he commented to Zep as they drove off.

#

Back in the police station, Zep read any urgent emails and paperwork, and then found and rang the number of Cars All, the wholesale car company. He identified himself and asked for the owner or manager. When he mentioned the Kluger he received an immediate response.

“You’re the second police officer to ask me that question this morning.” There was an element of surprise in the manager’s tone. “A fellow from Fremantle Branch rang and asked who had sold me the car before I sold it to Crazy Daisys. I gave them the name and address just an hour ago. I’ve still got the file in front of me.”

“Can you repeat the details for me please,” requested Zep.

“Ryan Skipper from 24 Sheedy Street in South Fremantle,” read out the manager.

“Can you fax me through a copy of the registration papers and your bills of sale both incoming and outgoing. And urgently please,” insisted Zep, also thinking of Steve Tipping’s insurance predicament.

Next Zep phoned the Fremantle Police Station to see how far they had progressed with the investigation. Their response indicated that they had not yet become involved. The request for the address had not come from the Fremantle CIB. Zep explained the situation and asked them to look into Ryan Skipper of 24 Sheedy Street, possibly for car theft.

A follow-up phone call to Perth CIB uncovered the fact that they too had yet to commence their enquiries.

“That’s strange. Just what is going on?” Zep deliberated out aloud. He explained the situation to Barney who was probing through the electronic licensing details of Ryan Skipper.

“It seems that we’ll need to begin our own investigation on the Kluger,” Barney replied, still tapping on his keyboard. “Someone is sniffing around and it’s not official.”

The arrival of the fax from Cars All gave them a copy of the bill of sale from Ryan Skipper and confirmed his current address. The attached registration papers also gave the number plates of the car-jacked vehicle, but when Barney checked for the current listing, he found that these plates were not in the system. This confirmed what Steve had already been told.

Barney then trawled through the system using the VN vehicle engine number listed on the registration papers. It didn’t exist on the Western Australian database, so he extended the search into the national database. The VN number verified that the 2009 white Toyota Kluger was licensed in Melbourne and should be displaying Victorian number plates. It had not been reported stolen.

Barney rang the Melbourne CIB and asked them to look into the registration to find out why the vehicle had not been reported missing after nearly a month.

#

“All hell has broken loose down here,” was the opening line when a call came through from Fremantle CIB, four hours later in the middle of the afternoon. “We got to the Sheedy Street address in Fremantle to find that Ryan Skipper had been shot twice just five minutes earlier. A drive-by shooter with a fully-automatic pistol. One in the stomach and one in the shoulder. He is in surgery in Fremantle Hospital as we speak.”

Barney and Zep both reached for their coffee mugs, while they listened to the speakerphone on Zep’s desk, as the CIB detective continued.

“His neighbours were tending to him on his front doorstep waiting for the ambulance. Just as we arrived there, we were informed about the incident on the radio from Police Central. It is a quiet street and nobody saw the car or heard the gun, so it was probably silenced. There were another five bullet holes stitched across the doorway. It appears that the shooter or shooters parked in the street and waited until he came outside, then blasted away. They wanted him dead.”

“Will he survive?” queried Barney, quickly swallowing a mouthful of hot coffee, and looked towards his partner.

“He was critical when he was admitted to hospital, but they now say he will survive. Early indications are that the stomach wound will give him trouble, but he is stabilised. He won’t be out of surgery for a while and will be kept sedated for a few more hours.”

“Do you feel like a trip to Perth?” asked Zep solemnly. “There is something going on and interviewing him has to be a priority. It looks like they tried to silence him.”

“If it’s all about the car, Steve Tipping and his family may also be in further danger,” suggested Barney. “Fremantle knows nothing. Perth Central is a little slow acting, so I agree that we need to check out the situation down there. I hope Carleen will let me go.”

“You’re under the thumb already,” jibed Zep as he spun his chair sideways, stood and leaned towards Barney. “Please Miss, I need to go,” he grinned.

Chapter 7

Gunshot Victim – Tuesday Morning

That night, Zep drove the first half of the 432 kilometres to Perth, as usual, leaving Barney with the tedious drive through the small towns near Perth and the busy roads of extensive northern suburbia. Zep chose the first part because the open road gave him the opportunity to get behind the wheel of the powerful unmarked police vehicle and cruise at a comfortable high speed. “My keys, my choice,” was his prevailing argument.

“Yes master, bwana, sir,” was Barney’s mocking reply, as he raised a sloppy hand to the middle of his forehead.

In the late evening they had checked into a quiet city hotel and went for a late supper in an Italian restaurant in Northbridge.

The following morning at Central Perth CIB, they were informed that Ryan Skipper was still heavily sedated and would be for at least another two hours, giving his body time to adjust after the stomach surgery.

However there was another development. The car-jacked white Toyota Kluger had turned up. It was reported as a burnt-out shell in one of the quiet side streets of the light industrial area just south of Fremantle. Barney and Zep took the early morning congested freeway to Fremantle to check it out. Standing guard beside the wreck, apparently waiting for these long distance travellers, was an impeccably dressed, short and slim, young man. He introduced himself as Detective Walter Ketterer from the Fremantle CIB.

“I’m assigned to help you with this car thing and the shooting,” he said, producing his credentials to verify his identity. “I’ve been left here to oversee the removal of this torched hulk to the police compound and to accompany you two after you’ve inspected the car. The vehicle carrier should arrive in a few minutes.”

There was nothing left of the Toyota Kluger but the metal skeleton and a few bits of charred interior lining.

“Notice anything strange about the lining?” Barney inquired peering into the blackened shell.

“Yes,” Zep looked at the fused foam plastic and rubber as he answered. “It has all been pulled off and the charred remains are in the middle of the car.” He leaned through an empty window space and looked down. “There may have been something hidden in the doors and the sidewalls. The lining was ripped out to get at it before the car was torched.” Zep pulled hopefully at the door handles but the doors had all been fused shut with the heat.

Zep removed his plastic gloves and asked, “Walter, can you contact your forensics team to specifically look into the bits of lining to see if anything survived the burning?”

Barney interrupted. “If this wreck sits on the open back of a truck, any gaseous trace evidence, like drugs or accelerants, will get wind blasted away. The fire has probably destroyed it already, but you never know. I’m going to take a few chunks now and seal them in an evidence bag.” Using his gloved hand he reached in and carefully collected several pieces from different locations, placed them into a bag, and zipped it decisively shut.

#

A little later in Fremantle Hospital, Barney, Zep and Walter were sitting, sipping plastic cups of water, looking quite bored when the nurse arrived and informed them that they would be allowed just a few minutes. “Mr Skipper is in a bad way and needs his rest,” she overtly cautioned them.

“Mr Skipper,” began Zep. “We are detectives following up on your shooting and we’re looking for motives behind the incident. Can you tell us why somebody wants you dead?”

It was a bit of a harsh beginning, but Zep thought it may shock any defensive silence or apathy out of the victim.

“No,” murmured the patient. “I don’t know of any enemies who’d want to kill me.”

“About that car you sold to Cars All two weeks ago.” Zep continued. “It was stolen last weekend and found torched this morning. There are people breaking and entering, imitating law officers and shooting civilians over that vehicle. Tell us all you know about it and maybe we can stop them before they try to kill you again.”

Barney and Zep watched as Ryan Skipper thought quietly, the turmoil visibly etched across his pained features. “I stole that car a month ago,” he finally blurted out. “It had Victorian registration, so I swapped them for some local plates that I had. I then took the car into the police licensing centre at a time I knew it would be extra busy, saying I wanted to re-register the car after being overseas for a time.” His eyes shut tightly and his face was screwed up as he winced with a sudden pain.

“The car was only three years old so it wasn’t even put over the inspection pits. They found the original plates listed on the computer, assumed it was the original Kluger and just issued me with the updated car license.”

“Where did you get the new plates?” asked Barney.

“I’ve had them for eighteen months,” rasped Ryan Skipper. “I pinched them from a brand new car parked in Fremantle, and kept them in the back shed. The original owner probably waited a bit, hoping to get his originals found and returned, but then relicensed his car with new ones. These plates then dropped off the radar and after some time would probably be archived into the file of missing number plates - lost, destroyed or somewhere-over-east. I reckoned that after eighteen months they would be forgotten. I didn’t think it would cause this much trouble.”

He turned about a bit in bed and gasped with agony as his body reacted to the assault from the recent bullet wounds. The sensors monitoring his vital signs squawked briefly.

“Where did you steal the car from?” questioned Walter Ketterer.

“I lifted it from outside a big house at the end of South Terrace in South Fremantle.” The physical assault on his flesh seemed to bear down a lot harder on Ryan’s emotional state as he struggled with the anguish to continue the confession about the car he had stolen.

“It’s near where I live and there are always at least two or three cars with Victorian plates outside. I just waited until there was a white Toyota Kluger to match my old plates.”

“I know that area,” mentioned Walter. “It’s down near the large parkland by the foreshore”

The nurse hurried in, responding to the squeal from the monitoring sensors, and began to fuss around her patient. They were quite forcefully escorted to the door, but were determined that further questioning would need to be done later.

As the three detectives drove to check out the nearby house of Ryan Skipper, Zep pondered out aloud, “It’s curious that the vehicle hasn’t been reported stolen after more than a month. What was it doing over here in WA? We may be able to get some answers from the Melbourne CIB.”

After a thorough search of the main house of Ryan Skipper, finding nothing of interest, they wandered down the back yard to a small garden shed. Zep pulled open the rusty corrugated iron door, peered in, and then walked in waving his arms about to dislodge the numerous spider webs. Barney and Walter followed. Small rustlings were heard as mice, lizards and cockroaches scuttled frantically for cover. The open door and their movements during their search created eddies of breeze that lifted dust from everywhere. They found the Kluger’s original Victorian plates plus three other sets of licence numbers.

“This recent car theft by Skipper wasn’t going to be a single event,” Barney pointed out. He held up two licence plates, presenting them horizontally in his palms, his cheeky grin flashing through the haze of the disturbed particles of powder. “Here are some more plates that he had prepared earlier, just like one of those TV food fookers”

Chapter 8

South Fremantle Shootout – Tuesday Afternoon

The three of them strode purposefully into the Fremantle Police station. Zep knew the building well, having been stationed there some years earlier. There were still a few familiar faces, so he wandered about catching up with old mates.

Following his phone call to forensics from the car burn-out site, Walter visited the labs and arranged for the immediate forensic testing on the additional bag of burned linings. They weren’t too hopeful that it would reveal much, since the fire had been quite intense.

Barney rang the Melbourne CIB to see if anything had been discovered about the original owner of the Toyota Kluger. He explained to them that there had been a series of incidents leading up to a shooting that all seem to be linked to the car.

“That car immediately raised big red flags,” the Melbourne detective’s gruff voice drawled down the phone line. “It is a Wong Corporation car that belongs to one of the big-wigs of the Melbourne underworld. Johnny Wong is the owner of a series of restaurants, but we know that on the side he is running guns and selling them to street gangs. We haven’t been able to catch him at it.” He paused for effect and then added, “Yet. He’s a dangerous character and he has some real nasty foot soldiers working for him. It sounds like you may have one of his gun outlets operating over there.”

“Let’s check it out,” Barney suggested eagerly after he had passed the information to the other two.

A short while later, the three of them were sitting in the unmarked Geraldton police car in the wide open parking area of Wilson Park, on the foreshore of South Fremantle. Across their front the wire mesh fences of the Southern Suburbs Railway Line separated them from the expanse of the flat, grassed, playing field. Behind them, several massive Norfolk pines sheltered a small picnic area, and just beyond that were the low sand dunes that skirted the beach. The ocean breakers could be clearly heard as they rumbled onto the nearby shore, driven by the strong sea breeze.

All three had binoculars trained on the two storied house 150 metres away across the grassy park. Set behind a small limestone fence, the ground floor of the building had an ornate central front door with large adjacent bay windows on one side. A double garage occupied the other half of the frontage. Above the garage, on the second floor was an outdoor-furniture setting on a wide balcony leading out from what seemed to be a living and entertainment room. It was obviously located there to take in the best of the view to the nearby ocean across the park. The rest of the second floor appeared to be bedrooms.

“Two cars parked outside and a double garage that may contain others,” announced Zep in a monotone.

“Wait,” said Walter. “There’s another pulling up. We are too far away to see any number plates.”

“So let’s get closer,” declared Barney and, as he was driver for a change, he started the engine.

“Wait just a while to see if that last car stays there,” cautioned Walter.

Minutes later, as Barney was driving the unmarked patrol vehicle around Wilson Park, Zep took his mobile phone from the console and switched it to camera mode.

“Drive slowly but don’t look obvious,” he advised Barney and filmed the plates of the cars as they cruised past.

“That last one is a local, with W.A. plates,” noted Walter, “and the bloke is just coming out. He’s just a kid, seventeen or eighteen.”

“I suggest we pick him up for questioning,” Barney said, the determination in his voice was unmistakable. “He’s probably not one of the mob, so we may get some information from him.” He drew over to the curb, waited until the youth’s car passed and then pulled out to follow him.

“OK,” decided Zep. “We’ve got him for using that mobile phone while driving. Wait until he puts it down, so that he’s not online when we stop him.”

Minutes later, Zep turned on the flashing blue lights inside the front grill and briefly sounded the siren. The youth pulled over. Walter stayed in the car while Barney and Zep walked to the other vehicle.

Realizing that there was a likely link to the gun running Melbourne underworld, they took all the precautions when approaching from either side. “Get out of the car,” Zep’s firm voice directed from behind the driver. They both kept back, hands near their service pistols, and carefully observed his movements as the lad stepped out and stood there nervously waiting.

They identified themselves as plain clothes police officers. The youth uneasily looked from one to the other, fidgeted with his hands beside his trousers pockets and shuffled his feet.

“You were observed using a mobile phone while driving, which is an infringement of the traffic act,” began Zep. The lad was too skittish to realise this stoppage was just for a minor breach of the road rules. He was anxious about something.

Barney noticed a bulge in the boy’s side pocket and moved to counter any sudden movement from the lad.

“Is that a gun in your pocket?” he queried. A swift, professionally defensive move held the boy’s wrist, while he tapped the pocket with his other hand. He felt the shape of a pistol so he pushed the boy face forward onto the car, and held both his hands onto the roof. He kicked one leg at a time until both were straddled backwards. In ‘the position’ there was nothing the boy could do to prevent Zep from stepping in and removing the weapon from his pocket.

After the show of physical force was used to restrain the nervous lad, Walter joined them on the pavement, his authoritative voice adding, “That’s a Glock 18C, a fully automatic pistol that fires 1200 rounds per minute, with a selector switch that could change it to a single shot semi-automatic. Ten shot magazine too. I heard that these were being cloned in the Middle East and sold on the black market. It’s illegal to own one unless you’re law enforcement or special military. It’s not the kind of weapon any kid should have.”

Turning to the boy he formally stated, “You are under arrest for carrying a concealed weapon. That concealed weapon. It cannot be licensed, so that’s another charge.”

Zep waited until Walter had completed these proceedings and while the boy was still coming to grips with his predicament, he added, “A man was shot yesterday with just such a weapon and there are not that many here in Fremantle.” He paused to let that sink in then continued, “We’ll have to add attempted murder to the charges, until we can use forensics to prove otherwise.”

“But I just bought the gun,” howled the distraught youth, his eyes pleading his innocence.

“Then it still may be the actual weapon used in the attempted murder,” countered Barney. “You are in deep shit, my boy. Tell me all about it.”

“A friend of a friend gave me a mobile phone number of where to buy a gun,” he began. “I phoned and was told to turn up at a house with $10,000 and the gun was mine.” His face paled and sagged and his eyes watered as he elaborated to say that the place in South Terrace in Fremantle had the choice of six models and three different sized magazines, all for that price.

He was taken to a secure lock-up in Fremantle Police station and allowed no phone calls, while the CIB organised a raid on the South Terrace premises.

“Victorian police have confirmed that one of the Victorian number plates we saw outside that house is a Wong Corporation vehicle. We have the search warrant. The raid is timed for 4 a.m. tomorrow morning,” announced Walter. “Will you still be around?”

“Does a bear shit in the forest,” replied Barney glancing at Zep for his support. He loved a good raid and was eager not to miss it.

#

At four in the morning on Wednesday, a squad of eight TRG men, followed by six detectives, all in full assault gear, crept covertly to the house. The entire neighbourhood was deathly silent. The chill of the night was further reduced by a freezing light breeze drifting from in the south. With their adrenalin at a peak, the fourteen assailants approached in silent anticipation, their trained eyes identifying obstacles that would create difficulties.

The street lights gave enough illumination for the teams to negotiate stealthily into their start positions. They would have liked to send a rear door party as well, but with impassable security fences around the back and both sides of the house it was not possible to access the rear. They would have to strike hard and move fast.

At the pre-arranged instant, the front door was battered in, and simultaneously the upstairs french doors were smashed aside. Glass shattered and splintered onto the floors as side windows were breached. Screams of “Armed police don’t move,” echoed repeatedly through the house. All became quiet and still for about fifteen seconds. Was it all over or just the calm before the storm? Suddenly an automatic pistol was fired, followed by two single shots. “Medic!” was desperately bellowed once. A long silent pause was followed by “All clear”.

The six detectives flowed through the house. One TRG man was down on the floor just inside an upstairs bedroom. He was struggling to breathe, with two bullet holes through his uniform showing his Kevlar vest underneath. He would be sore for days and maybe even have a couple of cracked ribs. Luckier than his partner who had followed behind him through the doorway and had caught the third shot in the arm, just below the shoulder. He too would heal in time. The pistol shooter however, would not. His lifeless body lay sprawled on its back in the middle of the upstairs bedroom, with two gaping holes in his chest. His demolished heart was no longer pumping, and he had already been pronounced dead by the TRG medic.

Four other occupants of the house were all handcuffed face down on the floor in different rooms. A small room at the back of the garage opened to reveal a large display of guns, mainly small pistols, but there were a couple of the more deadly machine versions.

It only required a few minutes work by the searching team to uncover the method of delivery of the gang’s illegal assets. A lone nondescript white Holden sedan was centred in the double garage, with the driver’s door fully open. The once sleek lines of leather and vinyl of the door’s lining were now ripped down to reveal a storage space behind. This was now empty, however by levering out the passenger side, it revealed four fully automatic pistols packed in cloths. The two other cars outside, both with Victorian plates, were empty of any firearms, but were equipped with storage compartments.

Standing on the front pavement outside the house, as the sun crept over the horizon, and listening to the sounds of a wakening city, Barney said cheerfully to Zep, “That’s what I call a very satisfying morning raid.”

#

Barney and Zep left Fremantle late that afternoon. Zep had condescended to drive the first half of the trip, mainly through suburbia and small towns, allowing his junior partner the open road later. He planned that so he could snooze for the last few hours of the journey home.

They had spent most of the day comfortably seated behind one-way glass, sipping coffee, while on the other side, Walter Ketterer and his senior had interviewed the gang members. The country detectives were there to add the Geraldton perspective to the case.

As Zep drove, Barney was mentally reviewing the case, “All that happened because young Ryan Skipper stole a car. He was unlucky that it had just arrived from Melbourne and contained a shipment of pistols.”

“Yeah,” replied Zep, his eyes fully on the road. “Pity the poor Victorian driver, who then had to chase about the Metro area whenever the Kluger with the damaged headlight was sighted. He had dented the Wong Corporation Toyota and then lost it, all in one day. He was desperate to get the car back with the shipment still intact. There were dozens of members of the underworld on the lookout for it, trying to claim that large reward.”

Barney continued, “And while they unloaded the guns in the Kluger, he had to drive another car to Geraldton to ransack Crazy Daisys and find the name of the seller. He then contacted Cars All using a false Fremantle Police Station identity in order to determine the address of Ryan Skipper. They had to find the car-thief before he revealed where he stole it from, and point the police towards their Fremantle house of guns.

“We don’t yet know which of the gang members used the Kluger to shoot Ryan Skipper and then torch it. Conveniently they are all saying it was the dead bloke. Quite likely too, as he was the trigger man. Ballistics should match his machine pistol to Ryan’s shooting.

“They thought that they had succeeded in silencing him and were safe from discovery. The car-jacker himself was supposed to be driving back to Melbourne today so he would not be recognised in this state.”

Zep considered that there would be further consequences of this morning’s activity. He outlined a possible scenario, “The Victorian Police have now been notified of the method of dispersal of the guns, and by using their vehicle licensing cameras system, they should be able to quickly target and track Wong vehicles, instead of just his foot soldiers. This should lead them to the Wong Corporation houses, and so they should be able to put the squeeze on the gun-running business. Yes mate. It is all because young Ryan Skipper stole a carful of pistols.

Chapter 9

Mullewa Creek-bed - Saturday Afternoon, Mid-June

The late afternoon winter sun hung low in the Western sky. In an ancient creek bed ten miles east of Mullewa, the dry salt pan glowed brilliantly white across a wide span. The river trickled weakly away in another part of the bed. Water would flood across these flats again one day, but not during this mild winter season.

On opposite banks, two tribes each of around thirty strong stood transfixed. They were watching three warriors from each side warily approaching the centre of the river bed. With spears brandished high in one hand, and a carry pack in their other hand, they stalked purposely towards each other displaying their well-trained movements. When in spear range they put down the packs and raised their weapons that were already notched into the launching woomeras, and all the while edging deeper into lethal range.

The three warriors of one side surged forward and threatened to throw simultaneously. Their opponents intently eyed the movements and cautiously backed off. One attacking man stumbled and looked a likely retaliation target. However the opposition were wary knowing that if they threw spears first without a hit, it would leave them weapon-less and open to attack.

There were forays from either side, as the battle ebbed and flowed, but neither group could tempt the other to throw first. After some time, the fury dwindled away from the threat of battle and the weapons were slowly lowered, with everyone still watchful. The spears and woomeras were placed on the ground and both groups of three warriors moved carefully forward to meet in the middle of this ancient river bed. They paired off and clasped forearms, the handshake of warriors, and then turned away to pick up their packs. Their spears were left where they lay.

As each warrior retrieved his pack, he untied the cords holding them together and returned to the centre of the battlefield to open them out. Each pack was a blanket which, when spread out, revealed a bottled drink, a few personal items and a cushion. All six warriors formed a circle and sat on their cushions and blankets.

This was the meeting place for conflicts between the Wongai Tribe of the Desert and the Yamatji Tribe of the North West. Sometimes the Noongar Tribe of the South West would also be involved at this common meeting ground. The performance was a traditional coroboree dance done by the elders to show the tribes on the distant banks how the two tribes first met many millennia ago. The elders were meeting at this time as there was trouble brewing between members from opposite tribes.

Each elder picked up a plastic bottled water from their opened pack, except one who took out a bottle of black liquid. His opposition warrior spoke.

“Bradley, you old thing. Are you still drinking that Pepsi? It’ll rot your teeth.”

The reply came. “Yeah Leon, but at the age of seventy-four how much longer will I need them? But it must be alright as I’m older than all of you and look much younger.”

Another warrior spoke to his opponent. “Sam, how’s my Aunty Marge?”

Sam replied, “She and my cousin Wally are still going strong. They’ve got twelve grandchildren in Carnarvon now and look like living forever. Must be the sea air.”

“Right you blokes,” another of the elders spoke up. “Time to get down to business. It’s my turn to be chairman today. Mobile phones switched off. Call in the two parties.”

Each side beckoned towards their respective banks and two men from each side walked to the middle. All four of the new arrivals nodded respectably to the seated elders and sat on the hard salt pan outside the circle.

“You first Sandy Comegain,” ordered the chairman.

The middle aged man, of around forty-five years, spoke out strongly. “I am Bilbullan from Meekatharra of the Tjupani People in the Wongai Tribe. I was promised a bride by her father three years ago. She was a Meekatharra girl but at that time was just fourteen. She is now seventeen so is of marriageable age. But she don’t live in Meekatharra no more because she moved to Carnarvon to be with her Aunty. She was supposed to come to me last year, but has been seen by me cousins down in Northampton with a young boy. That young boy of the Yamatji Tribe,” and he pointed to the lad aged about seventeen, who was accompanied by his uncle. “He has stolen me bride and I demand that she be given back to me, otherwise I will insist on the LAW of spearing when serious rows come up between the tribes.”

“Your turn lad,” the chairman turned to young Joey Collard.

“I am initiated as Deccalari of the Nhanta People in the Yamatji Tribe,” the young man spoke out confidently. “Polly Pickett and I are in love. We met a year ago in Carnarvon and have been seeing each other regularly ever since. We want to get married. I offered to pay lots of money as compensation but he will not listen to me. I cannot allow a spearing because I am going to be an AFL footballer and any injury may stop me getting into the draft at the end of this season. It will ruin my chosen career. I refuse to allow a spearing by Aboriginal LAW to settle this.”

“We have heard both sides of the story. Go back to your peoples until we reach our judgement,” instructed the leader of the meeting.

After the two parties in the dispute had retired to the sides of the salt pan, an elder spoke up first. “I don’t blame the young guy for being in love. I’ve seen Polly Pickett and she’s hot. If only I was forty years younger.”

“You would still be twice her age,” laughed a fellow tribesman and chuckles echoed around the circle.

The chairman voiced his concern for Joey’s future prospects, saying, “I’ve seen him play. He will definitely get into the draft. He will bring honour to our peoples.”

Another wise elder spoke out for tradition. “But old Sandy and Polly are of the same tribe. This should have precedence over a mixed marriage.”

“Get with the times Phillip,” drawled his mate. “We have enough trouble with the kids without trying to restrict their marriages.”

Old Bradley, quiet on the topic until that moment, spoke up. “There was a promise in the tribe. The bride price was probably agreed on, perhaps even paid. He has some rights under the old ways, but these ways are fast disappearing. We have to diffuse a growing feud between the families and between our tribes. Since he has refused the compensation I suggest we give him spearing rights under the LAW.”

“What! You’re mad,” interrupted Leon. “It’s not a death issue, so any spearing will bring the courts down on us and ban any use of Aboriginal LAW.”

“Let me finish,” said Old Bradley. “It should go like this.” He explained his plan.

The two opposing parties were called back. The chairman spoke.

“Sandy Comegain. Do you still refuse compensation?”

When he nodded, the chairman continued, “Then our ruling is as follows. The spearing will be allowed.”

“No,” yelled Joey Collard. “It is illegal without my permission. White man’s law will have you all up on charges.”

“Let me finish young man,” commanded the Chairman, raising his right hand to emphasise his control of this meeting. “Sandy, you will only be allowed to throw one spear and Joey must be free to dodge or run. You must aim for the lower legs, anything above the knees will be regarded as assault, and you will be speared by us. Furthermore, if Joey is wounded in the torso you will be hunted and killed by both tribes.

“Lastly, you have only four weeks from today to complete the task. After that time your permission will terminate at sundown on Sunday. As of today’s ruling Sandy, you have no further claim on Polly or any compensation. Joey can now marry Polly. Do you both agree?”

For a long minute there was complete silence as both digested the ramifications of the decision. Both agreed and left the presence of the council accompanied by their seconds.

The Council of Elders chatted for another fifteen minutes on topics of inter-tribal interest and then closed the meeting. As they stood up, and reached for their car keys and mobile phones among the personal items in their packs, Old Bradley turned to Leon. “Are you still in touch with your cousin Ted in the Meekatharra Police?”

“Yeah,” said Leon. “We have the family around for dinner quite often.”

“Do you reckon he could orchestrate a month’s sentence for Sandy Comegain?” suggested Old Bradley. “He probably can’t throw a spear, but no use taking chances.”

“That will be easy. He is still driving around in that unlicensed car and without a driver’s licence,” chuckled Leon. “With two strikes against him already, that should get him a month.”

They all wandered off in different directions to their parked cars.

PART III

Chapter 10

Adolescent Drugs – Two Weeks Later,

Monday Morning, 30^th June

“One white lad was in a critical condition and an Aboriginal boy and a white girl are seriously ill.” The ambulance had reported that three high school aged kids had overdosed in a house at 44 Sherlock Way in Rangeway. Barney and Zep were not usually ambulance chasers, but this police band radio call ominously sounded like the beginnings of serious trouble.

As Barney and Zep arrived, lights were flashing against the pastel yellow fibro house with a red tile roof. The two ambulances roared off with a frantic wailing, demanding road priority. The concerned neighbour who had originally called in the emergency, appeared from among the spectators across the road, met them at the curb and conspicuously waved some keys.

“The ambos told me to wait until the police arrived, to let nobody else in,” she exclaimed, her worried look creasing her leathery features. “The parents of the house were away on holidays so those three must have truanted from school. I heard the girl screaming so I came over. She yelled from the doorway to get the ambulance, so I did.” Her rough hands solemnly dropped the keys into Barney’s. “It’s all yours now.”

Another patrol car appeared. Detectives Chris Wilson and Roger Knight emerged to join them as they climbed the steps to the small front porch, each in the process of donning latex gloves. Chris commented gravely as Barney found the right key, “A child on life support from drugs will have an effect on the whole town. This will become enormous.”

Inside the small State Housing residence, on the knee-high coffee table in the living room, was an opened Fitpack and three used needles. Beside it lay matches, candle and spoon of the heating apparatus and a small remnant of white powder in a plastic bag. Barney lifted and waved the open bag near his nose and gently sniffed the wafted odours.

“So now you’re an expert on dope?” said Zep.

“No,” replied Barney, “but I have done a course or two to be able to know what’s what.”

“Well, what’s what?” asked Zep.

“It’s probably heroin and going by the strong odour and the small amount required to do that to three kids it seems to be almost pure,” decided Barney.

“I’ll get the drug recognition kit from the car,” said Detective Roger Knight, turning to leave.

“Don’t bother,” interrupted Zep. “You and Chris take the lot straight to the hospital for their immediate action. They can take a sample, then get the rest to forensics for full laboratory analysis to determine its strength, and any lethal contaminants – priority one.” He carefully folded and placed the powdered remains of the drugs into an evidence bag, and passed it to Detective Wilson.

“Then try to get the ID’s on the kids and phone them through to us. We’ll need to visit the parents if the hospital hasn’t already called them. In the meantime, we’ll wait for forensics to arrive while we look around the house.” As they left he shouted after them, “Call as soon as you have the other parent’s addresses.”

Barney, confident with his sniffed analysis, continued thoughtfully, “If those kids were sold this and expected to get an average hit, they were totally misled. Somebody is selling the stuff that is way too pure, so it’s very probable that the person doesn’t know what they’re doing.” He deliberated as he watched Zep arrange the rest of the drug paraphernalia into evidence bags. “This may be the start of some real trouble among local users. We’ll need to get warnings out before overdoses go viral.”

Zep, as the senior detective, took charge and briskly allocated tasks between themselves as the two other detectives drove off. “I’ll ring Superintendent Strickland to officially issue the community-wide caution. You can phone Carleen to organise this warning into the paper as soon as possible,” he paused for a few breaths, mentally ticking off the items.

“We can then contact local radio and TV channels for an urgent news flash, along the lines of,” Zep raised and wriggled two fingers of each hand to indicate quotation marks for his prepared media release. “Three local students have just had a drug overdose on a new near-lethal batch of heroin in Geraldton. This is a severe warning to everyone about the use of them. It may be immediately fatal,” he finished and smiled optimistically, and then added. “With any luck that may just save a few lives.”

As Zep paused between his calls, the phone rang in his hand. It was Geraldton Police Station. A long dead body had been found at Bluff Point, suspicious circumstances, suspected murder. Their attendance was required ASAP. It was likely a gunshot victim.

The call continued, “The primary forensics team has been redirected to that scene, but the secondary response group should be with you in Rangeway within minutes. A patrol car with uniformed officers should be there in Sherlock Way right about now.”

Zep gave brief instructions to the two uniformed officers as they passed them on the front porch. The remainder of the emergency warning phone calls to the media were done in the car during the trip to Spalding. The task of contacting the children’s parents was handed over to Chris and Roger.

Chapter 11

The Body – Monday Morning

As they pulled up quietly outside the ostentatious house in Bluff Point, Constable Ian Barrett met them at the curb-side. “G’day Senior, Hi Sarge, A nasty one here,” His normally relaxed features displayed a grim face.

Over at the side, the bulky frame of Constable Matt Winter was leaning into the garden, dry retching.

“I hope you’re not contaminating my crime scene,” called out Zep and saw the single digit bird signal in return.

As Barney and Zep changed into crime scene coveralls and fine rubber gloves, Constable Barrett filled them in on some details. “I haven’t seen anything like it. The cat was locked in with the deceased for at least three days without food, so went for the blood over the face. It was so hungry that it started chewing on the nose, lips, cheeks and ears. The kitty litter was full, stinking beyond the capacity of the litter to control the smell. But the body itself has been three days in a fully heated room.”

“Even I can smell it from here,” said Barney wrinkling his nose.

“You can recognise that odour from experience and can usually detect it from a distance,” Constable Barrett continued with his report. “The neighbour was attracted over here by the cat’s yowling, which was probably without milk or water in the heated house. She got close enough to notice the strong smell of putrefaction, and immediately told her husband to ring us. Forensics are on their way. If you don’t mind we’ll wait out here. Give us a call if you desperately need us.”

Slipping on protective disposable shoe covers, Barney and Zep entered the building and were instantly assaulted by the strength of the stench of the body and the cat shit. The victim was in the rear kitchen, strapped to a chair, with his hands secured behind his back by black cable ties. He was shirtless. There were livid burn blotches randomly dotted across his naked chest and arms. The size and rounded shape indicated that each had probably been made with the hot tip of a cigarette. His long, drawn-out torture had been ended quickly with a bullet in the forehead. This ragged hole had created the blood seepage onto the face where the house cat had commenced to feed. He was now more or less unrecognisable.

“Strewth, what a sight,” exclaimed Barney as he tightened his rubber gloves. Taking care to step around everything, they conducted a preliminary search of the room. Barney picked up a few letters and documents strewn on the floor near the side bench and rifled through them, saying, “This gives the names of the house occupants as two men, Glynn Foster and David Combley.”

“Crazy Daisy, the car salesman?” questioned Zep, and looked carefully at the body. “Yeah, it could be him. Right hair and same physique. So this is where he lives, or lived.”

The house had been thoroughly ransacked. It had been quickly and effectively searched. Every drawer had been overturned into the middle of each room and the contents spread out. Wardrobes had been pulled apart, and the clothes strewn on the floor. All couches and mattresses had been slit open, their innards cascaded onto the expensive carpets. Wall pictures had been ripped down and carpets turned up, presumably to check for a wall or floor safe.

“The body has been tortured with cigarette burns,” said Barney looking around. “Do you see any cigarette butts?”

“There are no ashtrays visible so it looks like no one in the house was a smoker,” answered Zep taking up the train of thought. “Any cigarettes used in here had to be disposed of.”

“If they were clever they flushed them down the dunny, or put them into their pockets,” speculated Barney. “But if they were dumb, they would put them in the garbage, or toss them into the garden. There is nothing in this kitchen rubbish bin. I’ll get forensics to check the outside wheelie bin.”

“I’ll do that and also get the lads outside to check the garden,” Zep eagerly turned and quickly stepped out into the fresh air. As a burst of relief swept his features outside, he heard Barney saying “Wuss”, but was not willing to stay and argue.

Zep strode quickly to the roadway, taking deep breaths of pure air to try to clear his nostrils of the stench. He called the two constables over to him. “You two gentlemen have a job to do. Check the gardens along the path for any fresh cigarette butts. They are evidence, so treat them as such. And I hope, Matt Winter, they are not already buried under your stomach contents. Even if any of them are, I still want them all collected.” Matt winced, still looking a little green.

The forensic team arrived, so they left them to it. They would bring in the morgue van and the body bag to collect the deceased, after the preliminary investigation of the body had been completed.

Throwing their stinking disposable crime scene coveralls into a sealable plastic bag in the boot of their unmarked patrol car, Barney and Zep began their investigation by talking to the neighbours. They started with the elderly woman who had originally detected the dead body. She was composed and seated in her front lounge room opposite the detectives. She was quite willing to talk with the police knowing that this event could become a topic in her conversations in years to come.

“What can you tell us?” began Zep. “Start with what you know about the occupants of the house and how you found the body.”

Pleased to be able to unburden herself with the responsibility of being the discoverer, the woman launched herself into her tale. “David Combley lived with his wife in the house for about five years,” her crackly voice was even and calm. “She was always a grim thing, never happy living in town. They separated about two years ago and are now going through messy divorce proceedings. He is a used car salesman, owns the company of Crazy Daisys in Spalding. The wife now lives back on the farm at Moonyoonooka with her father and two brothers. Dave has always been a good neighbour, occasional barbecues or drinks so we hear all the gossip,” she paused to collect her thoughts, her weather worn face showed the lines of a hard life.

“The other man now living there is Glynn Foster, a divorce lawyer, who moved in to rent part of the big house, which helps Dave pay the mortgage. Both have separate food arrangements but share the cost of all amenities. We haven’t seen much of Fozzy Foster since he moved in. He’s quite a busy chap; off early mornings to pull his craypots; law office in town; often goes to Perth to visit his steady girlfriend. He sometimes goes out to Rat Island with his brother, a professional cray fisherman.”

“Did you hear any strange noises in the house during the past week?” enquired Zep.

“Nothing until the wailing cat,” she answered. “It’s been quiet as a morgue over there. Er, I mean . . . Well you know what I mean.” Her wrinkles deepened as she shrugged away the gaff.

Zep thanked her for her help, and both were preparing to leave, when she spoke out. “Can I ask a question?”

“Sure,” Barney answered.

“Whose body is it?”

“We believe it to be Mr Combley who is the deceased one,” interjected Zep in a mortuary tone before Barney could make one of his flippant comments. “However the body will need to be properly identified.”

Her eyebrows fell in a pensive frown. She didn’t look up as Barney and Zep rose to leave.

#

After checking on other neighbours, the two detectives wandered back to talk to forensics. The body bag had been loaded into the morgue van, which was just leaving.

“Have you got an early report?” Barney asked Doctor Laura Chelva, the attending forensic pathologist.

“The body has been dead for three or four days, as indicated by the putrefaction and the bloating,” she began in her professional testifying monotone. “With the room heater on full, it was almost as warm as normal body temperature inside the house, which will distort any first estimation. I’ll need to look closer at organ degeneration to be more accurate. There were not many blowflies able to get into the sealed house, but there were probably enough to help with the forensic entomology. At a pinch I would say three and a half days ago.”

So that would put T.O.D. at probably last Thursday afternoon or night, interjected Barney.

A little miffed at having her initial report interrupted, Laura frown at Barney and continued. “By the small size of the hole and no exit wound, I would hazard a guess and say a small calibre pistol, about a twenty two. We should be able to retrieve the bullet from somewhere within the cranial cavity. That’s about it, so far,” she concluded.

“So I guess we need to talk to the house mate. He has been suspiciously missing for this time,” said Barney. “I wonder where he is.”

“By the way,” added Dr Chelva, dryly. “Constable Winter handed me this evidence bag containing three crushed cigarette butts. He said he just missed them with his first try, but found them this time.”

#

Barney and Zep fought through the half a dozen media people at the station who were trying to get follow up information on the drug overdosed children. They had yet to be told about a second murder.

“Sorry people,” frowned Zep. “We have given you all we have at present. Detectives Wilson and Knight are following up on leads at the moment. We’ll let you know of any developments as soon as we have them. Please emphasise the deadly nature of the current drugs on the local market, and no names to be released until we give you the word.”

Back inside the office, Zep issued instructions to constables Barrett and Winter. “Collect the phone records for the house and Dave Combley’s mobile,” he looked from one to the other. “Second thoughts. Do that for Glynn Foster’s mobile too while you are at it. Insist that the phone companies give you the listing with cross-matched phone numbers and known names and addresses of all calls in and out. You’ll need to get the court order, but it’s a confirmed murder enquiry that occurred within that residence, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Get the phone records for Crazy Daisys car yard office too,” added Barney, seated at his desk computer. “And I seem to remember that there was a closed-circuit camera on the pole at the yard. Locate the CCTV discs and bring them in too,” and as he spun his swivel chair he continued. “While you have the court order, get hold of the car yard’s bank accounts so we can see if there is anything there that is worth killing him for.”

“We should get forensics to give the car yard the once over too,” Zep considered. “I’ll arrange that now.”

While he talked on the phone, Barney sat still in thought until Zep was free.

“Possible suspects?” said Barney, throwing an opening gambit into the conversation and then followed quickly with one possible answer. “We should investigate the possibility of a hit from the car-jacking incident.”

“What about Steve Tipping?” suggested Zep. “Insurance probably paid for the loss of the vehicle, but he also lost many irreplaceable personal items in his suitcases inside the car that didn’t turn up. Plus, with the inconvenience and embarrassment of his whole family being thrown callously out of his own car, he may have held a grudge.”

“He’s not the type,” maintained Barney in support of his Railways Club member. “But he still needs to be officially ruled out for his own sake.”

“What about the housemate, Glynn Foster?” continued Zep. “He’s also been missing since the time of the death or he would have reported it.”

As they kicked around the ideas, Superintendent Lindsay Strickland dropped by.

“Great job on that quick heads up on the drugs,” he said. “We sent senior officers to all four high schools and the Tertiary Institutions to officially get PA announcements through to the student populations. Thankfully all saw the urgent need and all obliged. We hope it has avoided a catastrophe. The radio and TV hopefully will reach the adult population just as quick.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Barney. “Some schools usually aren’t so keen to broadcast that type of drug information to their student populations.”

“They were quick after receiving the news that the Aboriginal boy had also been placed on the critical list in intensive care following a slow reaction to emergency detox,” solemnly replied the Superintendent. “The girl is recovering in hospital. Apparently she was a little scared about drugs and only used some left-overs, so hadn’t taken a dangerous dose. She should be just about ready to be interviewed by now. Roger and Chris are still in Rangeway with the parents of the Aboriginal lad. The parents of the white boy are away on holiday from the Sherlock Way house. They’re in Perth somewhere, and we are still trying to track them down. See what the girl can give us.”

“Righto Boss. We’re on our way to Geraldton General,” responded Zep, picking up his coat.

#

Barney and Zep paused in the foyer of the intensive care unit to consult the medical staff. The girl was conscious and stable and probably out of danger. She would soon be moved into the general ward, but would be kept under close observation. And yes, they would be allowed to talk to her as her parents were now present. They had arrived a short time earlier and were in there already with their daughter.

As the two detectives entered, they saw that the girl was in tears. “Both on life support?” she looked to her mother for confirmation of her father’s news. She nodded and the girl sobbed, turning her head into her pillow.

Barney and Zep introduced themselves to all three and Zep began. “We are sorry to have to interrupt you but we need to get some information so that we can avoid further problems.”

The girl cried even more.

“You’re Barney Merrick of Railways?” acknowledged the father. Barney nodded.

“Sarah, it’s the Barney Merrick from the club,” he said, with the change of topic intended to distract his distraught daughter. We were watching him play in the game yesterday. We won the game against Towns because of him.”

The girl looked up through her tears and calmed down a little.

Barney followed the father’s introduction and said conversationally, “So you are a Railway’s fan, Sarah. It’s always great to meet the supporters. Do you manage to get to all the games?”

She shook her head slightly and said with a sniff. “Only to the Geraldton games. We don’t usually go out of town.”

Now that she had a little more composure, Barney used the opportunity. “Sarah, it is vitally important that we locate the source of the killer drugs that the boys were taking. We must stop it being used by more children and other people as well.”

Sarah sniffed and looked at him. “I wasn’t there when the boys bought the drugs on Saturday. They said that they bought them from an old drunk near the Geraldton Hotel. He scooped out a teaspoonful from a packet into a plastic bag and they paid him. They called him a dero.”

“And?” Barney prompted.

“That’s all I know,” she sniffed. “The boys had already bought a Fitpack of needles from a pharmacist in town. We all used some of it from the spoon,” she looked shamefully at her mother and father and again burst into tears.

Barney and Zep left them to it.

Chapter 12

Joey, Polly and Sandy – Monday Morning

That same morning, as the early rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains, Polly awoke first. She looked over at her sleeping man and smiled. She lay quiet for a long time just watching the rise and fall of his chest and listened to his quiet, even and deep breathing.

Joey’s eyes opened and he looked around warily without moving his head. He turned to gaze at Polly.

“I could feel someone watching me, so I had to wake up to see who it was,” he said in a whisper.

“Silly Love,” she responded. “It was just little me.” She reached over to run her fingers through his short jet black hair.

He immediately responded and rolled onto his side to nuzzle into her neck and began to nibble on her ear lobes. They made love with the vigour and inexperience of the young.

Joey then laid back in the quietness of the small unit that was his snug rented accommodation in Northampton. Polly laid her head on his chest and looked up at the worry written all over his face. She frowned too and said, “Today is the day that Sandy Comegain gets freed. He’ll be hunting for you soon. What have you decided for us?”

“For a start, you’re going into hiding,” began Joey. “I don’t think you’ll be safe if you go back to Carnarvon to stay with your Aunty. Do you have girlfriends in Perth that would put you up for a few days? Sandy will know most of your relatives, and may be able to find out about your mates that live locally.”

“I’ve a couple of old schoolmates that now live down there,” she replied cautiously. “I’ll ring them and see.”

“If you can’t find a school-mate in Perth, I’ll put you up in a cheap unit or pub near the beachfront,” he said. “It’s quite cheap in winter and that way you’ll have something to do for a week or two.”

“What about you?” she interrupted.

“I’ve got to keep up with me footy,” he stated with total conviction. “There are talent scouts wandering into the games all the time, so I must be there to get noticed. They’re sometimes at training sessions too, so I can’t just hide during the week days. I’ve decided to keep working at the Northampton Café. There’s always a crowd, so it’ll make it bloody hard for Sandy to get at me there.”

At the mention of Sandy’s name, Joey frowned and became all serious. “I’ll just have to be very bloody careful coming and going between work and training and here at home. If I use my scooter all the time I’ll always be a fast moving target, so hopefully he won’t take the chance on missing me with his one-and-only shot.

“Anyway I owe it to Mr Smith to keep working. As a committee member he looks after me at the Northampton footy club and he pays me well for working in his café lunch bar. If things get really dicey, I’m sure he’ll understand if I have to bugger off from work for a few days. He won’t like it but he can get his missus to fill in for a short time.”

“Why did you take that dreary old job?” Polly asked. “Surely there are better paid ones around town. When we get married you’ll need a proper permanent one.”

“Listen Polly me old girl,” grinned Joey. “Don’t start nagging me before we get hitched. The job is just until the draft and everyone knows it. The cafe needs someone in to serve customers, deliver orders, clear tables, wash dishes, move furniture in and out daily, someone who is on the move all day long. It’s good exercise and we close up by four so I can always make it to footy training on time.”

With that he rolled her out of bed, saying. “Now let’s get breakfast. Then you’ll need to find a place to stay and book a seat on that Greyhound bus leaving for Perth at midday tomorrow. You’ll have to do it alone because I’ve got to be at work by eight. We’ll get you packed this evening.”

#

The white 1990 Holden VG Ute, resplendent in its rust, pulled up outside the main gate of the Greenough Prison and waited. At precisely 9 a.m. the gates opened and Sandy Comegain walked out alone.

“G’day cousin,” he said jovially to the driver as he climbed into the front seat. “How’s the family?”

“Getting along famously,” grumbled Robbie Comegain. “Where to?” he asked the man just freshly released from prison.

“I was planning to stay in Geraldton with you for a few days,” said Sandy hopefully.

“Bloody hell, Sandy. No can do,” was the explosive retort. “We’ve got my oldest son Tommy and his wife and four young kids staying with us until they find a new Homeswest house to rent.”

“What’s he done this time?” queried Sandy.

“He was between jobs and they got bloody kicked out of their place in Mullewa when he was unemployed,” moaned Robbie. “They’re hoping that Aboriginal Regional Housing will find them one. He hopes to get one in Geraldton where there is more work.”

“I really need a place in Geraldton for a short time,” Sandy pleaded. “What about that back shed of yours? The one that you used to use when you got drunk and Shelley threw you out the back. It’s got a bed.”

“That’s the dog’s sleeping place, and I reckon the foam mattress is full of bloody fleas or mites,” Robbie replied sternly, trying to come up with a good excuse. “We have to use flea powder on the bugger every week.”

“Tell you what,” reasoned Sandy. “I’ll get the dog a new mattress if I can use his bed for a time. He can doss on the floor for a change.”

A non-committal grunt was all Robbie could muster. He wasn’t that happy about the arrangements but Sandy was family, his cousin and older by just a few years. They had grown up together in Meekatharra so there was a strong bond of mateship as well as being related.

“By the way bro, what got you into prison this time?” enquired Robbie, changing the subject.

“That bloody police sergeant in Meekatharra, Ted bloody Brimage,” was the infuriated reply.

“What happened?” Robbie prompted.

“I went to the Meeka pub for a few quiet ales with me mates on a Monday night,” Sandy began. “When I left the pub I had only gone a couple of hundred metres when this bloody cop car pulled me over. It was sergeant bloody Ted Brimage, and the bugger handed me the effin breathalyser. I blew a bloody point oh seven, and the bastard actually smiled at me. You would think that being a fellow ‘brother’ that he would have just given me a warning. But no, not this pig.” Sandy sniffed deep and loudly and spat out of the window.

“But point oh seven is just a fine and loss of points,” argued Robbie. “How’d you end up in prison?”

“He then asks me for my bloody licence, so I fiddle about a bit looking in my wallet. But he then says “Sandy Comegain, didn’t you lose your driving licence four months ago – for six months?” but of course he knew that anyway. He was the cop who nailed me back then, just because I called him “a dumb arsed black pig” when he stopped me for dangerous driving in the main street on New Year’s Day. A bloke has a right to celebrate don’t he?”

“Yeah,” nodded Robbie wisely.

“Anyway, he then looks over my old Falcon and says “Have you got the registration papers for this vehicle?” and I says “They are probably in the kitchen drawer at home.” But he backs off to his car and radios my car plates to Meeka Station for them to check the bloody computer. Back he comes to me and says “Your car hasn’t been registered for four months,” and very politely I say “So what?” and smiled sweetly.

“Again he didn’t take the hint about us both being ‘brothers’ and he slapped a bloody red sticker on the middle of my effin windshield. “NOT TO BE DRIVEN” it says and it gets left parked in the middle of the main street of Meekatharra, right where he’d pulled me over. Then I let him have it. “What the hell am I going to do to get home?” I ask. “And how in fuck sake am I supposed to get this car home now?”

“The bastard then smiles sweetly at me and says, “You can get a lift with the tow truck driver when he picks up this unroadworthy vehicle and drops it off at the address of your choice. I would suggest you take it home and get some family to help to get it roadworthy again.”

Sandy sat back and folded his arms, tucking his fists tight under his arms before he lashed out and punched some part of the dashboard. He knew that if he did so, he would be sorry later, so he took precautions.

“Then bloody Brimage adds “But you personally won’t be with them for a while as you will be summonsed to court for driving without a valid licence, again, and this will probably be a serious charge this time.”

“And before I can give the bugger a piece of my mind he said quietly, “I wouldn’t say what you are about to say, because if you do, the summons will be issued to you while you are in my cells, cooling off and sobering up.” But I couldn’t help myself.

Robbie glanced away from the road for a few seconds, to stare at his cousin. Knowing Sandy as he did, he could imagine what was to come next.

“So I spent Monday night in lockup - Drunk and Disorderly. My car was dropped on my front verge, there for all the neighbours to see that bright red sticker and it bloody cost me $150 in tow truck fees.”

Robbie nodded wisely. It was just as he had guessed.

“Then bloody Brimage walks into the cells at mid-day next day, with the summons, saying Magistrate’s Court at 9 a.m. on Wednesday and lets me leave. It took all my bloody strength but I kept my mouth shut as I left.”

Sandy paused and looked around at the interior of the utility. He was sensing the driving capability of the car as he spoke. “Say bro, this car sure handles well for an old one. And it’s got all the bells and whistles for its age.”

“Yeah,” answered Robbie. “They made a great car when they made this old Holden ute. It has a VN Commodore engine and chassis, the five litre V8, four-speed auto, power steering and coil suspension. She drives like a dream and still has stacks of grunt.”

“So why has it got so rusted?” Sandy asked. “I thought Holden solved the problem of early rust.”

“My fault I suppose,” responded Robbie. “I use it all the time fishing, driving on to the hard salty beaches at my favourite spots. It’s light enough when empty and I let the tyres down if I get a soft bog. I haven’t had any problems with it yet, touch wood.” He reached over and touched Sandy on the top of his head.

“Fair go cuz,” said Sandy.

“So what happened in court,” prompted Robbie, as he slowed the car to the Geraldton city speed.

“Bloody Ted Brimage tells the Magistrate that I was picked up for driving without a current driver’s licence. He says that I’d already done one night in lockup for drunk and disorderly. The magistrate then gives me the sentence: “Prison, one night for being Drunk and Disorderly, already served,” then adds, “For repeat driving without a valid licence it will be ten days prison and a further six months suspension to your driver’s licence.”

“Big-mouthed Brimage then adds. “Excuse me your honour, but the car was unregistered too,” and walks over and talks to the Magistrate for a bit, who then adds “Two more days for driving an unregistered vehicle. The red sticker means it will need to be fully police inspected before it may be re-licenced again.

“So I’ve been nearly two weeks rotting in bloody Greenough Prison,” groaned Sandy. “It will probably cost a fortune to fix up the old car. Either that or get another. So I have gotta try to find a job. But first I have to find a man and a girl.”

“And a mattress,” added Robbie, reluctantly.

#

Sandy spent $50 on a second-hand mattress from a store that the locals had dubbed ‘El Cheapo’. They stowed it into Robbie’s back shed. Robbie’s missus, Shelley, partly observed the proceedings and started on at him about installing another free-loader, so Sandy offered to pay some board. He then produced a well-prepared box of chocolates from the car and Shelley quietened down. He had stayed here overnight many times before so he was not really unwelcome.

“Say mate, can I ask you for one more favour?” solicited Sandy.

Robbie was too wary of his cousin to commit himself with a positive answer, so he just replied, “What?”

“I need to collect a few things from home,” explained Sandy. “Can you drive me out to Meekatharra?”

“Like hell I will,” exploded Robbie. “That’s an eleven hundred kilometres round trip.”

“In your ute it will be a breeze,” reasoned Sandy, “and I just gotta pick up some special gear.”

“It’ll take the best part of two days and with that V8 petrol guzzler I’ll need one a half tanks of fuel each way,” Robbie argued desperately. “That’s over $200 worth of fuel alone. Take the bus. It’s much cheaper.”

“It’ll be difficult to get the spears onto the bus,” claimed Sandy.

“Spears?” Robbie asked in surprise. So Sandy explained the decision of the tribal law court.

His fifty year old cousin went quiet for a time as he thought through the logistics of the problem and finally explained, “If you tape them together, wrapped and sealed so they can’t be seen as spears, you can put them in the bus luggage compartment. If anyone asks, you can say you’re an entertainer and those are your props.”

Sandy considered this and said dubiously “Ohh - kayy”

“There’s a TransWA bus going out that way on Mondays and Fridays that we’ve used before. It returns on Tuesday or Friday,” stated Robbie. “If you hurry we can make the 1:15 p.m. today. It’s an early morning return from Meeka tomorrow if you’re desperate to get back here so soon.”

Sandy thought of the other things he would need, the gear that he’d left with his brother’s family while he was in prison. He didn’t trust the situation of going into prison with some things still on his person. He needed to pick up his credit cards, mobile phone and charger and also some clothes. None of those things needed more than one night’s stay in Meekatharra.

“Let’s get to the Railway Bus Station,” he decided with finality, but soon quietly added, “Can you lend me the bus fare til I get me credit cards?”

Robbie sighed.

Chapter 13

Law Office Interviews – Tuesday Morning

The lawyer’s office at 645 Marina Towers was more ostentatious than functional. It gave the appearance of being a successful business, which was what it was supposed to do. The plaque outside advertised a three lawyer partnership. The pretty young secretary in the front office was receptionist, telephonist and clerk. She switched instantly into her beaming customer service mode to give Barney and Zep her full attention as they entered her domain.

“Yes gentlemen?” she enquired politely with a dazzling smile. “How may we help you?”

They flashed their wallet credentials to identify themselves. Zep stepped forward to read her office name badge that was pinned to the tight cashmere sweater on top of her ample breasts. In his uncharacteristic smooth voice, he politely requested “Beryl, we would like to see Glynn Foster.”

“I’m afraid Mr Foster is away on holidays,” she replied automatically.

When probed for details she reluctantly continued. “He left the office last Tuesday and was going to spend a couple of days R and R at home, before pulling out his amateur pots for the end of the cray season.”

The lads pushed for more information, “When?”

“On the 30^th June. He just loves crayfishing. It’s in his blood y’see,” Her light green eyes flicked from Zep to pause on Barney, and looked him up and down approvingly.

“He talked to me about his holiday options. He thought about visiting his brother, Stan, over on Rat Island, but they are also all closing down over on the Abrolhos, collecting their pots and coming home for the winter. It’s not at all pleasant out there when the weather closes in.

“Go on,” encouraged Barney with his winning grin.

She began to ease as Barney’s smile was returned. “I think he decided to visit his girlfriend in Perth for the remainder of his week’s holiday. He should be back in two days. He usually drives to Perth, but sometimes he flies, leaving his car in long term parking at the airport. His girlfriend then usually picks him up at Perth. I don’t know the details of where she lives or her phone numbers. I rang his mobile three days ago, but the phone was switched off and has been ever since.”

“Can we have that number please,” asked Zep.

“I suppose it’s alright to give you the number, she paused. “It’s 0314159265, but it’s still turned off.”

“What can you tell us about David Combley?” questioned Barney, changing the subject to their murder victim.

“Nothing I’m afraid,” Beryl replied. “Mr Combley is on our books as a client so we are unable to release . . .”

“Was on your books,” interrupted Zep, trying to shock her out of her receptionist banter mode. “He’s dead! Murdered.”

“What? How?” she was totally thrown, wide eyed and stunned, probably for the first time in her office life.

“We can’t release details yet, as it’s an ongoing investigation, but we need to find out a bit about Mr David Combley’s background. Can you please tell us all you know about the recently deceased?” Zep was emphatic.

Still in total shock, she rose unsteadily and staggered to the filing cabinet. Mechanically, she picked out a file from the filing cabinet and glanced at the first few pages to refresh her memory. She stammered hesitatingly through the details.

“David Combley had a wife. They had been married, together for about five years. But separated for the last two. No children. She was seeking to divorce him. We were defending him.”

Beryl closed her eyes, and appeared to be recalling the case for a moment or two.

“She was claiming cruelty. Some years back she appeared with a round burn on the back of her hand. It could have been a spit of burning fat, or a spark from an open hearth fire, but she claimed that Dave had picked up her cigarette and prodded her with it.”

She paused for breath. There was shock still in her eyes as she continued on, gaining momentum and a little more composure.

“The divorce hearing was originally set for three months ago but there was some hitch with the recommended settlements, so it was postponed until next month. We are supposed to be negotiating on Mr Combley’s behalf, but there has been little progress with that.”

“Tell me Beryl,” said Zep, “what is Mr Foster like to work for?”

“He’s a real sweetie. He treats me well and looks after me, so he is a pleasure to work for. I have been here for over three years and there has never been any friction.”

“Is he always a quiet and calm person?” added Barney.

“Around the office he is a real gentleman. I have heard that he can be a bit of a tearaway outside his professional times. It’s part of his cray-fishing background as a youth.”

Beryl drew her hair back. Her face showed that she was struggling to mask her dismay over the murder of a well-known client. Her voice wavered as she continued.

“I can remember only one time in the office where he blew up. A client fed him outright lies, which he took into court and was blown away by the opposition. It lost the divorce case and all costs were awarded against us. The client refused to pay so Mr Foster blew his stack and sued him for the fees. The client had trouble mounting a defence because no lawyer would touch him after the facts of the case became well known in the law fraternity. Mr Foster fought dirty on that case, but he was justified with that client.”

“Please forgive me for asking,” began Zep, “but I must ask you this question. Has there been any relationship between you and Mr Foster?”

“Oh, no,” she replied calmly, now a little more composed. “He has this steady girlfriend in Perth. He wants her to move here, but she has a law career there. She wants him to move back to Perth, but he can’t manage that yet. One day he plans to sell his part in this partnership and relocate there. It needs to be a successful business, so that he can capitalize the shift, but it’s not quite at the peak yet.”

“Thank you for your help, Beryl,” said Barney, as he took the cue from Zep and concluded the interview. “Now we need the full details and the address of the wife of the deceased David Combley?”

#

“You have some visitors in the foyer of the station,” was the radio message as they returned to the car. The trip to the police station took only a few minutes, so they were soon walking from the rear car park to the front foyer. Barney and Zep entered and introduced themselves to the two boys, both in different school uniforms. They gave their names as Joshua and Jason.

“We heard the school’s PA notice yesterday and saw this morning’s Guardian about the near death of two students through drugs,” began Joshua putting on a brave face. “We are here to hand in these.” Each produced a small plastic packet from his pants pocket.

“The two who nearly died are, er, friends of ours,” said Jason, as he lowered his head and shuffled nervously. “We thought about just destroying the evidence but we don’t want it to happen to others. But we also want immunity. We don’t want our parents or the schools to find out.”

“Now boys,” began Barney as he took the plastic bags from each boy. “We’re not allowed to interview children, if they can be charged, without having a responsible adult being present. If you are involved with trafficking drugs we can’t promise not to tell your folks.”

“We aren’t,” they both insisted strongly.

“So this will not be an interview, but we will need to take some notes of anything you say,” continued Barney. “If it later involves a court and you’re needed as witnesses we’ll interview you officially, and then your parents will become totally involved. But we’ll avoid all that if possible. So you’re free to speak out as long as you’re not criminally involved. Is that all understood.”

“Sure thing,” replied Joshua confidently.

“Rather than us ask questions,” prompted Zep. “Tell us all about it.”

“Last Saturday a couple of lads came across a bloke selling very cheap heroin,” began Jason, a little more assertively. “He was the dero that you occasionally see around the beachfront and in town. He pushes a shopping trolley with some of his clothes in it and collects bits of junk to sell. They didn’t buy any but let us know through texting.”

“Who are ‘us’?” questioned Barney.

Joshua answered. “The adults in Geraldton regard each school as a separate group of people, competing against each other in sport, competitions and academic. In fact the kids of Gero are just one big group. Outside school we meet socially in sporting clubs, around town and connect in the social media. There is even a united Gero group of 200 students in one combined battle formation in the online Warcraft game. We mix continuously.”

“Anyway,” Jason continued, “we both rode our bikes down and bought some from him. He spooned it out from a small packet into plastic bags for each of us and we paid him. He couldn’t have had much because it was only a small packet and it left about two hits behind. There would have been only about five spoonfulls in that packet in the first place.”

“So you are saying that the two critical students had one of only about five lots of the drugs,” probed Barney, and waving the plastic packets that they had just handed in, said, “And these are another two of them.”

“It looked like that was all he had,” replied Jason. “He didn’t seem to have other packets to sell. He would surely have said about having more to sell if he wanted to get more buyers.”

“Can you describe the dero,” asked Zep.

“Old bloke, about fifty-ish, white beard, wears a floppy hat, big coat,” said Joshua. “We found him near the Marina on Saturday.”

“Thanks guys,” said Barney. “You have been a great help in trying to track the source of the killer drugs. You actually both had a close call yourselves. We hope we don’t have to call on either of you again for any drug related issues.”

Zep fired a quick grin at the lads and said. “By the way, aren’t you two supposed to be at school?”

“It’s our lunch break and the schools probably won’t miss us from the next period if we turn up for the last part of the day,” confided Joshua.

“Yeah, we both planned to meet here, so we avoided having our bikes locked in the school’s secure compound for the day,” added Jason.

“Alright, off you go,” said Zep. “Don’t get caught. If you do, we don’t know you.” He winked.

#

The afternoon was spent following up on other possible suspects. Zep rang the Fremantle CIB to talk to Detective Walter Ketterer. He explained that Crazy Daisy, the car dealer of the Toyota Kluger, had been murdered about Saturday. They now needed to know if there was a possible link to the Fremantle gun running ring that they had smashed last month. Walter promised that he would check into it and get back to them. Two hours later they listened on speaker-phone to the reply.

“Both of the gang’s Fremantle principals, the owner and organiser, have been held over in prison pending their court appearances set down for next week. The four minor players, salesmen and drivers, were in court on Friday and were each given six months jail for dealing in illegal firearms. Their sentences were halved for giving testimony on the local gang structure.

“Yesss,” Barney pumped his fist in the air. Walter continued.

“I don’t know about other possible underlings that may be connected to the gang, or possible hit-men sent from the East, but it does look like these known gun runners were all confined, so not involved in your murder case.”

#

Barney’s task was to interview his Railway’s team-mate, Steve Tipping, a month after he had been carjacked, to determine if he had any beefs and would seek revenge. Rather than being vindictive, Steve could not stop praising Dave Combley. He bubbled along, all positive about Crazy Daisy.

“The insurance eventually came good and covered the car. In the meantime Dave lent me another family car from his yard, for two weeks at no charge, until he could find me another deal on a Toyota Kluger. He located an even better one for the insurance price, a stunning black Toyota Kluger 2009 model with lots of extras. I’ve had the new car for full use for over a week now. I went into the office last Wednesday to legally sign for the car and collect the Registration Papers.

“The suitcases of clothes that we lost were covered by our house insurance, so now we all have a smaller, but newer, wardrobe. The kid’s toys that were scattered through the car weren’t covered, but with all the stuff we already have at home it was like spring cleaning. They won’t be missed.”

“So you have no beef with Crazy Daisys?” queried Barney.

“None whatsoever,” was the emphatic reply.

Chapter 14

The Bus Station – on Tuesday Afternoon

Sandy Comegain was now totally obsessed. After spending twelve frustrating days in a prison cell, desperate to be active in his quest to get even with the young boy who had stolen his bride, he was finally off on his mission.

When the bus arrived in Meekatharra early on Monday evening, he went straight to Jimmy Solong’s house and bought six spears. Jimmy was the local bush artist who demonstrated boomerang and spear throwing and playing the didgeridoo. He also sold mass produced Aboriginal artefacts to busloads of tourists. He was available to perform or to sell merchandise when and where a tour bus stopped in Meekatharra.

“I can let you have five of my two metre long spears and a one metre jabbing spear,” Jimmy said as he looked through his stock room.

“I’m not allowed to use a jabbing spear,” replied Sandy, remembering the Council ruling.

“It’s good for throwing for less than a couple of metres,” responded Jimmy and assured him that these five spears were the best he had for throwing and he then included a woomera for the same price. “As you know, if you are going to throw accurately further than four or five metres, then you need to use the woomera to launch the spear,” advised Jimmy. “Although bro, you may have to get in some real heavy practice. You probably haven’t thrown since you were a kid.”

“How about carrying them?” asked Sandy.

“When I travel between shows I stick them together in a length of thick poly pipe stuffed with cloths each end and sealed with duct tape,” he explained. “Then I can throw the lot into the back of the ute. That way they don’t get damaged. There is an old spare length of poly pipe out back you can have.”

“Thanks mate,” concluded Sandy.

#

The return trip to Geraldton on Tuesday morning allowed Sandy to catch up with a little sleep after a late night celebrating his return with some of his brothers and their families. He had little trouble placing the sealed tube of spears in the extensive luggage compartment of the bus. On arrival at the Geraldton railway bus station, it was unloaded into his care.

There was a second bus parked at the Geraldton depot in the early afternoon. It was the Greyhound bus from Carnarvon that passed through Northampton on its way to Perth. It was loaded and due to leave shortly.

With the polyurethane pipe tube balanced on his shoulder, he walked past the other bus and did a double-take. There at the window, sitting in the bus was the recognisable beautiful face of Polly Picket. He quickly backed up, hoping he had not been seen.

As he lay the tube down in the alley besides the building, he was thinking to himself, “Wherever Polly is, then Joey Collard can’t be far away.” He undid the end of the pipe, tipped the spears halfway out and selected the short jabbing spear.

He rose up into the entrance of the Greyhound bus. The seated driver who had been working on his passenger inventory looked up and shouted.

“Hey, whatcha doing?”

Sandy ignored him and with the tip of his spear pointed downwards and ready, stalked purposefully down the aisle.

The driver switched on his radio and reported into the Geraldton Depot, “We have an armed intruder on board in the Greyhound bus outside the depot. Call the police.” He then extricated himself from his driving cab and followed Sandy down the aisle.

Sandy looked all about the bus at every seat, at every passenger, and noted that the toilet at the rear of the bus was also empty. He glared at Polly and demanded. “Where is he?”

Polly was too awestruck to say anything. His appearance was so sudden, and the weapon was so threatening, and he was glaring fully at her. She totally froze.

The male passenger in the seat on the opposite side of the aisle to Polly began to rise, saying. “See here bloke,” but he quickly sat as the spear tip was raised towards his face.

But that was enough distraction to take Sandy’s full attention. The well-built bus driver grabbed him from behind, pinned his arms and fell forward onto the floor in the aisle. Both landed heavily with Sandy underneath, which knocked the wind from him. Another passenger reached down, grasped the stabbing spear and slid it forwards underneath the seats, way out of reach.

The driver stood and faced Sandy as he staggered to his feet. “Sit there,” he ordered, indicating the empty seat beside Sandy. Two more bus company employees climbed onto the bus, so Sandy, decidedly outnumbered and outweighed, meekly sat down.

Within a short space of time, Constables Ian Barrett and Matt Winter arrived in their patrol car and placed a handcuffed Sandy into the rear seat. He sat there miserably as eye-witness statements were taken.

As the patrol car was about to drive off, Sandy shouted, “My spears! My spears are there next to the building.”

A three metre tube does not fit well into a police patrol car, but with shuffling and squeezing the cylinder was wedged from back window to front windscreen through the centre of the vehicle. All this was for the 300 metre trip to the police station.

Polly left on the bus for Perth.

Sandy was booked for being a public menace and spent another night in a police station cell. However, in the morning, the lawyer from Aboriginal Legal Aide convinced the sergeant that the court would throw out the charge, as he was just carrying one of the tools of trade for his career. He was trying to gain skills for the occupation of Aboriginal Entertainer, much like his friend in Meekatharra, Jimmy Solong, who had given him the spears. So on Wednesday morning, Sandy finally arrived to begin his stay with Robbie Comegain and his family in Wonthella. He had just twelve days left to complete his mission.

#

For the next few days, Sandy propped the dog’s old foam mattress against the back shed and practised throwing the spears at a forty centimetre circle drawn in the middle of it. First he tried without using the launching woomera and then with it. Robbie’s two eldest sons joined him and the three made a game of it. After two days, the kids tired of the activity, which was just as well because they had ruined one of their allocated spears and heavily damaged the other. The corrugated iron wall of the shed was not a good target for a fine tipped wooden spear and the many small dents and holes in the corrugation showed how inaccurate they had been.

After the first errant throws, Sandy managed to hit the foam mattress every time and the circle about a quarter of the time. Robbie wandered out during the first day’s practice and Sandy explained the reason behind the new skill that he was practicing to acquire.

“Joey Collard you say?” said Robbie. “Isn’t he the young Northampton player who’s likely to get into the AFL draft at the end of the season?”

“That’s the bugger,” Sandy snarled.

“Northampton and Railways are playing at the Rec on Sunday,” Robbie said. “We can go and check him out.”

“I intend to do more than check him out on Sunday,” added Sandy. “I’m going to go there well prepared.”

Knowing his cousin’s luck and his innate ability to get himself into trouble, Robbie sighed.

Chapter 15

Moonyoonooka Farm – Wednesday Morning

The car was shaking almost uncontrollably. Barney was driving, concentrating on finding the line of least bumps, while still maintaining forward speed without being shaken off the road. He commented, “One day they will catch the machine that runs up and down these gravel roads and deliberately makes these corrugations. They have to be done on purpose.”

From Moonyoonooka, the unmarked patrol car had turned off the main Mullewa Road and travelled the undulating corrugated road along the foothills. It crossed the numerous bridges and culverts that drained the hills of the heavy but infrequent rains. The moving vehicle vibrated to the rhythm of the corrugations.

Zep was just dozing in the passenger seat, thinking about the possible suspects. Barney continued to pontificate. “They need to have an anti-corrugation machine that drags a rubber mat behind it, and just smooths out the lumps. It would be cheaper than grading the road every few months.”

“Shut up and drive, Barney,” grumbled Zep as the car was shaken even more as it crossed a rippled patch that was even worse than normal. “Either slow down or dodge the big bumps. You’re shaking my valuable car to pieces.”

They finally turned up a small gravel road that twisted and turned its way up a river valley that was several metres higher than the dry creek bed beside it. A couple of times the road crossed over small bridges when it had been decided that the opposite side of the riverbed was an easier route.

The name “Effoff” on the sign attached to the gatepost announced they had arrived at the farm entrance. However, once they turned off the main gravel road, they still had to navigate half a kilometre of twisting track through dense trees. It had a good clay surface to allow for large farm deliveries, but its alignment had been chosen by weaving around the biggest trees. For some sections, it suggested that it would be difficult to navigate if it became too wet.

Barney had managed to talk Zep into letting him drive and was enjoying the feel of the unmarked police car weaving through the confined bush track. The forest cleared and the landscape in front of them revealed a small open valley of fenced pastures, surrounded by wooded hills. The farm houses and barns on the nearby hillside overlooked the grassland, which was dotted with sheep and cattle. The creek that meandered through the valley had three large dams conveniently placed to maximise the catchment. This was the 2000 acres of prime beef and sheep country that had been in the Snook’s family’s hands for the past 150 years.

The woman, aged about thirty years, who came out of the farm house to meet them, was strikingly beautiful. The checked shirt and denim jeans were loose, but they could not hide the fact that she had a figure to admire. But she had no smile and there was no sparkle in her eyes. Her voice was so cold it had icicles dripping from it.

“Yes?” was her abrupt opening line.

“Mrs Combley?” inquired Zep.

“I am, but I don’t use that name any more,” she replied testily. “I use my own name of Frances Snook.”

“I am afraid I have some bad news to tell you,” said Zep in a sombre tone, and then paused. She lifted one eyebrow and waited so he continued. “Your husband David died during the week.”

“Oh that’s wonderful news,” she exclaimed with a note of relief. Her expression momentarily showed a little pleasure, but the frozen mask quickly returned. “I thought you were going to tell me my father had died. He is supposed to last another week or more.”

“But your husband died,” repeated Barney, not seeing any form of grief.

“My soon to be ex-husband,” she bluntly admitted. “If he, and that shyster lawyer house-mate of his, had not been so keen to get their hands on part of this farm, I would’ve been a free woman months ago. They were waiting for my father to die, so that I would inherit a third of the estate and he could then claim a large settlement during the divorce.”

As she spoke, she reached into her cardigan pocket, drew out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, briefly paused as she lit one, exhaled the smoke sideways into the air and continued.

“We separated some time back, so I returned to the farm to live with my two brothers and to look after my father. He has terminal cancer. He has just recently been moved into the hospital palliative care with just weeks to live.” Her cold eyes softened and slightly moistened.

“Dave and Fozzy knew the old man was worth millions, so they were trying to delay divorce proceedings until he died. They had managed to get the last court appearance postponed for four long months, to be able to counter my evidence.”

Zep nodded wisely to encourage her to reveal more of the details.

“I am claiming cruelty. Some years back I had to go to the doctors with a burn on the back of my hand. Dave did it with a cigarette butt. Six months ago he threatened to do it again so I walked out on him and began divorce proceedings.”

“So there is a very large financial reason for wanting your husband dead,” asserted Zep.

“Most certainly,” came a deep voice from behind.

“These cops say that Dave’s dead,” beamed Frances to the newcomer. “My young brother Fred Snook,” she said by way of introduction.

Fred also showed a sullen dour face which broke into a hint of a smile which quickly vanished. He was a large, solid man, and was carrying the butchered leg of a sheep over his shoulder. He wore the bloodied clothes of a butcher, fully adorned with the leather apron and front pouch of knives.

“Dave’s dead,” Fred called out loudly towards the barn.

“Bewdy,” came another resonant voice from inside. Another older man of similar build emerged in grease covered overalls, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. His expression also showed no emotion and if possible his mood was even darker than his younger siblings.

“My older brother Theodore or Teddy,” stated Frances.

Neither of the brothers offered to shake hands, and both Barney and Zap were quite thankful for the lack of that gesture.

“You’d betta come into the ‘ouse,” grunted Teddy, assuming the lead as he wandered off in that direction, followed by his younger brother and sister.

Barney and Zep paused briefly for a few quick words alone. “What a sour and crabby looking family,” whispered Barney. “Individually they all appear as likely suspects for the murder of Dave C.”

“We had better take this one carefully until we see the lie of the land,” cautioned Zep.

Inside the house, the visitors were not offered refreshments, which was contrary to the tradition in just about every farm house in Australia. Instead they found the ‘happy’ trio seated around the kitchen table waiting for their guests to begin an explanation for their visit. On the sink were the sheep’s leg and the pouch of knives. Now at least the butcher wasn’t visibly armed.

“Before we go any further we need to let you know that we are involved in a murder investigation,” began Barney. “David Combley was murdered.”

The only responses were three raised pairs of eyebrows.

“Until further notice, we must treat most of the people, who have known conflicts with Dave, as suspects,” continued Zep. “You three have strong motives for wanting to see David dead. We need to establish your whereabouts so that we can verify alibis for all three of you.”

“When did it happen?” asked Fred.

“Probably Thursday night, as near as we can determine,” replied Zep.

“We were all together here at the farm all day,” declared Frances Snook in an abrupt manner.

“We’ll need to confirm those alibis,” said Zep.

“But firstly, do you own any guns?” interrupted Barney.

“This is a working farm,” confirmed Teddy. “We got dad’s old 303, a couple of Rugers and a couple of Brownings in the gun cabinet and two pistols in the drawer. The rifles we use for wild dogs, roos and emus. The pistols we use for putting down starving sheep.”

“Please take me to them,” said Barney, and he followed Teddy into the living room. There he saw a strong metal gun cabinet, but it was not locked. Stepping forward and looking inside he counted the five rifles. He took out his handcuffs and put one loop through both of the strong handles, effectively locking the cabinet.

“The pistols?” he requested next and as Teddy reached for the sideboard drawer, Barney called out forcefully, “Step back please, I’ll get them if you don’t mind.” As Teddy nodded and silently withdrew, Barney took out a folded plastic evidence bag from his jacket and picked out both pistols by the tips of the barrels.

“The firing pins for the rifles, the magazines and bullets are in the top shelf of the cupboard,” said Teddy indicating with a jerk of his head.

Barney added them to the evidence bag and sealed the bag with the rip-off sticking tape. “Have any of these firearms been used recently?” he enquired.

“Not for quite a while,” Teddy assured him. “Probably the last time we used the pistols was three years ago, during the drought. We sent 2000 sheep to pastures in Harvey, but the worst 200 we had to kill and bury in the paddock.”

“How about the rifles?” queried Barney.

“About three months back during lambing season there was a pack of ten wild dogs,” drawled Teddy. “We sat in the bushes on the hill and picked them off with silenced rifles. One got away, but was wounded. Bloody dad with his old 303 can’t hold a rifle steady any more, but, like the rest of the family, he is, or was, still a good shot over 300 metres, Dogs didn’t stand a chance.”

Barney made a mental note to keep on the right side of this group and to let Zep know of the family’s exploits with a gun. Re-joining the others in the living room, Barney questioned Teddy about the need to shoot the 200 sheep.

“It was the time that the problem with abattoir cruelty in the Middle East. The live sheep market ceased for some months. Dad had thought he had timed it well, building up the flock by buying extra lambs to fatten, intending to sell before summer. They were due to be shipped out but we got stuck with them. The farm can cope with our breeding stock over the dry season, but with extra large numbers, the feed and water began to quickly run out.

“We managed to send the 2000 sheep to the irrigated farms in Harvey, but we were left with 200 very poor animals that we had to put down. We saved the rams and the cattle by hand feeding and watering for that summer and bought most of the breeding ewes back after the drought. Dad was lucky, dodged a bullet, that time.”

Barney collected the rifles amid protests from all three of the Snooks. He issued a receipt with assurances that the firearms would be returned, after they had been tested, and when the family were no longer under suspicion. Daisy had been killed with a small pistol but there was no point leaving suspects with high powered armaments.

#

Back in the office over a sandwich and coffee on the run, Constables Ian Barrett and Matt Winter ran through their discoveries from the phone records and the CCTV from the car yard. The two constables had been allocated to do the leg work of analysing the incoming and outgoing calls from the home phone at the murder victim’s house, at Crazy Daisys car yard, and also the mobiles of Dave Combley and Glynn Foster.

“We first looked at the incoming calls of the home and work phones for the seven days before the Thursday that we presume when Daisy was murdered,” began Constable Barrett, glancing at his notebook. “We considered these first, as most were likely to be business calls, and would give us a baseline. Grouping the multiples together, there were ten callers to the home phone and twenty three to the work phone.”

“We then began a process of elimination,” interrupted Constable Winter. “We telephoned each of the numbers and rattled off our spiel. “Good morning. My name is Len Platts and I am a consultant doing a sales analysis representing Crazy Daisys car yard. You telephoned him in the last few days. Could you please tell us what was the reason for the phone call?”

Matt Winter’s voice was cheerful, as he continued to elaborate on their unusual method of tracking the calls. “If we received a response indicating it was to do with a car enquiry, we flagged it and then asked if they had visited the yard and when. A final question was whether they had gone into the building to see Dave. If any of the responses were positive we put that person into the ‘unlikely list’ as just a car enquiry. If we didn’t get a reasonable response, we just ticked it and later went visiting as police officers. It was necessary to make just five visits.”

“A little unorthodox, but effective,” said Zep. “And not quite legal.”

Constable Barrett took up the reporting. “If those same callers then made more calls after the Thursday, we knew that they would most likely not be involved in the murder, so they were doubly eliminated. We then checked the actual visitors to the car yard on the CCTV and were able to match up most of them to the names and times in the phone lists.”

Barrett was grinning as he passed Zep a folder of photographs. “We got the unknown car yard callers down to three phone and three CCTV pictures for the seven days before the murder and to two callers to the house from unknown mobiles. Here are the three photos taken from the CCTV.”

“That’s Steve Tipping on Wednesday,” pointed Barney. “We know about him. And that’s Teddy Snook and that’s Beryl what’s-her-name from Foster’s office.”

“Snook only visited once on the Tuesday, two days before the murder and Beryl was there twice, Monday and Wednesday before the murder,” listed Matt Winter.

“We need to see Teddy Snook again,” confirmed Zep.

“And why would Beryl visit Dave while Mr Foster is on vacation?” mused Barney. “Twice.”

“Now to the mobile phones,” Constable Barrett continued to refer to his notes. “There were far less of those and both mobiles went dead around the time of the murder. Dave had fourteen callers in that week and nine of them were on the house or car yard list so we had already eliminated them. There were two from people we positively identified as a couple of his drinking mates and three from Mr Foster’s office spread throughout the week. After Saturday no calls were connected through so the mobile was probably switched off or dead battery.”

“Interesting,” Barney considered. “We need to talk to Beryl again.”

Barrett continued to report. “Mr Foster’s mobile had six incoming calls in the week prior to the Saturday when his phone went dead. Four were local people, probably work related and two were from one location in Perth that we have yet to identify. These are probably from the girlfriend. We didn’t give Mr Foster the priority over Mr Combley, but we can do that now.”

“Great job fellas,” praised Zep. “See what you can do about those unknown callers. Are there any in the outgoing that need to be mentioned?”

“We’ll get onto Foster and the outgoing right away, sir” finished Constable Winter.

Chapter 16

Several Suspects – Wednesday Morning

“Sarge, we need to send a patrol car to bring in Teddy Snook from his farm in Moonyoonooka,” Zep strolled into the ops room to speak to Senior Sergeant Bill Semple.

“He probably won’t want to co-operate, so it may be necessary to give him the options. He can either come quietly to have a conversation with us detectives, or be arrested for obstructing a murder investigation and spending the next twenty-four hours in custody, while his property is searched.”

Teddy arrived within the hour, sullen and wary. The video recording devices in the interview room were switched on, and the interview began.

“Theodore Snook, why did you fail to mention that you had visited Dave Combley just a couple of days before the murder?” Zep stared intently into his brooding face.

“You didn’t ask,” snapped Teddy.

“What was the reason of the visit?” continued Zep in a strong even voice.

“I wanted to ask Combley to sign the divorce to get it over and done with. My sister has suffered enough at the hands of that man. He wouldn’t do it, so I threatened him with all manner of things.” His eyes glowered about the room.

“You realise that now makes you our number one suspect,” confirmed Barney.

“No matter to me,” shrugged Teddy. “I didn’t do it, so you can’t find me guilty. My alibi was that I was with my brother and sister all that time. I’ve got both of them who can verify that.”

“Did you come to town specifically to see Combley?” Zep probed in order to ascertain his movements and motives.

“No, I came to visit my father in hospital,” growled Teddy. “One of us visits him every afternoon after the farm work is done.”

“So who visited him on Thursday?” queried Barney.

Teddy paused and thought long and hard about this question. He realised that there would probably be hospital staff who would remember visitors, so he didn’t think he could get away with any subterfuge.

“I guess we all did,” he admitted candidly. “We came in mid-afternoon, did the weekly shopping and banking and then visited Dad for a long while. He hasn’t got long so we tried to spend what time we could while he was awake.” The wrinkles on his outdoor weathered face deepened further in sadness.

“When he dozed off, we went to the Breakers Bar on the northern foreshore for a night out. A change from the farm kitchen and home cooking. My sister looks good but she’s no cordon bleu chef. We had a meal and finished off a few beers, with Fran drinking Riesling, so we were all quite mellow.”

“I can’t really picture that,” said Barney under his breath, but audible enough to receive a frown from Zep.

“We were mellow until Fred mentioned Dave Combley,” Teddy snarled. “That got all of us going again, especially after seeing Dad so weak and fragile. He worked hard all his life to build that farm into really something. That weasel Dave Combley was trying to get a piece of it for nothing.”

“So all three of you decided to get rid of him once and for all,” prompted Zep.

“Yeah,” yelled Teddy. “We drove up to his place in Bluff Point and we were all going to go in and threaten him with pain, broken fingers, cigarette burns like he did to Frannie and all sorts of other suffering. To avoid any torture, he would have to sign the divorce papers then and there. In return we would hand over a $50,000 cheque, with no further strings attached.”

“And?” pressed Barney.

“He had visitors. A black SUV was parked outside. We thought about waiting, but it was too bloody cold to wait around and our tempers cooled off, so we drove home.”

“What sort of SUV?” queried Barney.

“You know, one of those generic ones that look like every other one on the road.”

“So you didn’t notice the make or model?” prompted Zep and Teddy shook his head.

“About what time was this?” questioned Barney.

“Probably close to nine,” was the reply.

After a few more questions concerning his further movements and motives, Zep concluded the interview by closing the file in front of him. He stood, placed both palms on the desk, and leant towards Teddy. “We can’t book you for just thinking about grievous bodily harm, but you are still a suspect. Don’t leave the district. We will be looking further into the Snook family’s alibis.”

Immediately after the interview, Barney arranged for a patrol car to return Teddy to the farm. However he was to be dropped off at the farm gate to walk to the farmhouse, while the police car drove in and picked up both his sister and younger brother. That way there could be no communication between the siblings. Later, the story told by both in separate interviews varied little from their older brother’s tale. Neither of them could add anything further about a black SUV at Combley’s Bluff Point house, but both confirmed it was there.

#

Early that afternoon, before interviewing the highly capable law office secretary again, Barney checked the car registration database to discover that Beryl Downing owned a black Subaru Forester. Barney and Zep made the short trip, their second visit to the lawyer’s office in two days, to collect her. She was to be interviewed at the police station, where she would be far less comfortable in the unfamiliar surroundings of the interview room.

“Beryl Downing,” began Barney. “Two visits to Crazy Daisys’ car yard last week and three phone calls. All these while your employer, who is handling the case, was absent on holidays. Then Daisy himself is killed on Thursday night. Can you explain your personal involvement with the murdered man?”

The implied assumption sent the normally self-confident Beryl into mental turmoil. She stared vacantly for some time, with her mouth open. Eventually the tears welled up into her eyes. The two detectives waited as racking sobs shook her body. They let her go for fully five minutes before Barney handed her the tissue box. She took several at a time and tried to regain the composure she had shown in her professional capacity. Still sniffing, she began.

“Dave and I were lovers. We have been seeing each other for three months, all the time behind Glynn’s back. I would lose my job if Mr Foster knew that I was involved with his housemate, who is also a major client in the process of a divorce handled by the firm.

“I would meet him at the car yard when I knew that the partners were involved in court, out of town or having an extended lunch. I would take an early or late lunch break and close the office for a spell just so I could see Dave. I couldn’t go anywhere near their house for fear of being found out, so we used the car yard as a rendezvous.”

Barney and Zep mentally pictured the office at the yard. It was small and cluttered. She must have been stupidly in love, or lust, to meet there for a tryst.

“I tried to phone him again on Monday but the phone was switched off, so my call went through to message bank. Then yesterday you told me he was dead. I have been lost ever since.”

“Were you with Dave at his place last Thursday night?” asked Barney.

“No, no,” she blurted out. “I didn’t dare go near the house in case Mr Foster came home. We never met there.”

“Do you have anybody that could confirm your whereabouts on Thursday night?” continued Barney.

“No. I was alone at home that night,” she replied.

“And you didn’t go out in your car or lend it to anyone?” Barney pressed.

“No.” she sniffed.

“Tell me Beryl,” questioned Zep. “What do you think that Mr Foster would do if he found out that you and Dave were lovers?”

“I . . . I don’t know. He is normally so placid, but I do remember that one time he blew his stack when he felt betrayed. I suppose he might seek revenge.”

Zep glanced to Barney with eyebrows raised, to see if he had further questions. A single shake of the head was his reply.

“Thank you Miss Downing,” concluded Zep as he switched off the recorder. “I’ll arrange for a patrol car to drop you back at the office.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll walk back. I’ve a lot to think about to clear my head,” she mumbled as she walked unsteadily from the interview room. It was not the bearing of a confident secretary.

Barney turned to Zep. “If Teddy is telling the truth and a black SUV is involved, then Beryl or Steve Tipping both have those cars. Beryl has no alibi, and Steve needs to be investigated further.”

Chapter 17

Another Body – Wednesday Afternoon

“We have something from the bank accounts from Crazy Daisys that involves Steve Tipping,” Constable Ian Barrett said as he and Matt Winter dropped into the office just after Beryl left.

“Now that’s what I call a coincidence,” remarked Zep.

“Providence,” agreed Barney. “Ok let’s have it.”

“Steve Tipping wrote a $3,000 cheque to Daisys on the 31^st of May, and when it was presented to the bank more than a week later, it was dishonoured. Another one of that amount was banked by Combley on the Thursday 26^th June, the day that he was murdered. There may be a motive in that discrepancy.”

Another patrol car was despatched to bring in Steve Tipping. They were making a habit of it today, but the interview room was an unsettling environment for the suspects and the interview could be recorded.

“Steve Tipping,” began Zep, speaking sternly in bad-cop manner. “You failed to mention when last interviewed that you had a $3,000 debt to Crazy Daisys due to a bounced cheque just two weeks prior to him being murdered. At that time you also had the free use of one of his cars,” Zep stalked behind the seated suspect, slightly unnerving him.

“The day that you swapped his loaned car for another Kluger, in better condition than the one that you originally paid for, you paid him another cheque. This looks suspiciously like you had him over a barrel with that money.”

Barney kept quiet and observed his fellow team mate.

“It’s not how it seems,” pleaded Steve. “I gave him the cheque in good faith, to be drawn on a savings account. It was the deposit. The remaining $20,000 was under a hire purchase agreement. When we were car-jacked in Perth, we were without a car to get home and the immediate insurance claim would not help us because the car did not legally exist in the police records,” He sighed in frustration.

“We were forced to stay another night and then I managed to get plane tickets to get us home. For these I used my eftpos card figuring my wage would be covering the savings account. Dave’s cheque was banked at the time my account was below the $3,000 required to honour it, so the damn thing bounced.”

Mark’s gaze flicked from Zep to Barney and back, imploring them to believe his story. “Dave understood my predicament and said to bring another cheque in when I picked up my new car. The insurance would eventually reimburse me for the lost car, accommodation and fares to return home. Dave didn’t even worry whether or not the insurance would cover the loaned car. I was just caught short for a few weeks and he helped me through it.”

Zep looked at Barney, who nodded.

“Thanks for coming in, Steve,” finished Barney, amiably concluding the interview. “Catch you at training tonight.”

#

Minutes later, a call came through from the switchboard that had them rushing for the unmarked police car. Zep as usual took the keys while Barney grumbled about nepotism. Just because he was senior shouldn’t give him the right to drive the cruiser all the time. A body had been found on the beach at the mouth of the Chapman River just north of Bluff Point. It had them going at full speed, with lights and sirens blaring along Chapman Road, heading towards that location. As they pulled into the car park overlooking Sunset Beach, Barney complained, “Those four road humps are supposed to slow you down. My stomach is still stuck to the roof after the first one.”

“Toughen up princess,” laughed Zep.

Another police car was already there and there were two uniformed officers down on the beach interviewing a lone young woman. They joined them on the beach and looked around, but saw no sign of a body. The officers nodded towards a small pile of sodden clothing at the edge of the water. The gentle ocean waves now just lapped short of it. The receding tide had failed to push it any further onto the beach.

Barney squatted beside the thing and, with a ball point pen, tried to unravel some of the material. It was a thick yellow sou’wester coat that clung to all but one end. That end revealed the bloodied pulp of meat that was likely a human arm contained within the remnants of the plastic coat. He left it there and joined Zep and the two officers who were still with the woman.

She was in her mid-twenties, dressed in sports attire and beach joggers, with a set of headphones dangling around her neck, wired to a pouch that was strapped to her upper arm. She had obviously been out running along the beach in the late afternoon.

“As I was running I noticed a large flock of seagulls arguing over that lump of clothing,” she was saying as Barney walked up. “I could see no reason for this so I stopped and looked. Now I wish I hadn’t. It was gruesome. I could see there was probably an arm inside the thing, so I used my mobile to call triple oh.”

On the rise above the beach, the Forensic Branch land cruiser and the hospital morgue van had arrived together. The morgue staff came down the sandy track carrying a stretcher, closely followed by Dr Laura Chelva, the resident pathologist from police forensics. She was accompanied by two crime scene assistants.

She immediately inspected the remains. Seeing that little could be extracted from this as a crime scene, she had the lump put into a body bag and placed on the stretcher untouched. Her two crime scene assistants, the two stretcher bearers and the two uniformed police officers were divided, one of each into two groups. These groups were assigned the task of searching the beach in both directions to determine if there were additional body parts or evidence to be found. She didn’t expect to find anything as the ocean carnivores and the seagulls had most likely swept the place clean. But she had to be sure.

They all finished searching and left the site just on sundown, finding nothing further.

An hour later Barney and Zep called into the hospital morgue to get the initial feedback on the body, or parts thereof. She gave her preliminary findings on the arm positioned in the middle of the autopsy table.

“It appears that the rest of the body was probably attacked and eaten. The remains of the windcheater wrapped itself quite tightly around the arm, thus preventing it from being attacked by the predators. The hand was probably taken before this happened and the small open end from the shoulder downwards has been continually pecked by smaller vermin, but essentially the arm from upper forearm to wrist is intact.”

“How long ago?” asked Zep, trying to establish a time frame.

“It’s very hard to get a time of death. It was partly protected by the waterproof clothes, so it hasn’t been exposed to the ravages of salt water as much as could be expected. I can only say between four and seven days.

“And now for the interesting part. The forearm has quite a number of blotches along it,” she pointed to the surface of the arm. “I think they are burn marks, inflicted just before death. This person was tortured, so it looks like it could be another murder.”

“Two tortured victims,” Zep breathed out audibly. After the last few days, Barney and Zep were not surprised. This case had a way of twisting and turning in many directions.

“Ah, so now we have another set of questions that need answers,” Barney posed out loud to no-one in particular. “Is this the body of Glynn Foster, another victim of the Snook family, or is it somebody else and Foster is the murderer. Is he running around out there somewhere, stalking his next victim? Is it a crime of passion or the work of a serial killer? At least we can check this body’s DNA against Foster’s known DNA from his personal effects in his house.”

Turning to Dr Chelva he asked, “Laura, how soon can you check it?”

“I should have it within two days,” she replied.

Chapter 18

The Third Body – Thursday Morning

“This is Beryl Downing at the Geraldton Airport,” the caller identified herself. “I am on my way to stay with my sister in Perth for a while, until I sort myself out. It’s impossible for me to work, the way I feel. I gave your office my sister’s address and both our phone numbers and they gave me permission to leave Geraldton.”

“Thanks for ringing and letting us know,” said Zep.

“No, no. It’s not that,” protested Beryl in exasperation. “It’s Mr Foster’s car. It’s in the long term parking out here. I saw it as I passed it in the taxi. He must be in Perth, probably at his girlfriend’s place. Sorry, but I don’t have any address for you, as I told you yesterday.”

“Thank you Beryl,” replied Zep, and not knowing how to say “Get well” or “Get over it” in a way that didn’t quite sound condescending, he chose to just say “See you later.”

Barney and Zep took the trip out to the airport and for once Barney was allowed to drive the souped-up unmarked police car. “No siren and no lights,” stressed Zep firmly.

“Wuss,” quipped Barney.

Foster’s car looked like it had been there for about week, if the layer of rain streaked dust, blown in from the fields surrounding the airport, was anything to go by. There was no way of telling exactly. His parking docket, to be paid on exit, was not visible in the car, so was most likely to be in Glynn Foster’s wallet. The car was locked. He was just one suspect from a group of possible suspects, which was not enough reason to break into the car. Yet.

“If he is in Perth, then who is the body on the beach?” Zep thought out aloud.

“If he is the body, then who drove his car here?” countered Barney.

Interrupting their interacting thoughts, Zep’s phone rang. As he listened, his facial expression changed from calm listener to reactive concern. “Another body. In Beresford,” Zep repeated, turning to Barney.

Barney ran for the car, shouting back as he sped off, “I’ve got the keys. Shake a leg old man.”

#

It wasn’t very often that the forensic team were at the crime scene before Barney and Zep. As they drove up to the derelict house, with siren and flashing lights, their vehicles were already parked outside, waiting for the two detectives to check out the scene before they entered.

“Nice of you to finally get here,” said Dr Laura Chelva, sardonically, but in jest. “We have a crime scene going from cold to frigid. You’ll need disposables.”

The two late arrivals tossed their shoes into the car and stripped to the waist, donning the disposable full body coveralls, which included the hood. They zipped it up to the chin. They were happy to go through this process as it avoided dry-cleaning a smelly set, or burning a stinking set, of good street clothes. It also avoided excessively long showers.

The house in Beresford was in a state of total disrepair. Situated on the hillside in the old part of town, just north of the Apex Pioneer Park and the Marina, it had ocean glimpses. The land owners were in the process of demolishing it to make way for a new two story macmansion that would overlook the waterfront. Macmansions were designated as such after the fast food idea of throwing it together quickly and cheaply to look good at a minimal cost. Construction glitz and size was substituted for style.

The old building had remained unoccupied for some months, awaiting the bulldozer. The way it appeared now, the bulldozer would have very little difficulty pushing it over.

The front door was locked, but the rear door swung open to a slight touch. As they crossed the threshold, they heard the loud buzzing noise that sounded like a large swarm of angry bees coming from inside. The pungent smell of death pervaded the musty atmosphere.

“We only got the call and the address a few minutes ago,” was Zep’s token apology to Dr Chelva. “Did you hear who reported the body?”

“Anonymous phone call,” was the brief reply.

They found the body in a bedroom under a dark blanket of blowflies. As the flies were disturbed and flew off, they could see that he was lying on his back, fully dressed in a thick coat. The exposed parts, the head, arms and feet, were dripping maggots. The thick grey beard gaped opened at the mouth revealing blackened uneven teeth. The rest of the face was almost just a skeleton. The windows were either open or broken, so there was a continual movement of blowies flying in and out, one wave exiting as the next flew in to take its place.

“Whoever found this body would not be able to stay around for very long,” observed Barney looking around. “The sight alone is a nightmare.”

As they examined the room, they carefully looked for any indication of foul play.

“Ah-ha.” Zep stooped down and looked at the side of the bed and paused to stretch tight his rubber gloves. He picked up a syringe, and held it up to the light. It was now empty of liquid but showed remnants of a white crystal. “We have our probable cause of death; another one of the victims of that new batch.”

“That will be my job to decide, if you don’t mind,” asserted Laura Chelva testily, holding open an evidence bag for Zep to carefully drop in the needle.

“This is probably the ‘Dero of Gero’ feller who sold the heroin to the kids,” asserted Barney. “He meets the description perfectly.”

They systematically searched the rest of the house for other signs of habitation. They came across the drug paraphernalia on the kitchen table. The plastic packet described by the students as having five doses, still had one more teaspoonful inside, so at least they had now located the whole five doses from that batch. The important question was, is this the only packet in circulation?

In a corner beside the old kitchenette was a fishing tackle box on the floor and a small rod was propped against the wall. Zep opened the box and viewed the contents.

“This equipment would be way above the expense account for that old guy to afford,” he declared. “It’s probably stolen or appropriated when the owner wasn’t watching. A dedicated fisherman wouldn’t abandon this collection in a hurry.”

Barney was staring over his shoulder when he noticed a small scattering of loose fishing hooks and white powder in the bottom of the box. “That’s probably the same stuff. We can’t check for any chemical smell in this place. I’ll get Forensics to come and check it.”

Zep began to analyse the scenario aloud. “So either the box was used to carry the powder about, or the spillage is from a larger volume. The plastic packet looks like another of those fishing hook packets, hence the loose hooks at the bottom of the box. It seems that the plastic packet was filled from a larger source. That below is the spillage. The old Dero of Gero has stolen a drug haul and began to sell it off in small batches. I wonder where he hid the main supply?”

Barney interrupted Zep’s line of thought, “That’s if he still had the main supply. Perhaps the original owner caught up with the dero and retrieved his stash? Was the dero given a hot-shot? Is this another related murder?”

Zep glanced over at the fishing rod, and then back into the tackle box. “It may mean that there is more of that deadly powder on its way to the streets,” he declared grimly. “We need to find the owner of this tackle box and fishing rod. And fast.”

They called for one of the forensic team to leave the analysis of the body, and bring the drug testing kit and his finger-printing equipment into the kitchen. The technician scooped a small pinch of the powder into his testing capsules, shook them, and emphatically declared “Heroin.”

He then delved into the bottom of the box, as he assumed the owner’s prints would be there rather than those of the derelict. He worked carefully, getting three good prints from different plastic containers. He finally dusted the handle of the box and then the fishing rod. Since they had to be carried here, he assumed that the dero’s prints would be the last to be left on them.

Armed with the extracted prints, Barney and Zep headed for the police station so they could use the National Automated Fingerprint Identification System (NAFIS) to identify the owner. It gave an immediate hit. They themselves had entered the prints on that Monday. They belonged to Glynn Foster, the housemate of Dave C. It was Foster’s fishing gear. The dero’s prints didn’t produce a match, so the task of identifying the deceased would have to come later.

If Foster was alive, he was looking more and more like the murderer of two people, possibly three if the Dero of Gero was to be included. Plus there were the two school children just out of life support, almost killed by that heroin batch.

#

Back in the station, Constables Barrett and Winter were called into the detectives office with their telephone lists.

“Glynn Foster’s mobile, his incoming and outgoing calls?” requested Zep. “We didn’t discuss them yesterday afternoon. What have you discovered?”

“There were only a few calls during the week and the phone has been dead since Saturday. He apparently didn’t use it for talking to clients or for social media, just for family. He rang the office a couple of times, his brother on Rat Island twice early in the week, Sunday and Tuesday and his girlfriend three times. The last call from Foster’s phone was to that girlfriend’s number on the Saturday that Combley was killed.

“Her mobile phone is a pay-as-you-go chip with no address given. We asked her phone provider for a list of names and addresses, but they wouldn’t give out even the numbers without a specific court order. We got the writ by citing the death of David Combley as Foster’s housemate, his suspicious disappearance and a second tortured body on the beach. By late yesterday afternoon we were able to fax it to the phone provider. So we now have this list to and from the girlfriend’s mobile, but with just phone numbers.

“It’s quite an extensive document, but we selected the two most common numbers, because we assume that those will be family or work related on a mobile phone. We are waiting for the providers to supply us with the name and address of those two numbers.”

“Did anyone think of phoning the girlfriend?” Barney enquired offhandedly, and received a withering glare from both constables.

“Each time we phoned and identified ourselves as Geraldton Police she just hung up,” said Matt Winter.

“Did you try without identifying yourself,” asked Zep.

“When we didn’t identify ourselves she also hung up.”

“Let me try now,” said Barney optimistically, dialling the number and putting the phone on speaker-mode. The call went like this:

“Hello?”

“Who am I speaking to?” Barney asked politely.

“If you don’t know then there is no reason for this call.” CLICK!

“Testy little beast, isn’t she,” commented Zep. “Well, we know that she exists, so we may have to go and visit her.”

Looking at his watch, Zep continued. “It’s a bit late to head to Perth tonight so it will have to be tomorrow.” He paused for a brief moment, “Second thoughts. Why don’t I send you down there alone, and I am sure that there is an investigative journalist who would love to interview the friend of a missing murder suspect.”

“Weekend in Perth on the expense account,” crowed Barney gleefully. “And with a company car.”

“I’m afraid not,” grunted Zep. “There’s a lot happening here that we, or just me, being left behind, needs to get to, so the unmarked patrol car is out of the question. Perhaps the Geraldton Guardian will allow their journalist the necessary transport to investigate the matter. If she can arrange that, I’ll try to talk Superintendent Strickland into giving you a meal allowance and a simple overnight room. No promises. It’s more than we get when we both go south on police business. We usually have to pay for ourselves to have a night out on the town, but without the car, he may just agree. Perhaps it will either be room and board or one of the old paddy-wagons with no meal or room.”

“It can only be that one night,” grumbled Barney. “I have football on Sunday so I’ll need to be back and rested up by Saturday afternoon.”

“It’s alright for some,” complained Constable Barrett, with tongue in cheek. “We rarely get a trip to Perth, let alone one on the company.”

Petulantly he began to collect the phone lists together. “When the telephone providers come good, I’ll phone you with the addresses of the girlfriend’s family and her employer tomorrow. Either that or I’ll leave a text message on your phone.”

“Thanks,” said Barney, hastily grabbing his jacket on the way out. He was eager to talk to Carleen about tomorrow’s possible arrangements.

Chapter 19

Visit to Perth – Friday Morning

Carleen knew Perth just as well as Barney, having grown up in the leafy green suburb of Karrinyup. Her father was a surveyor in a large building corporation and her mother was an accountant in a local small bank branch. Carleen had attended Scarborough High School as one of the final graduating students before the school was bulldozed and sold for real estate as part of the government’s economic rationalism. A good academic result had won her a journalism cadetship into the state’s main newspaper, The West Australian. They had sponsored her to complete an arts degree at the University of Western Australia studying literature and history in a double major.

She also joined the Universities Tae kwon do classes and became quite proficient in this martial art.

Carleen spent four years in Perth with the newspaper, working with some of the best, learning her skills as a reporter and journalist. By this time she had completed her debt to the paper so she applied to move to Geraldton to further her career. Being among the enormous staff producing the multiple supplements of The West Australian, Carleen felt that she would be pigeon holed into one of the facets of analytical journalism, and left to vegetate there. She wanted to be a reporter too. So she resigned and applied to the Geraldton Guardian to be in a smaller staff with reporting duties too.

She also had another reason for wanting to leave Perth. One evening while travelling home to Karrinyup, where she still boarded with her parents, she was attacked on the railway station by a group of three youths. After she had permanently crippled one with a kick to his kneecap, broken the wrist of the second and left the third unconscious, she reported them to the police. The youths were initially charged with attempted assault, but Carleen wouldn’t press charges so they were not taken to court. However they all bore a grudge and wanted revenge for being beaten up by a small young lady. Carleen decided to get out of town to avoid the hassles, and Geraldton seemed to be a good career move.

#

Barney checked for incoming text messages as they drove into the northern suburbs of Perth. Carleen was driving the little 2006 Getz, emblazoned both sides with “Geraldton Guardian”.

She had managed to talk her editor-in-chief into the car for the Perth trip in the hope of getting an exclusive into the background of the missing Glynn Foster, murderer or victim. Because this was still restricted information gained from inside sources, the paper would not be allowed to publish anything until it was released by the Geraldton police. That was the agreement, but it didn’t hurt to be in at the ground floor, and build up to a big story.

On his mobile Barney saw that there was a message giving some details from Constable Ian Barrett, but he rang him anyway.

“The girlfriend’s workplace looks like it’s a repossession company operation in West Perth,” said Constable Barrett over the phone. “The company name is WHUPT for ‘We help u possess them’.” He gave the address. “The other number is likely the girl’s family in Swanbourne.” Barrett gave this address too.

The West Perth offices were just that; a set of offices in one corner of a second floor in a renovated building. They were shown in to the manager. Barney wrote down the number of the mobile that they were seeking, on a piece of note paper and displayed it to the manager.

“Can you tell me the name of this employee of yours?” he requested. “She’s the known girlfriend of a man who has been missing under mysterious circumstances in Geraldton for the last week. We need to find him.”

“That’s Elise Basini’s number,” the managed informed them. “She’s one of our field agents, but I don’t know whether she’ll be in the office at any stage today. She works mainly from her car and comes in when she has documents ready for us. I can ring her and ask her to drop in if it is important.”

“It’s very important,” Barney assured him.

The manager rang the number, which was picked up immediately. “Elise,” he began. “I have a Geraldton police officer in the office who’d like to talk to you about a Glynn Foster.”

“Too busy Boss.” And the phone went dead.

“Sorry about that,” the manager apologised. “She has always been very abrupt.”

“How about her residential address?” suggested Barney.

“No can do, I’m afraid,” the manager smiled weakly. “She has given strict instructions, and only a court order will allow me to release that information.”

With that source as a dead end, Barney and Carleen moved on to the address of the second possible mobile number. Outside the house in Swanbourne, Carleen urged Barney to let her take the lead in this interview. A slim, stately, middle aged woman answered the door, wiping her hands with a tea-towel. She looked inquisitively over their shoulders at their highly visible car in the street.

“Good afternoon Mrs Basini. My name is Carleen Camello and I am from the Geraldton Guardian,” she began as she showed her press credentials, and assumed that this was the mother. “Is your daughter Elise here? We would like to talk to her about a matter of life and death. This officer is Barney Merrick of the Geraldton police.” Barney produced his ID.

The woman blinked, paused and thought and finally opened the door wider. “Come inside.”

Carleen explained that there had been two murders in Geraldton during that week and Elise’s number was prominent in the telephone list of a missing man. They were not certain whether one of the victims was Elise’s boyfriend, but needed to contact her before the identity of the body was released by the press.

“Glynn was going to visit this week, but didn’t arrive,” confirmed Mrs Basini.

“Can we please talk with Elise before she hears the news from a heartless source,” suggested Carleen.

“She doesn’t live here.” Mrs Basini informed them. “She lives in a unit in Subiaco, but I think this kind of news would be best heard here, with me beside her. Glynn has been a regular visitor here too.”

“She’s refused to answer any of our phone calls. Perhaps if you call her, and explain that we must see her as soon as possible,” suggested Carleen. “Coming from you, it may get through to her.”

Elise’s mother rang and implored her daughter to come home and see Barney and Carleen. She explained that both were bona-fide officials trying to locate Glynn and they had to speak with her. Reluctantly, Elise agreed and said she would be there within the hour.

#

“Fozzy’s not in Perth and I don’t know where he is,” she sobbed miserably as she heard of the murders, and that her boyfriend could be one of the victims. “The last I heard from him was on Friday. His phone has been switched off since then.”

“That was the last time anyone has heard from him. What did he say?” questioned Barney.

“He told me his life was in danger and if anybody rang that I didn’t recognise, just hang up. It was a very brief call. I’ve been worried sick all week waiting to hear from him next. Now you say he could be dead,” and she burst into a fresh set of tears.

To interrupt her distraught display Barney asked. “What time on Friday did Fozzy ring?”

She stopped crying briefly, sniffed and answered with a sob, “Around mid-day.”

Barney went with an immediate follow up question, hoping she’d regain her composure, as he enquired, “Why have you got an untraceable phone?”

“I work as a legal secretary and field agent for a repossession company,” she replied with thinly controlled grief. “It’s my job to go out to the clients and confirm the owner’s paperwork. I then locate, identify and visit the property to be seized with the client. If that visit is still unsuccessful, I draw up the documents for the company’s lawyers to get the warrants from court.

“By visiting the property with the client it puts me into the spotlight as a persecutor. So my name is mud. I’ve had death threats and threats of physical violence. The job’s quite lucrative so is well worth the small risk.

From the tone in her explanation, the hardness and efficiency that she needed for her job was beginning to show.

“For this reason I bought a phone that had no traceable address. I’ve had it for two years now and just keep it topped up. Anyone can ring me and I can ring out, but it has no caller ID. I make a point of recognising the voices of the people the company puts me in touch with. I paid extra to the phone provider to have a security block put onto my call data. It’s always worked before.”

“Thank you Elise,” said Carleen. “You’ve been helpful. As a reporter you have my assurance that your story won’t be used until you’re ready to let us print it.”

“We’ll be in touch when the police have more information. Keep your chin up,” said Barney as they left her in the care of her mother.

#

Carleen drove them to the coffee shop overlooking Swanbourne Beach, and Barney rang Zep. As she ordered coffee and cake he wandered along the boardwalk, talking into the phone and taking in the scenery. The light afternoon sea breeze had broken up the surfing waves into a continuous rolling surge. A few families frolicked on the beach, but no-one was swimming in the winter chilled water.

“I’m pretty certain that Foster didn’t come to Perth. The girlfriend and he seem to be very much attached, so if he was here they would’ve certainly been in contact with each other. She says she hasn’t seen him and the last call he made was on Friday around mid-day.”

“Barney, are you standing in a wind tunnel?” interrupted Zep. Barney cupped his hands around the phone to protect it from the sea breeze, and kept on talking.

“The severed arm on the beach could very well be his. That makes the car at the airport a possible escape vehicle, used by the double murderer, who then took a plane out of Geraldton. I would suggest that it be picked up by forensics and searched for fingerprints and trace. While they are at it, they should also look for his sports cabin cruiser in the Marina and give that the once over.”

He joined Carleen who was sipping coffee on the terrace that overlooked the turbulent seas. Whitecaps marched towards them to be forcefully thrown onto the beach in a cracking crescendo all along their frontage. The mid afternoon sun was being enveloped by distant thick dark clouds rising out of the ocean.

“I was hoping to drop in to show you off to Mum and Dad in Karrinyup,” said Carleen. “But they are off on holidays in Sydney so we have a free evening. Let’s stay on the beachfront tonight, rather than in the city,” she suggested. “We don’t really need the clutter of people and the bustle of shopping.”

“Fair enough,” agreed, Barney. “The Ocean Beach Hotel is along at North Cottesloe and in mid-winter there’s sure to be rooms. I nominate you to phone and get us the accommodation while I see how good this left over miniscule piece of carrot cake really is.” As she rang, he observed the scenery, noticing the occasional jogger along the path on top of the dunes following the line of the beachfront road.

Ten minutes later it was arranged. They had a room with ocean views at the O.B.H.

“Tell you what.” Barney hopefully suggested. “How about you go and check us in, while I get my jogging gear on and go for a run along that foreshore path to Fremantle. I can finish at the O.B.H. on the return trip. It’s only about a ten k’s round trip and I should actually be at training tonight. I really need to loosen up after the long car trip this morning.”

Two and a half hours later both were enjoying an evening meal in the Blue Duck Restaurant above the North Cottesloe Surf Club. The windows protected them from the slight sea breezes, but the view through the clear glass overlooked the stormy sea rolling across the reefs, just fifty metres below. There was no sunset as the clouds had absorbed the golden disk some time earlier, leaving them watching the diminishing fiery glow above the darkening ocean. The lighthouse directly out to sea on Rottnest Island began its nightly vigil, flashing every few seconds.

With satisfied appetites, they wandered out into the cool night air. It was too early to turn in so they strolled south along the foreshore track towards Cottesloe Beach. On the footpath lit by nearby street lights, a chilly breeze was blowing from the ocean. Delighted with the company of each other, they strode out and quickly reach the Cottesloe Surf Club.

Down on the foreshore the lights out along the Cottesloe Breakwater Groyne enticed them to keep walking out to the end. Half a dozen intrepid fishermen were clustered towards the point, casting into the sheltered water of the breakwater or into the heaving seas on the other side. Barney and Carleen wandered up and inspected their catches.

Barney sniffed the fresh sea air. “Rain,” he stated, beginning to turn towards home. Carleen followed sceptically. Barney related a story as they walked back past the Cottesloe Surf Club.

“There was this Russian, a communist, named Rudolph who looked outside one day and called to his wife. “Helga. It’s going to rain.” She looked out and saw a cloudless sky.

“It’s not,” she asserted. But sure enough, within a few minutes, down came the rain.

“How did you do that?” Helga asked.

“Rudolph, the Red, knows rain, dear.”

Barney waited. And waited.

Carleen finally snickered, saying. “I tried to heighten your suspense but you were beginning to look glum. Okay Rudolph. Where’s this rain you sniffed.”

As they continued to retrace their steps along the foreshore path, the first spots began. A few dozen paces later and the skies opened up. They both considered running, but by the time the thoughts began, they were both saturated. They frolicked, skipped and laughed all the way back to the O.B.H. and were given towels in the foyer to sop up some of the excess water, before they made their way upstairs to their room.

Throwing all their wet clothes into a heap in the corner of the bathroom both stood together under the jet of the hot shower until all the coldness of the winter rain was washed from their bodies. The scented shower gel, the softness of gentle caressing and the heat of the water soon had an effect. Barney lifted Carleen from her feet and entered her immediately. She lifted her legs above to his hips so that she could hold him easier with her feet crossed behind his back. His thrusts were somewhat restricted through supporting her weight, but her thrusts were demanding. He shuddered and gasped and felt all weak in the legs, but she held on for a few second more, until she too came with loud whimpering moans. The warm water continued to flow across their bodies, until finally they both relaxed and stood in a tight embrace.

PART IV

Chapter 20

DNA Revelations – Saturday

Barney and Carleen drove into a wet and wind-blown Geraldton in the middle of Saturday afternoon. They had risen quite late after a cosy night listening to the wind and rain rattling on the windows facing the sea. They had awoken snuggled together, but the thrashing excitement of each other’s bodies had driven out any remnant sleep.

The roar of the ocean demanded attention and they managed to get in a brief swim in the spa-like churned waters in the semi-enclosed pool between the reefs at the North Cottesloe Surf Club. After a sumptuous hotel breakfast, the Geraldton Guardian Getz was pointed towards home. They arrived in Geraldton in the mid-afternoon, and both were too relaxed to think about any work for the weekend, until Barney made the mistake of phoning Zep’s mobile.

“It’s about time that you got back into town,” growled Zep. “Can you get to the office as soon as possible? We have work to do.”

“I’ve got Carleen with me. Do I drop her off first, or can I bring her?” requested Barney.

“Bring her in,” said Zep. “She can be trusted when it matters.”

As the two of them sat, Zep passed Barney a copy of the DNA report on the body in the sea. He read it aloud for Carleen’s benefit.

“The DNA of the body is not a perfect match for Mr Glynn Foster; however the STR analysis does indicate a close relative; a parent, child or sibling.”

“Fozzy’s brother Stan,” exclaimed Carleen.

“This shifts the whole focus from Foster as a victim to Foster as the prime suspect,” admitted Barney. “He’s slap bang in the middle of the three murders, and two near fatalities.”

“Three?” queried Carleen.

“We don’t really know yet whether the Dero of Gero was murdered, but he did have Foster’s fishing equipment with traces of drugs inside the tackle box,” replied Barney.

Carleen’s nose for a story kicked in, so she contributed to the discussion. “What we do know about Stan Foster is this. I did some research on Glynn Foster last week when Daisy was murdered. They are the only two children of a crayfisherman. Both parents died in a car accident on the road to Perth a few years ago, so both boys inherited an equal share in the crayboat. Glynn, or Fozzy as he’s known, preferred the confines of a law office, so gave half of his share of the company to Stan, in return for a quarter of the annual profit. So after taxes and Stan’s living expenses and a sizeable salary, Fozzy gets a nice extra income for doing no work.

“Stan is, or was unmarried, no visible prospects, lived on Rat Island during the season and has a house in Hillarys near the Boat Harbour in Perth in the off season. There’s no mortgage on the crayboat and a long lease on the hut at Rat Island. I don’t know much about his house in Perth, but rumours are it’s worth squillions and fully paid for. If Fozzy murdered Stan to inherit the lot, then why give him that quarter of the company in the first place?”

“Stan’s body was found on Saturday,” Zep spelled out. “And it’s been in the water for at least three days, so he wasn’t on Rat Island for the end of the cray season. If he returned early, we should be able to inspect the boat down in the Marina for possible clues. I also wonder where he garages his car when he’s out on the island. Perhaps Fozzy has it, but that seems unlikely. I’ll put out an APB just in case.”

#

Carleen was politely informed that she could not accompany them for further police investigation that day. She left in partial petulance, but also partly relieved to be able to get home and have a rest.

After ascertaining by phone that the Marina office was manned on a Saturday afternoon, Barney and Zep braved the elements as they dashed through wind and rain, from the car to the Marina Control building.

“Stanley Foster’s berth is number 143 over near the breakwater,” indicated the clerk on duty, pointing to a large wall map displaying the layout of the Marina. “That’s where we have started to allocate crayboats pens after the port pens were full. The Fosters preferred the Marina so they moved here.

“Stan sometimes lives on his boat Fizzogg, for a few days in the Marina when he’s onshore. He says it’s close to all the amenities like restaurants and bars, like living in a town house on their doorstep.

“Glynn Foster’s berth is number seventeen on the jetty just here. Glynn pays a premium because he can access his sports fishing boat quickly from the car park. We don’t usually keep tabs on who is in or out, but I did notice that Stan had arrived a few days before the end of the season, fully stacked with pots, so he must have finished up early.

“If he’s still messing around using his boat, he’ll be at his berth 143. However if his season is finished, his boat will probably be over in the port area, lifted out of the water and racked up for the off-season. Most boat owners do that so they can work on cleaning the hull and do some maintenance.”

Further investigation revealed that the boat was neither in the berth nor on racks at the port. There were several possibilities, but only one seemed logical. The boat was back at Rat Island, but was Fozzy on it?

Zep called through to the water police to see if he could arrange a trip out to Rat Island to likely arrest a double murderer.

“No problems Zep,” announced the commander of the Water Police. “As soon as the seas go down after this storm. The forecast predicts the end of it tomorrow morning, with seas abating enough to travel by Monday morning. We’ll be ready to go then. He should still be out there since small boats won’t be able to move in this weather.”

At least that freed Barney up to play on Sunday at the Recreation Ground.

Chapter 21

Railways versus Northampton – Sunday Afternoon

Two thirty at the Rec on a Sunday Afternoon.

This was the match of the round, a game between Railways sitting second on the premiership ladder and Northampton who were trying to consolidate into fourth position. Railways ‘Blues’ Football Club was a strong team and had been powerful for a few years now. Northampton ‘Rams’ Football Club was an up-and-coming side, buoyed up by a group of talented youngsters. The cream of this group was the young Aboriginal, Joey Collard, theoretically too young to be playing senior football, but he was strong for his age, real quick and highly skilful. He usually managed to slip out of the heavy crunches that were aimed to slow him down, but if he was caught he had the resilience to ride the heavy bumps.

Today Joey Collard would be targeted by three Railway’s taggers, opposition players who were to work in relay to keep chasing, tackling, bumping and in general preventing Joey free access to the ball. All three expected to be fully worn out by the end of the day, if they did their job right.

Playing on the opposition team, Barney Merrick did not expect Northampton would try to tag him personally. He had his occasional purple patches but could not sustain them. He expected he would encounter Joey quite often across the centre line, which was their common allocated area of play. Both had that explosive run out of the centre that could cut swathes through opposition defences.

The match settled into its rhythm and after the heavy first term, where both sides felt out the opposition, Northampton began to get some free run in the second quarter. Barney managed to get the ball in the centre, and was about to breakaway for one of his well-known dashes, when he heard a player converging from his left side. Before he could react the ball was actually snatched from his hands, usually unheard of in major football, and turning he saw young Joey Collard breaking away in the opposite direction. Worse still, he heard Joey’s laughter as he ran away. That cost a goal that Railways could ill afford.

Joey caught up with him some minutes later, saying, “Gotcha bro! My aging role model. You weren’t quite up to it that time.”

“Thanks mate,” Barney grinned at the taunt. “Next time kid,” he vowed to himself.

Northampton was three goals up by the half time siren.

The Railways’ coach wasn’t happy. He had a general grizzle to the three taggers, saying, “I know you’re all trying hard but I need more from you. Collard has been given way too much space.”

He then turned to Merrick. “Barney, I’ve seen you play a lot better. Your mind’s not on the game. If you’re going to just stand around the centre square, try to stand in Collard’s way a few times. At least that way you can make yourself useful.”

The comment stung Barney. He realised that he wasn’t thinking football, but was off in his own world of crime and passion.

For the first ten minutes of the third quarter Barney played well, but he also watched the pattern of play involving young Collard. He could see the Northampton blockers working hard to upset the taggers to free up Joey, so after seeing this repeated twice, he was ready the next time. As Joey ran around his protection pack there was Barney. With one solid front-on tackle, Barney had the ball and nothing between him and the forward line. One goal back.

As he ran back to the centre square, he asked Joey, “You okay?”

“Good one, bro,” was the quick reply.

A few minutes later, both were out on the wing alone. The ball was kicked to Joey’s advantage out in the open. He had the speed so could get there faster. It was bouncing towards the boundary, Joey in pursuit, when he visibly slowed. Barney passed him, scooped up the ball just inside the boundary and reversed the flow of play into the clear forward line. Another goal back.

Barney was curious about the lack of determination shown by Joey. That was definitely well out of character. As they both rested on the half back flank for Northampton, he asked in a concerned voice. “Why did you stop?”

Joey replied. “There’s a bloke on the fence near the boundary who is out to spear me. Tribal law. I have to avoid him.”

The rest of the game was evenly fought. Barney looked for the threatening spear attacker, but could not spot him. Northampton was just too good on that day and won by four goals. Barney was much happier with his second half, but was concerned for Joey Collard, as a football player and as a man, but also as a policeman.

#

At the conclusion of the match, Barney stayed beside Joey as both teams walked up the player’s race next to the grandstand and around to the change-rooms underneath. He was looking around for any sign of danger, but saw none. As they reached the visitor’s room, Barney told Joey to go in and get changed but to stay inside until he had also changed in the Railway’s room. Without a shower, just throwing on his civvies, he returned quickly. He sat on the bench as Joey finished dressing.

“Tell me what’s going on?” Barney asked, shifting to his concerned policeman manner.

So Joey told him the whole story.

They left together heading for Joey’s motor scooter, but while crossing the parking area, they were hailed in the distance by a Northampton player.

“Great game Joey. By the way, your scooter’s front tyre is flat,” he added.

Alarm bells rang in Barney’s head. The bike had been immobilised in an open space, an ideal place for an ambush. He immediately turned Joey in the opposite direction and headed for his own car. They sped from the ground to the police station, where he planned to send constables Barrett and Winter to collect the scooter, and be on the lookout for an Aboriginal with a spear.

“Not Sandy Comegain, again,” groaned Matt Winter.

“You know him?” asked Barney.

“He was the bloke who caused the disturbance at the bus station on Tuesday,” said Constable Ian Barrett. “He spent overnight in the cells for waving a spear in the bus from Carnarvon.”

This sent Joey Collard into a very agitated state, saying, “My Polly was on that bus. She hasn’t mentioned it on the phone. Did anything happen to her? I’ll kill him if he has.”

“Calm down,” soothed Ian Barrett. “He was stopped by the driver before anything happened. We picked him up and the bus continued to Perth. If your Polly was on that bus she went to Perth, unharmed.”

The two constables left in a small truck to collect the scooter. They returned without sighting Sandy and had the valve replaced and the tyre pumped up at the service station on the way back.

“Good as new,” said Ian Barrett.

Barney planned out the next sequence of moves for Joey. As he had just one week of the Tribal Law decision to run its course, he suggested the following. Joey had to go into hiding for one week. Since footy was a priority and his next Sunday’s game was in Northampton, he should play then. Barney’s game next weekend was on Saturday so he would be there on Sunday and with additional officers from Northampton.

If Sandy was sighted he would be detained on any pretext. Barney would also ring Mr Smith at Northampton and let him know that Joey was unable to be at work this week due to very pressing personal reasons. But he would certainly be there at football next Sunday.

“Now to get you into hiding,” he faced Joey. “Do you have any place in mind? Somewhere you’ll be safe, that Sandy won’t know about and shouldn’t find out about.”

“I know just the place,” replied Joey. “I’ll get some food and clothes together in Northampton, and disappear for a week. I’ll do my own training. Can you tell Mr Smith to pass that message on to the coach?”

“Right,” said Barney. “Let’s get you safely to Northampton.”

Chapter 22

The Place of Initiations – Sunday Night

Barney used the truck, with Joey’s bike still aboard, to transport him home. Zep stayed behind, and organised two other patrol cars to set up an RBT location on the main road north.

Their task was to stop every car heading to Northampton and determine whether Sandy Comegain was following. It was late enough after the football for most of the crowd of Rams supporters to have already returned home that way, so only a few strays would be expected. The RBT search might even be useful to warn-off a few more of the population from drink driving. They would set up at the Four Forty Roadhouse so that, if any drunks were arrested, their vehicles could be securely stored at the 24-hour petrol station, or they could make other immediate arrangements.

While Barney drove, Joey chatted about football and his aspirations for the AFL. Part way through the hour long journey, Barney interrupted with a problem that had been nagging in his mind for quite a time. “What if Sandy is already in Northampton, and has staked out your unit?” he asked.

Joey barely paused as he laughed and said, “That’s OK bro. I don’t need to go anywhere near my place. I’ll get everything I need from Old Bradley.”

“Who’s Old Bradley and can he be trusted?” enquired Barney.

“Old Bradley is the Elder of the Nhanta People in the Yamatji Tribe. He represents us in the Council of Elders, and he’s as sharp as a tack. He’s also my grandmother’s brother,” grinned Joey.

Having no bypass option, they drove up the main street of Northampton to the far end of town. Barney then circled a few back blocks and parked and watched and waited. They had picked up no tails.

“OK,” decided Barney. “Where do we go?”

“He lives alone in a cottage down that way by the new cemetery. He used to be a stone mason, and has a large old workshop next to his house. He’s never lonely because he is constantly being visited by members of his own big family as they pass through from Geraldton or Carnarvon. My family does too. Everyone wants him to move to be near them but he insists that he wants to stay in Northampton, and play in his man-shed. Can’t do much work now, but he’s happy there.”

Accustomed to many frequent visitors at all hours of the day, Old Bradley met them on the front veranda. In the glow of the single outside light, Barney could see a garden of stones. It was not a garden as such. There were no plants. But the front yard was scattered with small statuettes of animals, birds, nymphs and angels all apparently delicately carved from beautiful local stone. This was Old Bradley’s advertising display.

“Joey Collard. Well I never. You’re the last person I thought I’d see around here for a few weeks,” his voice was mellow but quavering as he threw out his welcoming handshake.

“Hi Pops,” was Joey’s delighted reply. He introduced Barney and they wandered in and settled into some of the numerous arm chairs.

Through his silvery beard and white hair, the bright eyes of the old man glowed intensely from his dark face. He wore a permanent smile.

“Sorry ‘bout that Council spearing decision I sprung on you,” began Old Bradley in a spurt of apology. “But it had to be done.”

“Gee thanks Pops,” was Joey’s amused but partly sarcastic reply.

“It had to be,” he continued. “It’s all about the traditional ways. If we aren’t seen to hang onto some of our ways we’ll lose all of them. I personally don’t agree with bride prices, or even spearings, but they’re part of the many tribal customs that we still need to share. With just white man’s law and customs, we would disintegrate as a people.

“There was also a rising friction between the Meekatharra mob and the Carnarvon mob because of you and Polly. That had to be nipped in the bud before some liquored-up hotheads started a brawl somewhere,” he said looking aside to Barney. “And then youse blokes would have to become involved.”

Barney nodded wisely, not wanting to interrupt the old man’s apology to his grand-nephew.

“And anyway, Sandy Comegain won’t be able to throw a spear. That Meekatharra mob are footy players, great ones too, so all they think about is kicking and punching a ball. Even Sandy was big in his day, nearly went to play in Perth. He’s only got that one shot at you, and you really are talented, so I took the chance that you could dodge it. To smooth everything over, y’see. So you’re now free to marry Polly.”

He looked sympathetically at Joey, who was seated opposite him deep in thought. There was a long silence. Finally Old Bradley spoke up brightly. “So what brings you to my door?”

Joey immediately lightened up saying, “I need a place to hide for a week, someplace Sandy knows nothing about. I was thinking about the place of initiations, the Cave of Bones known only to the Nhanta Tribe,” and in the way of giving Aboriginal directions he puckered his lips and slightly twitched his head westwards.

Old Bradley went quiet and sombre for a long time. Finally he just slowly nodded.

“Can I trouble you for some bedding and tucker too?” asked Joey deferentially. “I’ll pay you back later.”

“No need,” the old man said standing, initially unsteadily, and then moving around his cottage. “My compensation to you. There’s my good sleeping bag, just dry cleaned after we went bush camping last month. I can rustle together enough tinned stuff and packets to last you, Trangia stove, head light, spare blanket. You should be right for water.”

”Thanks Pops,” Joey moved over to him and hugged him. “I just knew you had your reasons.”

“And thanks to you too Joey, for not speaking out and dobbing me in to the Council,” replied Old Bradley. “If the Wongai Tribe knew that we were ‘lations, they would throw me out of the Elders for making a Council decision when I had a family interest in you.”

Joey collected his gear, unloaded his scooter and disappeared into the night. He was certain that he was not followed.

#

Meanwhile back in Wonthella, Sandy was spitting chips that his ambush at the Rec had been thwarted. He was now planning several other ways to ambush Joey. He would try to catch him at his apartment in Northampton, going in or out. He would try to get him getting on or off his scooter, going to and from the café. He would try to get him at training. There were ample opportunities spaced out during the week. But to get there he needed transport, so he explained all his plans in detail to his cousin Robbie Comegain.

“So cuz, you and I are going to be frequenting Northampton this week,” said Sandy. “I can put the tube of spears in the rear of the ute, ready for whenever we find the slippery bastard.”

This was the first that Robbie had heard of these arrangements, so spent a good five minutes in silence thinking of the dozens of different excuses that he could offer to avoid becoming totally involved. All of them seemed a little lame, when judged against helping a family member with a problem and also participate in a little excitement. So Robbie just sighed.

Chapter 23

Off to Rat Island – Monday Morning, 7^th July

The next day, in the short trip to the office of the water police, Barney and Zep caught glimpses of the ocean along the foreshore. This Monday morning began as a calm day, as expected. The storm had blown away, and just the occasional white caps on the surface suggested that sea had lost most of its venom.

They arrived at the water police office loaded for bear. Barney and Zep were wearing Kevlar vests underneath their normal casual street attire. Their side arms were conspicuously visible in the quick-access belt holsters at their waists. They had donned soft rubber-soled sailing shoes instead of their usual sneakers or street shoes in anticipation of the on-board travel in sloppy seas.

As they entered the water police centre, they noticed a strange stillness. Instead of the expected hustle and bustle of a large operational group, the office was almost empty, except for the commander and a lone radio operator. He stepped forward and began apologising.

“Sorry guys. An idiot in a small boat went out yesterday afternoon and has been reported as missing. Two people aboard. I’ve sent all available boats out to search, even commandeered a few and sent my office staff with them, all trained seaman of course. We’ve got two planes doing a grid search and a rescue helicopter is on standby. We don’t hold much hope as yesterday’s seas were abysmal. Its calm enough now for a small boat but they’ve been missing overnight. You’ll have to wait until we can get a boat freed up.”

Barney turned to Zep and suggested. “Fozzy’s boat?”

Zep reached for his mobile phone and rang the forensics branch. “Have you guys finished processing Glynn Foster’s sports-fishing cruiser?” He listened briefly then nodded to Barney. ”You have! The report is being sent through? Great. Thanks.”

He ‘thumbs up’ gestured to Barney, saying, “Let’s go.” Turning to the commander he excused himself and added, “I’ve done a spot of power boating so we’ll be okay. We’ll keep in touch by radio but do try not to warn anyone of our coming.”

“Good luck landlubber,” the final retort rang out as they strode for the door.

#

During the eighty kilometres crossing to Rat Island, Zep gave Barney a few lessons in the use of the navigating equipment. Zep had done a stint in the Fremantle Office of the Water Police and had attended several in-service courses on boating, just in case he could be enticed into joining the marine service. Barney was quite happy to have his attention drawn away from the rolling and pitching sea.

Glynn Foster had modified this sporting cabin cruiser extremely well for the open sea, knowing he would be using it on occasions to join his brother on Rat Island. He had spared no expense on the state-of-the-art navigation computer, with a screen display showing the current position, with overlayed access to very detailed digital maps of the coastline and the coral islands of the Mid-West Region. Zep showed Barney how to program a set course for a particular location. They looked in detail at the operation of the echo sounder that was used for depth readings and tried to use it to locate schools of fish. That attempt failed through a lack of experience in recognising the fish signals. Zep used the marine radio once to contact the Water Police to demonstrate to Barney how to use the equipment. He kept the conversation on the topic of the lost boat, just in case Foster was monitoring the police frequency band. The missing boat had not yet been found, but the call served to let the commander know they were in no trouble.

“We don’t know where the hut is on Rat Island, but we should be able to see the crayboat,” remarked Zep. “There were photos of it in Fozzy’s office so I think I can recognise its profile. When we get close enough to see, it’ll have the Geraldton lobster boat registration number GL5748 on the bows and Fizzogg across the stern.”

Barney considered some possibilities too. “Do we know if it definitely is on Rat Island, or is that the general address? I have heard there is a group of little islands nearby, all with settlements, that get classified as the Rat cluster.”

Zep pulled up the map of that region and they stared closely at the screen. “All huts are located on the sheltered east side of each island. There are settlements marked on the three small islands to the south of Rat. If we work our way up the eastern offshore channel we can check out Roma, Little Rat and Bushby Islands before we get to Rat. If he’s on any one of them, we should easily see the berthed crayboat.”

“Is the offshore channel safe for us?” asked a concerned Barney.

“It is used by big crayboats with twice our draught and we can forward monitor the depth as we go,” was the confident reply.

“I’ll locate the life jackets then,” grinned Barney.

#

They carefully navigated through the outer islands of the Easter Group of the Abrolhos to approach the relatively sheltered inner islands that contained the Rat cluster. The computer screen indicated that there were islands in front of them, but as they neared the expected location they could still see nothing.

“Where are they?” said Barney peering intensely into the west. “It’s not like there is poor visibility on this sunny afternoon. We should have arrived.”

Both men continued to stare until a transformation began. Within a short span of time the horizon assumed a completely different shape. It became squared boxes and gaps like the parapet of a mediaeval castle. They were now looking at huts sitting on the waterline and they were fairly close. The island was almost at sea level, but the buildings gave it height. They had reached the settlements of the Abrolhos.

For twenty minutes, doing a very sedate four knots, they navigated carefully up the inside channel, staring intensely at each long jetty, house and surrounds to find any sign of a boat or life. The diesels, capable of propelling the boat over twenty knots, struggled to burble along at four knots. On the three small islands, there was no movement visible, just the forty or so huts and twenty long jetties reaching out to the channel, all of which were now abandoned for the off-season. So they cruised on northwards to inspect their primary target, Rat Island.

In the final approach to the island Barney looked at the fuel gauge, and startled, he drew Zep’s attention to it. “We are down to under twenty percent in the tank. That won’t get us back home.”

“There will be plenty of fuel on the island. It’s a working base for crayboats.” Zep said confidently as he glanced briefly down at the instrument panel. “So stop panicking and go back to observing the shore.”

Rat Island is just less than two kilometres long and to make sure that they didn’t miss anything, the boat was slowed to just three knots. They moved in as close to the end of the numerous jetties as they dared. Each set of wooden pylons, linked by heavy planks, extended out over the shallow coral into the deeper water.

The prefabricated buildings were usually constructed of fibro walls with corrugated iron roofs, and probably had a timber frame. Most retained the dull grey of the fibro-cement, but a few had been painted with the pastel shades of yellow, blue or green. In between the shanties were the dark greens and bright blues of canvas and tarpaulins covering the makeshift storage sheds, water tanks and generators. Most rooves had a TV antenna and some also had a satellite dish. A large proportion of huts even boasted sets of solar panels, to power small water distillation plants as well as supplement the island’s diesel electricity generators.

They had covered half of the length of Rat Island when Barney pointed. The hut looked deserted just like every other one. Zep stared intently until he too noticed it. The round, iron chimney had a small trail of smoke that was light and wispy, but definitely there.

“Keep moving,” said Zep thoughtfully. “We will locate the crayboat and return to that place, coming overland. No sense in landing on the jetty and spooking him away. He could hide forever among this warren of shacks.”

Five hundred metres further on, completely out of sight of the heated hut, they found the larger jetty of the general store. Large fuel tanks with both petrol and diesel on the shore, and a modern bowser situated on the wharf, indicated that this was the island’s refuelling depot too. Further north, at the most distant jetty, they could glimpse the shape of a crayboat sheltered behind some processing sheds. They tied up at the diesel pump and prepared for their landward assault on the killer’s likely locations. They would refuel later, after they had captured their prey.

The crayboat was ruled out first. The Fizzogg was deserted, so that left the smoking hut as most likely refuge. The buildings on the coral island were all interconnected by a wooden boardwalk near the shoreline and a crushed coral road along the rear of the settlement. Barney and Zep opted for the road as it seemed to offer more cover for their approach to the heated hut.

“This fellow is likely armed,” whispered Barney. “He has probably killed Daisy with the gun, and maybe his brother too. We had better go in prepared, with weapons drawn.”

“And damn the firearm’s paperwork,” finished Zep.

The shack was one of the oldest, a small weatherboard construction with a corrugated iron roof. It seemed just big enough to contain two rooms, as was suggested by the pattern of horizontal slit windows high up near the roof. The windows were small, probably to allow them to withstand the high winds, keep the heat in during winter and especially the heat out during summer. The rear door was boarded up with planks nailed across the door, leaving the front door as the only viable entrance.

Barney and Zep both sniffed the high odour of diesel fuel as they neared the door, but were too intent on their silent approach to look for its source. Barney tested the handle. It was unlocked. With weapons drawn at the ready they barged in, both shouting “Police don’t move,” and quickly moved to either side to avoid being silhouetted in the doorway. The self-closing door swung back into place and the lock clicked shut. There was no handle on the inside. Their wide eyes met as they both glanced at the bare timber where a door knob should have been.

The room was cold, dusty and barren. Only the fireplace showed any spark of life. There was nobody home.

A loud clunk on the other side of the door announced the presence of somebody just outside. Then followed the sound of a hand operated pump and liquid gushing onto the walls, moving around the hut.

“You two are trapped,” called a strong determined voice from outside. “You have two minutes to surrender or these walls soaked in petrol will be lit. There is a trench of diesel around the house that will also ignite so there is no way out for you killers. You may try to shoot your way out but there’s now a cross-bar on the door. The windows are too high and too small and the walls are tough jarrah, but they’ll burn beautifully. Cooking you two bastards will be my pleasure after you killed my brother. If you don’t throw your guns through the windows I will light up in ninety seconds.” There was a hint of anticipated joy in the voice.

Barney and Zep stared at each other. This was different.

“We are police officers,” Zep spoke loudly and calmly. “You saw our police issued side-arms as we entered the house.”

“No I didn’t,” answered the voice. “I was in hiding until I heard the door click.”

“We didn’t kill your brother,” continued Zep. “We are here to arrest you for that and also Daisy’s murder.”

“He was killed by two men who boarded my boat. I saw you both arrive on my boat. How can I be certain you are police?”

“We have ID and badges and the arrest warrant,” Zep spoke out, still maintaining a calm even voice.

“Throw them and your guns through the front window,” the voice outside appeared calmer, but still added. “You now have sixty seconds.”

Both detectives had been wandering about the inside looking for options. Barney looked at Zep and shrugged his shoulders. “If he isn’t telling the truth, and he really is a psychotic killer, we’ll be barbecued quite soon.”

Barney stood on a chair and tried to look out through the front window, but could see nothing. Zep handed him his gun, badge and ID wallet with the arrest warrant folded inside. Barney added his to the collection and threw it outside, away from the house, hoping it would not fall into a trench of smelly diesel.

After a small amount of scuffling outside, Foster called out, “Are you really Merrick from Railways Footy Club? Show your face at the front window.”

Barney stood on the chair so that his face was at the window. He saw a man come into view and stare intently at him.

“It’s really you Barney Merrick. And I assume that other bloke is Marcon. I’ve often seen him in the courthouse, but we’ve never met. Just a minute and I’ll let you out.”

The cross-bar was lifted and the door opened. As Zep walked calmly out to Glynn Foster, he spun him round, pinned him to the wall of the hut, and patted him down.

“You’re under arrest,” stated Zep.

Barney moved past them and collected the pistols and their police equipment. Luckily they had landed on hard dry coral so were relatively clean. As Zep released Foster, Barney offered, “Should I cuff him? If he’s innocent we can release him later. After all, he did threaten to roast us alive and scared the shit out of us.”

“Leave him be for the moment,” replied Zep. “I want to hear his story.”

Chapter 24

Fozzy’s Story – Monday Afternoon

The three of them walked along the boardwalk past two huts, to a third, where Fozzy opened the door with the “FOSTER” plaque attached. The plain exterior belied the richness of the interior. The place was very comfortably set up for the many months that the working men endured, lacking almost nothing that would be found on the mainland.

Fozzy had been using this for almost a week. He explained that he had set up that small wooden hut as a trap in case someone came after him.

“The paths and entrances to that building are highly visible from here. In any case I saw you cruise past so I knew when to expect you. The small smoking fire was arranged to give off smoke and lure any pursuers inside the building, where I had organised to spring the trap,” Foster sounded pleased that his planning had worked perfectly.

“I intended to disarm my brother’s killers, use their own guns, and tie them up using these cable ties. I was then going to hand them over to the police. If they failed to surrender I had no qualms about striking a match. I saw what they did to Dave Combley and I expect they had treated Stan the same way.”

Fozzy pulled a small pocket book from under the bottom pot in the cupboard, saying, “I started a diary while I hid out on the crayboat. I kept it hidden inside the boat’s logbook just in case they found me first. That way I would leave a message behind so that if they got me, they would still be punished for my death, and those of Stan and Dave as well.” He began reading, further elaborating in some places.

“26^th JUNE a.m.: I was coming in from pulling my pots in the morning, when I saw a cabin cruiser in the distance heading out from the town boat ramp. It was a small boat so it was probably a pleasure trip or some fishermen. I didn’t recognise either of them from that distance, so I reckoned they were new to the town. I waved all friendly like, but they totally ignored me. Not a very friendly lot.

“26^th JUNE p.m.: That afternoon I was doing a spot of fishing from the northern breakwater of the Marina when my brother Stan’s big cray-fishing boat pulled into his permanent berth in the Marina some distance away from own little cruiser. He usually lives on Rat Island out on the Abrolhos during the rock lobster season, but was back in Geraldton for something or other. He had all of his pots stacked on board so he had probably finished work for the season. The cray season was closing in four more days, on the 30^th of June.

“I packed up my fishing gear and strolled around the Marina to say g’day and find out why he was back so early. I got to his boat but it was already deserted. His two deckies had already taken off. They were the two young Clarke brothers, Paul and Nathan, who lived with their folks at Horrocks Beach, so they’d probably gone home until required later for boat maintenance. Then I noticed that Stan was across the bay, getting onto my cruiser. I was quite a distance away but I saw these two men get aboard and then push him down below deck.

“The bastards then took off out to sea in my boat. I watched them for a time and it seemed to be heading for my usual pots area. I didn’t know what to think. So I grabbed a beer from the fridge, sat in the bridge and waited. Two hours later they returned, but without my brother. There’s nowhere they could have left him other than out in the ocean. I kept out of sight until they had gone, then got into my cruiser and took off in that same direction to see if I could locate Stan in the water. I hoped he was left alive. I didn’t find him.

“My brother and I are quite alike, although he is a year older than me. Those blokes had singled out my boat and grabbed him because he was on it, and looked like he was me. I was scared. Someone was hunting for me and had likely killed poor Stan instead.

“27^th JUNE all day: I hid on the crayboat for a day. The radio wasn’t working in it, so I presumed that’s why Stan didn’t contact me before arriving. It’s probably why he came to the mainland earlier than usual. I rang my girlfriend, Elise Basini and said someone was trying to kill me, so that if anyone rang her looking for me, hang up and tell them nothing.

“28^th JUNE early a.m.: That next day, at around two in the morning, I got my car from the parking area and drove home. I share a house with Dave Combley, and that keeps the costs down. We do our own food, but share the rent and utilities.

“I thought he wasn’t home at first. Then I found him, tied to a chair, tortured, with a bullet in his brain. He’d been dead for a day or so. The blood over his face was congealed.”

“We know all about that,” interrupted Barney. “It’s why we were chasing you.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” insisted Glynn Foster.

“Go on,” urged Zep.

Foster continued. “I was now scared shitless. I was probably next on the hit list. I grabbed as much food as I could find; most of mine and some of Dave’s. I took what I could from the fridge that would last for a time out of the cool. The night was pretty cold so I knew it would be alright for a few hours until I could refrigerate it again on the boat. I threw it all into an army swag, and put in some clothes as well.

“I drove the car out to the airport and parked and slept until dawn in a visible spot in the long term parking. I figured when the car was found it would be assumed that I’d taken the flight to Perth. It was Saturday and the first fly-in fly-out mine site flight came in around six in the morning, so I joined the incoming FIFO miners and used the airport shuttle bus to get back to the bus terminal in town. They were all non-local miners in rental units in town, so no one knew me. I was terrified that I would be seen walking the two hundred metres back to the boat, but I made it. I thought about ringing the police, but by then my batteries were dead and I’d forgotten to grab my charger. It was still at home.

“3^rd JULY: I stayed on the boat for another four days until I knew that most of the huts on Rat Island would be empty. I was petrified and dare not show my head above the deck in case the killers were watching the Marina. I did sneak into town on a couple of dark nights to a late deli and bottle shop to get a few extra supplies like tinned stuffs, dehydrated milk and beer. On the fifth day, I started her up and took off. I have been hiding out here ever since. No phone. I intended to stay here for some weeks before venturing back to Geraldton, or perhaps to Dongara instead.”

Fozzy snapped the book shut and continued.

“I hadn’t expected my own cruiser to arrive here at the island. When it did, all I could think of was the last time I saw it being used was by those men, and then Fozzy disappeared. I assumed it was them again. I couldn’t see you clearly from inside this hut where I was hiding, so I didn’t see any police paraphernalia. I had hoped it wouldn’t happen, but your arrival was expected and well prepared for.”

“We almost didn’t make it,” Barney told him. “The fuel gauge is well down under a quarter of a tank. Zep said there had to be fuel here for the boats. We berthed at the bowser.”

“Yeah, up near the store, but everything has closed now. It’s usually run by a crayman’s wife. Everyone’s gone to the mainland, but luckily the bowser is still in operation. It’s a credit card pin-number operated, but you have to start the generator first and wait until it logs in. The store even works on eftpos by satellite link. All the mod cons for these cray fishermen.”

“Right, time to go,” announced Zep.

“How about something to eat before we hit the great ocean road?” interjected Barney.

“Beer in the fridge, or tea or coffee with powdered milk,” Fozzy listed. “Tinned ham sandwiches or vegemite or peanut paste, with the last of the week old bread. No crayfish mornay I’m afraid. The deep freezer goes off when the island’s generator shuts down, and the two-way fridge hasn’t got a very good freezer.”

“Two-way?” queried Barney.

“Yes. Bottled gas, or using the island’s electricity, but that was switched off last week. We’ll have to switch it on to pump diesel for my boat.”

“Which boat are we taking back?” enquired Fozzy, as they sat to eat.

“We’ll use the cabin cruiser,” decided Zep. “It has a working radio. The heavier ocean-going crayboat left here will be better able to weather any storm, until we can get someone to pick it up.”

Fozzy offered some local advice. “The airstrip at the south end of the island has a couple of cars and a few trucks parked in a hanger there. If you arrange to get keys from the Geraldton Airport Freight Company it’ll save somebody a two kilometre walk over rough coral track.”

They ate a leisurely lunch, knowing they had plenty of time to reach mainland by nightfall. A following breeze might increase the swell but it would help their speed.

#

“Excuse me fellas.” Fozzy said rising from the table, “I have to do a bit of stuff to winterise the hut after my time in residence. You never know how hard the cooler months will hit out here. I gotta make it liveable for the start of next season.”

Fozzy fussed about the hut for fifteen minutes. His brother’s working gear was still here and so was all of the Clarke brother’s bedding and equipment.

Food scraps were placed in a bag for disposal into the water for the fish, and all paper, plastic and tins rubbish were dumped into a solid garbage bin outside, for transport later to the mainland. The gas bottle was turned off, the fridge cleared out, dishes done, beds made and windows locked down. He grabbed his army swag and joined the two detectives waiting outside.

As they wandered along the boardwalk for the half kilometre that would get them to the store and fuel depot, Fozzy engaged Barney in their common favourite subject, “Who won last Sunday’s game at the Rec. Did we beat Northampton?”

“Afraid not,” sighed Barney. “Their young guns got the better of us that time. So how long have you been a Railway’s supporter?”

“My folks had a house in Beachlands, so we kids grew up near the Recreation ground. We used to go there for kick-to-kick with the rest of the local lads until the local council started to lock the gates during the week. We still managed to find holes in the fence.” He wiggled his two index fingers in the air to emphasise punctuation marks as he said the words “find holes”.

Suddenly there was a burst of automatic gunfire.

Chapter 25

Conflict on Rat Island – Monday Evening

The rapid fire shots came from the direction of the sea. Barney was hit twice from side-on across the chest, spinning him around and dropping him over the back of the boardwalk. Zep spun to face the ocean pulling his weapon, but he too was hit in the lower chest and upper arm. Bleeding, he also toppled backwards away from the sea side of the boardwalk. As Fozzy saw Barney and Zep were both hit, he immediately dived off the planking and scrambled across the coral between two huts.

Barney and Zep lay sprawled in the shelter behind the timbered boardwalk. Both were having trouble breathing.

“You okay?” wheezed Barney.

“Yes thanks to the great God Kevlar,” winced Zep. “The arm is just a scratch, deep, but I’ll live. My backside hurts more from landing on this sharp coral.”

“You’re soft,” grinned his partner. “Still got your weapon? Can you see them from where you are?”

Zep nodded and risked a small peek from behind an upright pylon. “The boat’s in the open between these two jetties. It looks like they are sorting out ropes ready to dock at the left hand jetty. They were cocky; assuming their first combined burst of firepower would get us. Those two guns sounded like those fully automatic pistols from the Fremantle job.”

“They did get us,” grunted Barney. “Down but not out. Are you ready to return fire?”

Zep replied, planning their response, “I’ll fire at them to get them down while you go for the waterline at the back of the boat and the motor. Anything up to ten centimetres above water line at the side-rear will leak as soon as the boat takes off and digs the props in. Three, two, one. Now.”

The fusillade was quick, and shocked the two would-be assassins into diving for cover. The motor roared as their boat powered headlong out of sight behind the next jetty.

“Three into the near waterline,” declared Barney. “But I couldn’t see the motor as it was an inboard.”

“Let’s move along further and make sure that they keep moving,” suggested Zep, as he crept along the sheltered side of the woodwork.

The boat was still lingering there, but it had pulled further out to sea, and it was now facing away from them, almost out of the pistol range of both parties. One of the men was leaning over looking at the holes in the back of the boat. Zep took careful aim over the extreme distance and another hole appeared in the hull but half way up the rear of the boat. That convinced the killers to give up. They took off seawards out of range, and then slowed and turned in a wide arc to the south.

“They definitely didn’t expect armed resistance,” murmured Barney. “It does look like they aimed to kill both of us but tried to miss Fozzy. They must want him alive.”

“Where’s Fozzy?” enquired Zep looking about.

“He dove between those two huts back there,” replied Barney. “He got out of harm’s way real quick.”

For the next fifteen minutes they searched everywhere in the vicinity, but Fozzy hadn’t gone into hiding. He had fled.

“The boats. The crayboat,” called Barney as he took off towards the north end of the island. “He won’t want to use his own cabin cruiser if it’s nearly out of fuel.”

Zep followed, feeling the pain in his bruised rib. Perhaps it was cracked. And his backside really did not want him to run fast. He ran uncomfortably after Barney, along the undulating boardwalk between deserted shanties and the placid ocean, over the uneven ground that crossed piles of rough broken coral.

As Barney reached the vicinity of the northern jetty, he saw the stern of the Fizzogg moving away from him. He called out, but he wasn’t heard over the roar of the motor that was under strain to develop the maximum speed in the shortest time. Fozzy was headed north towards the Wallabi Group of the Abrolhos Islands, where there were dozens more of places he could hide out.

Zep arrived wheezing and looking quite ill.

“Hold on old boy. Stop right there.” Barney could recognise the symptoms of a cracked rib. He had experienced it once himself on the football field, and had seen others with the same problem. The team medical staff always recommended patient immobility until it was ascertained whether there was a punctured lung, or a possibility of one. Only the foolhardy or stupid players, continued on regardless. Barney lifted Zep’s Kevlar vest and tenderly ran his fingers around the growing bruise. His partner sucked in air and winced. The rib appeared to be intact, but it might still have a hairline crack. He also wrapped a handkerchief around Zep’s bloodied arm as a temporary measure.

“Doctor Merrick recommends total bed rest for you for a week,” he pronounced, grinning and Zep grunted in pain.

“Piss off Barney. We got things to do, a felony boat to report, a fugitive boat to chase, fuel to collect.” He gasped as he staggered off towards the fuel depot, and to the radio in the cabin cruiser.

While Barney struggled with the intricacies of the refuelling, Zep climbed into the cabin cruiser and radioed the water police. He gave details of the assassins’ boat which they noticed heading in a southern direction. He warned that they were armed with machine pistols, and prepared to use them. Next he gave the description of Foster’s crayboat, last seen heading towards the northern groups of the Abrolhos Islands.

“The airport tells us we can only have one rescue plane to put into the air,” the commodore informed him. “For this morning’s search we diverted a volunteer private plane for a few hours, but the owner has now flown on to Morawa. The Search and Rescue pilot is just about buggered. He has been out all morning since sunrise, and then most of the afternoon.”

“Did they find the missing boat?” enquired Zep.

“No,” was the disappointing reply. “They covered the whole area but found no trace. They called it off an hour ago. I’ll send him out as soon as he refuels.”

Thirty minutes later, in pursuit of Foster, they headed away from Rat Island in the Easter Group, north across the turbulent open ocean between the main island chains of the Abrolhos. As Zep steered, Barney dressed his bullet wound using the boat’s medical kit. The computer chart of the Wallabi Group to the north, suggested that Pidgeon Island was the most likely destination, so they decided to head that way until the spotter plane could be allocated to the crayboat search.

#

It was less than an hour before sundown and they hadn’t sighted the Fizzogg. The sports cruiser should have had the closing speed, but the crayboat had the head start and an unknown direction. The commodore radioed back to say the plane had just sighted the villains leaving Bushby Island and heading for the mainland. “Did you get their registration number on the front of the boat?” inquired the commodore.

“We were too busy dodging bullets and returning fire to take in the scenery,” apologised Zep.

“No matter,” grunted the officer. “The water police will lay in wait for them.”

“I wonder how they plugged the holes,” mused Barney. Zep laughed but stopped as he grimaced in pain.

“We are terminating this search forthwith,” declared Barney. “The plane can find him tomorrow morning. I’m going to get you to the hospital before you collapse. Then it would have to be me that has to give you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”

“Yeah, right. And that’s going to happen,” smiled Zep sweetly and puckered his lips.

#

The night was almost pitch black, with the lunar cycle nearing its darkest new moon phase. They were some ten kilometres out of Geraldton and looking at the on-screen navigation map, when Barney queried their course, “Do you know how to get into the Marina at night?”

“This screen shows all the rocks and reefs, so if I take it slowly, I should have no problems. The first rocks begin around eight kilometres out. So I guess we’d better slow down to around eight knots.

They crept towards the coast, with Zep keeping one eye on their own course plot on the screen and the other on the locations of rocks and reefs shown on the screen. Barney stared ahead into the poorly lit night, seeing dark shadows loom as the occasional large waves surged toward them. He was too concerned to even think about his normal queasiness in a pitching boat.

When they had achieved a position that was about four kilometres out, they were congratulating themselves on having achieving the first part, when a moving dot appeared on their radar screen. A large boat loomed suddenly out of the gloom, and a powerful searchlight flared and pinpointed them.

“Armed police, don’t move,” was a dreadful noise screeched through a megaphone.

Barney and Zep blinked into the light like animals caught in car headlights seconds before they became road kill. At this distance they dare not make any move, even to reach for their badges. They put their hands into the air and waited for the Water Police to come alongside.

“Senior Detective Zep Marcon and Detective Barney Merrick,” Barney hollered forcefully when the police were in hearing range.

“Stay right where you are. Keep your hands well above your heads, away from your holsters,” loudly demanded one officer as three water policemen boarded with service weapons drawn and pointed. “Now, one at a time, slowly get your warrant cards out and show me.” They did.

“We’ve got the wrong boat,” the water police officer called out to his patrol boat, after he had inspected their ID’s.

“Damn,” said the boat’s commanding officer.

“Damn,” said Barney and Zep simultaneously.

“So you missed the other boat?” groaned Barney.

“You were the only one approaching Geraldton,” came the reply.

“Perhaps they didn’t make it with your bullet holes in their hull,” Zep considered hopefully. “With this darkness, we can only wait until first light tomorrow to search for them.”

Chapter 26

The Crayboat Returns – Tuesday Morning

Alone, and hoping for a quiet day in the office, with Zep under doctor’s orders to take it easy for a couple of days, Barney was surprised when his partner walked in mid-morning.

“Got bored at home,” he grumbled. “I can sit here just as easy.”

“Good. You can do some phoning for information. We’ve got the identification on the Dero from Gero. The garbage truck did its Tuesday morning run in the laneway behind the restaurants along the CBD. When they moved a dumpster, they noticed the Dero’s shopping trolley behind it. Carleen’s news story in Monday’s paper on the body of the unnamed itinerant rang a bell with the garbo, so he phoned us.”

“I wonder why he left it there. Why not take it to his sleeping digs,” pondered Zep.

“I’m guessing that he couldn’t be bothered pushing it all the way to Beresford each night so just hid it there overnight. Nothing valuable in it. It’s with forensics now, but I don’t think we’ll find much, although he did leave his wallet in the bottom of it with a couple of papers in it. He kept his few dollars in his pants pocket.”

“Who is he?” asked Zep.

Barney flipped open the wallet on the desk, saying, “His Social Service card says Luke Blundell of Beachlands Caravan Park. No driver’s license or credit cards, just an old football ground ticket and a packet of roll-your-own cigarette papers. Not much to show for a full life.”

“Right,” announced Zep. “I’ll get on to Social Security, while you check out the Beachlands Caravan Park. Use the patrol car, but no lights or sirens.”

Barney was back forty minutes later and related his story. “The manager of the park says Blundell owned an old caravan and had lived on site there for five years, paying the site fees, usually late. There was a small fire in the rear of the van about six months ago, presumably from him smoking in bed. He was always smoking heavily. There was enough damage to render the van unusable and unrepairable. It was not insured so Blundell left and never came back. The manager had the caravan removed to the tip after four month’s unpaid fees.”

Zep’s turn. “Luke Blundell came onto Social Security’s books about six years ago as an unemployed shearer. He was as regular as clockwork turning up in the dole line for his fortnightly cheque. His paperwork said he was born in Katanning in the late seventies. He claimed to have no living family.”

The telephone rang and Zep picked it up.

“Mr Marcon this is the Marina Control. You were in here last Saturday afternoon enquiring about Mr Foster’s crayboat. It wasn’t here then as I recall, but it has turned up overnight.”

“What!” exclaimed Zep and winced when he reached too quickly for his coat. “We’ll be right there.” Hanging up, he called to Barney. “Marina. The crayboat is back.”

Bypassing the Marina office they drove straight around to the breakwater side and walked hastily to the crayboat at Zep’s limited pace. It appeared to be no different from when they had boarded her yesterday, while searching for Fozzy on Rat Island. They gave her the once over and searched for any sign of where Fozzy may have disappeared to. Then Zep rang forensics and requested a full check over the entire crayboat. “Be on the lookout for any signs of drugs,” he instructed. “We still need to find the source of the heroin.”

“So he’s back in town,” commented Barney. “Where do we start searching?”

“Shall we discuss it over lunch?” grinned Zep. “I’m on sick leave and not supposed to be running around and working according to my doctor, but I have done a half day’s work already, and I’m buggered.”

This lunch break idea was way out of Zep’s character, so Barney took full advantage of a mid-day repast. “Great. I’ll ring Carleen. She may have some investigative ideas too, and I need her to make a phone call for us.”

#

Lunch was a serving of three cold crayfish with small bowls of condiments – salt and pepper spiced vinegar, tartare, and thousand islands sauce – together with slices of fresh crusty bread.

It was Barney’s idea to have crayfish. “I really have a touch of ‘the wants’ after we ran around those very islands that produced millions of them. On Rat Island, with the permanent scent of ‘odour de crayfish’, my taste buds are now craving that flavour. If you want to join me, I’m paying.”

Over lunch, between cracking the shells of the legs and claws and drawing out the sweet slivers of meat, Barney told Carleen that the crayboat they were chasing at the Abrolhos during last night had arrived back in the Marina. So it appeared that Fozzy was back in Geraldton.

Barney had a request of Carleen. “We want to contact Fozzy’s girlfriend, Elise Basini, to find out if he’s gone there. I want you to make the call, as you seemed to connect with her when we were in Perth.”

She wiped her hands on the paper napkin, picked up Barney’s mobile phone and began dialling. Barney reminded her that she should identify herself quickly or Elise would hang up.

“Elise, this is Carleen from the Geraldton Guardian,” and waited before going on. There was no answer, but there was no “click”, so she continued. “We’ve found Fozzy and he’s alive and well. Barney and Senior Detective Zep Marcon were with him yesterday. Will you speak to Barney?”

“All right.” She sounded relieved.

“Elise,” Barney began in an easy tone. “Zep and I spent several hours with Glynn yesterday and he told us about the danger he’s in. However we were interrupted and he fled.”

“What happened?” she quickly interrupted.

“The men chasing him turned up, so he left while we took care of them,” Barney did not want to alarm her with further explanation, so he returned to the reason for the call.

“He may be headed your way. If and when he gets to you can you please ask him to contact us in Geraldton, so that we can make immediate arrangements to put him into a safe house until this is sorted out. You’ll also need to continue to avoid contact with people you don’t know, as Glynn told you to do. He’s still in real danger and we want to help him. Do you understand?”

“Yes, okay. Get him to ring you. Geraldton Police Station. Barney Merrick,” and she hung up.

“Right,” said Zep. “Other search options?”

As a think tank during lunch, the three came up with quite a list to look into:

People: two law partners, secretary Beryl, house neighbours, crayfisherman contacts, known drinking mates, any living family?

Places: hotels, motels, onsite caravans, bed and breakfasts, farm stays, dozens of unoccupied crayboats at moorings, towns and places outside Geraldton.

This list would take weeks to check and even then they would probably get no closer to solving the murders. At best Fozzy was bait, but bait for whom? Zep decided that they would allocate what resources they could spare to finding Glynn Foster again, but the real priority was to try to catch the killers before they too found Foster.

With coffee to round off a lovely long leisurely lunch, Barney and Zep began talking about Luke Blundell, the Dero of Gero. Carleen listened intently and began to get the inkling of a story. She asked, “Can I look into this one as a human interest story? Who was this poor unfortunate who died friendless and lonely?”

“Why not?” agreed Barney. “Sob stories still make good copy, whether on paper or in the TV news. People love to see and hear the tears and sobs of others less fortunate than themselves. Makes them feel superior. And it gives the heart strings the occasional tug.”

“So young and so cynical,” grunted Zep.

#

The report by the Water Police Search and Rescue was on their desk when Barney returned to the office. Zep had called it a day, and had gone home to get some sympathy from Shirley while he rested his sore cracked rib and wounded arm. He had received no apparent sympathy from Barney who still recommended bed-rest because it had definitely slowed him down, mentally as well as physically.

The search report stated that it found no sign of a boat lost at sea between the Abrolhos and Geraldton. “How careless of them?” thought Barney. “That’s two in two days”

Barney contacted Port Gregory, Horrocks and Port Denison in Dongara, to the north and south of Geraldton, to determine whether a particular small fishing boat had entered any of these ports. He was reminded that there were so many boats in and out of the harbours that nobody would notice just one more.

The forensic report on the Fizzogg in the Marina added little to their search. There were only four sets of fingerprints all over the boat, Glynn and Stan Fosters and two others, and it must be assumed that they were from the two deck hands, the Clarke brothers, Paul and Nathan. Constables Barrett and Winter were sent to Horrocks to question the brothers on their movements, and to obtain their fingerprints for the purpose of elimination.

Barney spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone, questioning all the people that Fozzy might seek refuge from. He also rang many of the local places in Geraldton where he could hide. He kept asking whether a single man had booked into a room within the last day, but to no avail. Fozzy had gone to ground.

Chapter 27

Painstaking Detective Work – Wednesday Morning

Zep arrived on Wednesday morning, looking far more human, but still moving about quite tenderly and slowly. Barney brought him up to speed, and they both resumed work on the phone list used to find Fozzy. They widened the search to include possible people and places further out in the district.

An incoming phone call from the water police broke into the tedious sequence of outward calls from the detectives.

“We’ve found your missing boat,” the commander began. “It’s at the boat ramp on Drummonds Beach, and it’s mostly submerged.”

Fifteen minutes later they were staring at the top of the sunken cabin cruiser as gentle waves were lapping through the upper steering bridge. It was twenty metres out in the ocean, with only the top half metre showing above the surface.

The water police officer who was allocated to look into the situation, gave them the background. “A local fisherman reported it. He saw it yesterday morning right there, but at the time it was floating and anchored as though the owner had just stopped by to get something ashore. He didn’t give it a second thought, until he returned this morning to find it still there, but now under water.”

“I guess we succeeded in sinking it,” rejoiced Barney, somewhat in glee as he painfully remembered his own sore chest and the nearly fatal shoot-out on Rat Island. “But in that condition it’s not going to be helpful in finding prints or DNA. I wonder how they got here.”

Zep considered the most likely scenario. “My guess is that they turned north as soon as the Search and Rescue plane flew over. Then they travelled in a round-about way to come into Geraldton from along the uninhabited north coast and landed as soon as they saw the lights near the boat ramp. They probably waded ashore intending to pick up their car and trailer in Geraldton so they could return and pull the boat out. Either they returned to find it sinking with too much water to be able to drag it ashore, or they knew that already and didn’t come back for it. I bet the taxi company picked up a fare of two blokes around here on that night.”

“Sounds feasible,” agreed Barney.

“And I guess that it has to be the two of you tossing a coin to see who finds out the registration number of the boat under water. It can’t be me. I’m ill, under doctor’s orders.” Zep looked seriously at Barney and the water police officer.

Barney looked at the other man, saying, “And you are the qualified water policeman. The boat is there in the water. Hence . . .” They all turned their heads to the gentle lapping waves, as he paused and pointed to the vessel.

The marine officer turned and began striding purposefully back up the beach. He called back over his shoulder. “We found the boat for you. I am going off to organise to get it pulled out of there before the sea breeze comes in. You can go swimming now or wait until we lift it out. Good luck.”

“Bugger” groaned the last man standing who was still available for swimming.

#

To try to find the owner of the submerged boat, Zep rang the Department of Fisheries’ direct number and asked for the person in charge of boat registrations. A few minutes later, after he had confirmed his ID, he was informed that Perth rental boat number PR1501 belonged to the Claremont Boat Hire Company. The next phone call revealed more details about the skippers of the small vessel.

The boat, with its trailer, was hired out to a thirty year old, Mr Mitchel Page, who had a local address and photo ID on a Western Australian driver’s license, the necessary skipper’s ticket for a Recreation Boating License and an American Express Gold Card. His credentials said minimum risk.

The boat was rented out on Monday, the 23^rd of June, for one week at $2,100 for the week. The hiring conditions were that if the boat was not returned on time after one week, there would be a penalty clause. The lessee would then have to pay the daily rate plus twenty percent, or $360 daily. This would become $420 daily, or another twenty percent, if it was more than a week late. A credit card imprint was left as a deposit, and this had been used daily since becoming overdue. The transaction delivered the funds every time, so the boat hire company was happy with the deal. So far so good. They were not happy to find it was submerged.

“They’ll be even more unhappy when they find the bullet holes in it,” thought Zep.

Zep requested a copy of the rental agreement and any other supporting documents to be faxed to him immediately. The hire company man was eager to comply, knowing that he would need their police report to be able to process any insurance claim for the boat.

Zep re-assigned the task of phoning the hotels, motels and sundry accommodation premises to Constables Barrett and Winter. The hit-men weren’t locals and they had to be staying somewhere, so the name Mitchel Page should appear in an accommodation register somewhere. He was likely to use his local ID credentials to book any room.

#

That afternoon, the faxed details from the boat company quickly revealed that the driver’s licence was a fake with a phony address. After a few more calls it was also discovered that the skipper’s ticket was also a forgery.

Thinking out aloud, Zep commented, “How is it possible to arrange an American Express Gold Card with that name without a legitimate Perth address?”

“That’s easy,” replied Barney. “You can get an Amex card from anywhere in the world, as long as you have a permanent address, a solid bank account and a credit rating. The card issued to you is standard worldwide and just has your name printed on it. No address is shown.”

“So your job is to find out where this one was issued,” Zep passed the task over to Barney. “I’m going looking for the boat trailer that goes with the rented boat. The plate number is on the rental agreement. Hopefully it will be still attached to their car.”

“What if the car was rented too?” suggested Barney. “If they used the Mitchel Page ID to hire the car we may be able to spot them in Geraldton even without a trailer.”

“Great idea, if it was a rental,” considered Zep sceptically. “I’ll put out an APB on the trailer and we can also cruise for it later. Meanwhile, since the boat came from Perth, I’ll start there, phoning car hire companies.”

Barney had the easiest job at first. American Express refused to reveal any details of any account. He rang Perth Central CIB and passed them the task of liaising with the Australian Federal Police and Interpol, to put pressure on the international credit card company.

Together, they worked systematically through the list of car hire companies, and were down to the twenty-seventh out of a possible thirty-five companies before striking pay-dirt. Mitchel Page had rented a black Nissan X-Trail, a small four-wheel-drive with a tow bar. The number plate of the killer’s car was immediately radioed out to all police vehicles with the instructions, “Sight and report, follow but do not apprehend, and await backup as the offenders are well armed and extremely dangerous.”

Constables Ian Barrett and Matt Winter trudged into the office with hunched shoulders and crestfallen faces.

“Thanks a lot youse guys. We found out where Mitch Page was staying, but were told he’d checked out earlier that morning,” explained a depressed Ian Barrett. “We proceeded to the motel room to find it had been fully cleaned and the motel rubbish had been collected and already carted to the tip. Forensics are in the room now taking prints and DNA samples if they can find any. On the motel registration form, the room was signed out to Mitch Page, but no prints on it I’m afraid. However his car licence plate number was. We were coming here with that great news when you blokes stole our thunder with that APB on the Nissan X-Trail.”

Barney grinned at Zep, pleased that their marathon telephone effort had pipped the leg work of their two uniformed police assistants. Zep was much more sympathetic and congratulated them on reaching the same conclusion.

“If they checked out this morning, I wonder whether they have returned to Perth or have found new accommodation around here,” considered Matt Winter.

“Well, we can all go cruising about the city,” conceded Zep. They had just about exhausted the office work and he was going stir crazy through inactivity. “We have two sets of plates to look for. You two can try motels again tomorrow to see if they stayed in town overnight.”

They all wasted the rest of Wednesday and Thursday on those fruitless searches.

#

On Friday mid-morning a message came in from the Port Fishing Co-operative. The nasal voice down the line suggested that the detectives should check out an abandoned boat trailer. It had been left in plain sight among the many fishing and crayfish boats on trailers and on racks in the old boat harbour. What better place to hide it? It had been backed into a space between two other trailers with the plate number against a wall. The Co-op manager hadn’t noticed the additional one until just now. He had no idea how long it had been there.

The trailer yielded them some fresh fingerprints that were on the windlass and the car hitch, with a possible DNA trace. There were no matches on NAFIS.

The missing 4WD remained missing.

Late Friday the details of the Amex Gold Card were faxed through. Barney and Zep were informed it had cost a bucketful of brownie points, so they now owed people further up the line big-time. Mitchel Page’s residence was in Istanbul and his reliable banking account was the Asya Bank in Ankara in Turkey. The Amex card was twelve months old.

He was foreign, but immigration had no record of the arrival of any Mitchel Page matching the approximate year of birth on the driver’s licence. He had used other papers to enter the country.

Chapter 28

The Dero of Gero – Friday Night

Luke Blundell, the Dero of Gero, was cremated on Friday afternoon. Only one person, besides the crematorium staff, was there to see him go. Earlier that day, Carleen Camello had finished researching his life and was able to supply his full name for the Cemetery Registers. She also felt that she had one last duty, to attend his cremation, before his story was published in Monday’s Geraldton Guardian.

Wanting to tell Barney and Zep together, she had talked Shirley Marcon into an evening get-together with the Marcon family in Tarcoola Heights. It wasn’t going to be a fancy night. She picked up the Chinese takeaway on the way to the Marcon’s home. The four adults and the three teenage children made short work of the banquet, the children enjoying the challenge from Carleen that only chopsticks were allowed to be used. They acquitted themselves admirably.

Barney was on a restricted diet because he would be playing football the following day at Spalding Park. He opted for the meat and carbs, and limited the sugars. The training regime also meant no alcohol and an early night.

As the empty plastic containers were removed and the plates and utensils were stacked into the dishwasher, Carleen began to relate her story of the Dero of Gero. Since it was a Friday, the children were allowed to stay and listen, reprieved from homework for that one night.

“I first contacted a fellow reporter from the Great Southern Gazette, the Katanning newspaper. The promise of some reciprocal research and a copy of the story for her own regional paper had this local wheatbelt reporter checking with some of the older residents who would have remembered him. She also dug into a few of the Gazette’s archives for me.

“Luke Matthew Blundell was born in Katanning, the late and only child of already middle aged parents. Both had passed away some years ago. He left school at fourteen and began work as a shearer’s apprentice travelling around the district from shearing shed to shearing shed. He was young but strong, so he fitted into the shearer’s life quite easily. He was drinking and smoking with the best of them by the time he was sixteen.”

Zep looked towards Andy, his own seventeen year old son, and received a confident gaze in return. He knew he had no worries about any youthful drinking and smoking for both his boys. They both valued their sport and fitness too much.

Carleen took a sip of her Riesling and continued, “They taught him to box around the camp fires at night and he learned extremely well, but they discovered that he sometimes had difficulty controlling his own aggression. The shearers made sure that all fights were kept under strict Marquis of Queensbury Rules, so that the bell would break up most rounds and usually interrupt an over aggressive Blundell. “He was a real bastard to stop once he had his dander up,” an old shearer told my reporter friend.

“He was also a good young footballer and was able to break in to one of the Katanning senior sides by the age of eighteen. He was well accepted by the club, being able to play football and mix socially with the players and members after the game. He became quite a heavy smoker and drinker, but this was not so heavily frowned on like it is today. Being fit strong and young, he was able to bounce back each week, coping with the challenges of country football. He was still shearing because back then footballers were not paid much, so everyone had to have full time jobs.

Shirley rose, saying, “Keep talking loudly. I’ll be able to hear you as I bring in the coffee pot and sort out the sweets. I want to hear it all.”

Carleen continued with the resonant voice she often used when talking in the production room of the Geraldton Guardian, over the sound of the presses rolling next door.

“When he was playing for the Katanning Wanderers, Luke was noticed by talent scouts for the Western Australian Football League, the WAFL, and by the age of twenty he was playing league football for East Perth. However he only played nine senior games as his smoking affected his ability to come up to the fitness required for that level of competition. After half a season he was relegated to reserves and even then was unable to get fit enough. Only one season in Perth and he was finished.

“He tried to get back into the Katanning Wanderers, but his heart wasn’t in the challenge. He returned to full time shearing in the Katanning District. All this information came from a couple of members of the Wanderers Football Club.”

The coffee pot arrived, followed by a large bowl of hot stewed apple with a crumble topping, and a carton of ice cream. As the adults helped themselves, watched intently by the children who patiently waited their turn, Carleen continued.

“As a big strong young man, he still fancied himself in the boxing ring, and when the annual agricultural show came to town, it had Stewart’s Boxing Troupe as a sideshow. Luke pitted his skill against some of the old touring boxers, and won. He was taken on and toured with them for four years under the fighting name of Bruiser Blundell. He had done heavy physical work since the age of fourteen, so he could take quite a few hits and could also dish out a solid punch. One of his strengths was a solid cranium. He could take a punch to the head, shake it off, and come back swinging.

“Early on in this boxing career, he broke even in his troupe fights, but again the drinking and smoking caught up with him. He began losing continually, so was let go. His head was never right after those four years in the ring. He went back to shearing again.”

The dinner party narrative was temporarily suspended as Zep went to the fridge for a fresh wine bottle. Toilet breaks that were necessary for some were accomplished. Barney used the pause to give a ‘wise uncle’ talk to the teenage boys. “See fellers, every physical activity has consequences on the body.” He showed them his knotted hands where several breaks and a few dislocations had occurred just by him playing football. They countered with showing the hockey stick scars on their young shins.

Carleen resumed her story. “I then consulted local sources for information on his more recent life. The pensioner in the site next to where Blundell had his caravan, remembered some of the history that his neighbour had told him, while the two of them relaxed with cold beers on warm nights.

“Luke moved north to begin shearing in the Lower Mid-West Region, around Mingenew, Morawa, Three Springs and Coorow, but he was becoming too much of a drunken liability for this, so he was sacked from the contract shearing team. That was the last team he ever worked on.

He moved into the caravan in Geraldton and applied for Social Security. He would always pick up his pension check on time and spend most of it on cigarettes and booze. He ate sparingly, mainly junk food. Sometimes ladies in the van park would serve him soup and vegetable meals, but he wasn’t always approachable when drunk.

“The fire in his caravan was attributed to him falling asleep in the van with a cigarette, probably too drunk at the time. He was lucky enough to be woken up and dragged out by a neighbour, who put the fire out with a handy extinguisher. Luke got out of it with minor burns on one arm, but the fire damage was too much to salvage the van. This then put him out onto the streets of Geraldton.”

Carleen noticed that all around her had finished sweets and were listening intently. She took a short break and finished her own apple crumble and ice cream before she continued on with where her research had led her next.

“I then consulted the Homeless Resource Centre in Geraldton. He would sometimes stay at lodgings provided by the centre, but he complained that the rules were too restrictive about his smoking. “Always on my bloody back” were his own words, so he only turned up there for a meal now and again. This had become even less frequent of late.

“The last place that I visited was the out-patient clinic at Geraldton Hospital. He had been there a couple of times in the last three months. He had been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. The doctors had given him just six to eight months to live, with or without medication. The medication was only to limit the expected increasing pain.”

“So,” finished Carleen. “That hot-shot was probably deliberately self-injected after he heard or saw the news that the heroin drug was lethal. He was just thirty-four years old.”

“But what about the old grey beard and the stooped old man walking?” added Barney.

“He was blonde to start with and the hard life, plus smokes and drinks, and then physical neglect, took its toll on that body. He wore it out prematurely.” Carleen sat back and squared her shoulders proudly, pleased at her series of revelations.

“He was cremated earlier this afternoon and will be buried in Utakarra by Social Security, but with no headstone of course. I am going to organise some sponsors to get him a burial plaque. This story will be published in Monday’s Guardian and simultaneously in the Katanning Great Southern Gazette. I will contact the Geraldton Guardian, the Great Southern Gazette, East Perth Footy Club, Katanning Wanderers, Stewart’s Boxing Troupe and the Shearer’s Association to see if I can get enough donations to get a plaque on his burial plot. He will be the Dero of Gero no more.”

Chapter 29

A Quiet Saturday – Saturday

Crazy Daisy, or David Joseph Combley, was buried the next day at nine o’clock on the Saturday morning at Geraldton General Cemetery in Utakarra. Within two weeks of the discovery of his tortured remains, the coroner had released the body to his parents. They had arranged with the undertaker for a weekend burial so that they could attend, as well as other members of the immediate family from Perth. They were there with his brother and some of his many uncles and aunts.

Zep, Barney and Carleen attended out of respect for Daisy, the amiable used car salesman, but also to see who else was in the crowd. There was Beryl, the law secretary, with the two law partners, and the two old people from next door who had discovered the body. Steve Tipping, with his wife and two children, had come along to pay their respects to the man who had been so kind to them during the time of their car-jacking distress. The three Snook family members had buried their father earlier that same week, so were again at Utakarra, this time with smiles on their faces that looked totally out of place on their weather worn faces, and really inappropriate at a funeral. Frances Snook was at last a free woman.

The funeral director, with his driver and four pall bearers, carried the coffin from the hearse to lay it beside the grave, and over the tapes that were positioned ready for lowering it into the hole. The Anglican Minister read a short service. David’s brother said a few words on behalf of the family and the casket was lowered gently into the grave.

As this was going on, Barney’s keenly trained police eye noticed two men in the distant part of the cemetery carrying flowers to a grave. A little while later, from that direction, he saw a flash of reflected sunlight that was probably from a glass bottle or a flat piece of a plastic container. When this happened three more times he decided that was not a coincidence. It was likely caused by someone using binoculars to observe this assembly of people. He whispered to Zep to call his attention to it, but his astute partner had already seen it too. They quietly planned to investigate as soon as they could slip away.

As the individual mourners approached the open grave to throw flowers or a handful of sand onto the casket, Beryl spoke loudly to Frances Snook. “You are the one who dirtied the name of David Combley. He was never cruel to you. You made all that up just to get the divorce. He didn’t have a cruel bone in his body.”

“You didn’t know him,” Frances snapped back testily.

“I knew him better than you ever did. He told me all about you,” Beryl shrilled.

“Then you must be the slag he was screwing. I knew he wasn’t celibate,” retorted Frances.

“Bitch,” screamed Beryl.

“Slag,” screeched Frances. Beryl launched herself at Frances.

This should have been a one side brawl. The farm girl, used to throwing around heavy fodder, equipment and animals, was so much stronger than the petite office girl. But Beryl was furious and distraught. She wrapped Frances in a vice like grip where she stood. Before anyone could move in to separate them, both became entangled, rolling on the mounds of sand beside the grave. There were legs and arms flailing and vicious nails being worked into the arms and neck of both contestants.

Zep stepped in and grabbed Beryl by the leg and began to pull her away. Barney moved beside him and tried to reach for Frances, but she kicked away from Beryl and slid backwards, toppling into the open grave.

She was winded by the fall, but came up covered in sand and was fuming mad. It was lucky that her brothers were there to catch her before the fight was re-joined with even more venom. She could easily have killed Beryl if her glaring eyes were anything to be believed.

The sparring parties were escorted away in different directions, Frances with her brothers, and Beryl with her two lawyer employers. Barney and Zep looked about for the two men with binoculars, but they were nowhere to be seen.

#

Barney’s Saturday afternoon football game at Eadon Clark Oval in Spalding was played in atrocious conditions. The first quarter was a dour struggle with neither side able to make much headway in the torrential rain. Players struggled over soggy grass to get any forward momentum before they were tackled. Handpassing was near impossible as the football was so slippery, and kicking the heavy wet ball was like kicking a house brick.

In these conditions the heavier but slower players of the Brigades Football Club, and the usually quite mobile Railways players were quite evenly matched. There were just two goals and a few points kicked by each team at the end of the first quarter.

Barney was also struggling with his fitness. His chest was on fire. The pain was not within his chest but in the intercostal muscles between his ribs. The bruising had not cleared so the damaged fibres were under constant strain as he ran, kicked, marked and tackled. He felt even more muscle strain when he reached down below his knees.

Quarter time came just in time for Barney. He was beat. A quick word with the coach and he was given a long spell on the bench before he resumed half way through the second quarter. The rain had eased, so the runners of each team were able to gain a little more freedom to use the ball. The heavier conditions suited Brigades and they were a goal up by the end of the first half. The sun was peeking through clouds and the ground was beginning to dry out for the beginning of the third quarter.

Before running out for the start of play, Barney grabbed the can of ‘Magic Spray’ that players used to deaden the effect of a corked muscle or a slight sprain. He pushed it under his ‘Blues’ football guernsey and gave it a prolonged burst. That quarter was one of his career best. Feeling no chest pain, he was able to move freely. He ran from the centre twice, spearing long kicks to his forwards, handballed long passes to wide open players, bullocked through heavy packs to push the ball free, and he tackled the opposition willy-nilly. He was everywhere. Railways were inspired by his actions and rose to the occasion. They were five goals ahead by three quarter time.

It had taken its toll. Barney was completely knackered. He needed another long break at the start of the final quarter. With another burst of ‘Magic Spray’, he was able to be back on the ground for the last fifteen minutes. He ran hard and tried but he struggled. With the advantage of a strong tail-wind, Brigades rapidly kicked three goals to be under the two straight goal margin. They were pressing relentlessly and had the ball under their control.

With just seven minutes to go, Brigades looked like scoring again, making for a very tight finish. Barney was at half back, when the ball was desperately seized and cleared by his fullback out towards him. It was a rolling ball and as he closed on it, two of the opposition players also converged on him. He realised that he would not have the time or the reserves in energy to bend down, gather the ball, and deliver it further before he was gang tackled. They would likely gain the ball within range of their goals. Instead, he looked up to see two players further out towards the boundary and gave the ball a strong soccer kick along the ground.

He kicked it much harder than necessary so that it bounced past his team mate, out of bounds, and another fifty metres into the wide open grasses beyond the boundary line. He glanced quickly at the umpire to see if he would give the sweeping underhand signal to rule that it was a deliberate kick out of bounds, and thus award a free kick to the opposition. He didn’t.

The overworked boundary umpire, a long way behind the play, puttered out there to fetch the ball to throw it back into play. Barney’s actions had gained his team enough respite to gather close to the ball, and earned himself the time to catch his breath. Railways had the energy to get the ball down to their own attacking end and, although they didn’t score, they managed to bottle up the play for the next five minutes.

Brigades goaled again in the last few minutes, but not twice. Railways had won by three points. A tired but happy Railways team, in their navy blue and white guernseys, sang their victory song, in a ragged circle with their arms joined. Their chorus, bellowed out, was loud enough for the opposition home team members in the bar to hear their elation.

In the change rooms, the coach immediately fronted Barney about the quality of his full game.

“Don’t get me wrong Barney. Your third quarter was brilliant and was inspirational in winning us the game, but you were well below form for the rest of the match. You need to think about your game preparation. Late nights, alcohol, wild women, they all eventually take their toll. If you want to play football you will have to think through that. Now go and have a hot shower.” With the flush of anger showing in his face, the coach turned away.

Barney ambled off into the corner where his gear was stashed, and sat and stared vacantly while there was an initial rush on the showers. He was physically and emotionally drained. Calling on his last reserves he dragged himself up, stripped and padded heavily into the showers for a good long water scouring relaxation. As he emerged he passed the coach who stared at his blue chest.

“Merrick, what the hell’s that?” he demanded.

“Bruises,” was the terse reply.

“How’d you come across those?” he enquired a little more calmly.

“Bullets,” Barney snapped.

“Christ, Barney,” the coach exclaimed. “You were still playing with bullet holes, broken ribs or massive bruises! You need your head read. You should’ve told me. Y’mad bugger.”

“You wouldn’t have let me play,” grumbled Barney.

“You’re crazy, Barney,” choked the coach in absolute contrition, and then continued resolutely, “but crazy mad buggers on the footy field get the job done.”

The coach fixed his watery eyes directly into Barney’s, “Sorry about what I said earlier. You can play in any of my teams, anytime.”

Barney and Carleen drove straight home. Barney wandered over the sandhills to the ocean for a refreshing cold swim in the churning ocean. He returned for another long hot shower, followed by a light meal, and was in bed and asleep by sundown.

Chapter 30

Northampton Match – Sunday Afternoon

Around midday on Sunday, the mobile phone jingled in Barney’s pocket. He and Zep were busy assembling their equipment, preparing to attend the football match at Northampton.

“Barney, Joey Collard here,” said the voice on the phone as he took the call. “I’m on my mobile just outside Northampton, on my way to the match, but I had to ring you as soon as I got any decent reception.”

“I hope you’ve taken precautions,” was Barney’s first reply.

Joey laughed and replied, “Precautions? Yeah sure. I’m on the outskirts of town inside a thicket of trees in the old Catholic Cemetery and . . .” He didn’t finish, but paused and continued. “Doesn’t matter where I am anyway. I’m being extra careful.”

“So what’s so important?” questioned Barney.

“I’ve been hiding out in the cave known only to the tribe. In the middle of the week another bloke turned up. This white guy arrived late one night, and scared the shitter out of me. This cave was supposed to be a secret tribal place. We eyed each other off for a while and both we decided that we were harmless to each other, so we slept. Next morning, over a cold breakfast, we talked. We talked about the weather, the land, politics, the footy and the economy. We said nothing about why we were both there for the whole of that day, Wednesday I think it was then. Next day . . .”

“Joey, get to the point,” interrupted Barney tersly.

“This bloke then tells me he is on the run from blokes who are trying to kill him,” Joey continued. “And the police are chasing him too.”

“Police?” queried Barney.

“Geraldton Police! Youse buggers!” exclaimed Joey.

“So that’s where he got to,” exclaimed Barney.

“I told him my story, so he knows I’m connected to you, so he asked me to tell you where he is,” Joey explained. “I think he still wants your protection.”

“Ok, tell me where he is. We’ll pick him up first, and then get to your match,” promised Barney.

#

Just over an hour later, the police paddy wagon rattled to its very core, as Zep turned off the sealed Horrock’s Road and drove down the corrugated gravel track towards the mouth of the Bowes River. They had chosen the old and sturdy steel paddy wagon as it had stronger passenger protection than a normal patrol car. They had travelled only several dozen metres when a ridge of brown rocks loomed on the hillside to their right. The signpost read Willigully Caves. There they parked the vehicle next to the sign. They would have to walk from here to the other side of the valley.

Barney and Zep took their service issued pistols and holsters from the glove box, checked them and put them on, leaving the holsters unsecured. Barney also took out the large torch and swung it about like a baton. They crossed the road and headed away from the Willigully Caves.

In the road-side ditch, they saw the faint tyre tracks where Joey had hidden his motorbike behind some heavy bushes. They clambered through a wire fence and hiked the short distance across the ripening crop of wheat towards the tree sheltered stream. They could see the occasional footprints and broken stalks where Joey had made a couple of trips. There didn’t seem to be any other tracks so they considered that they were likely the only other people to have passed along this way. Reaching the stream bed they saw the rough terrain rising on the other side.

“From here we follow the creek bed for about a hundred metres downstream and we look for a large rock on the opposite bank,” explained Barney. “The cave is behind bushes high up the hillside, directly above that rock.”

Both moved warily, all senses alert for any trouble.

“The rock,” Zep pointed out and Barney had to stop himself from making a facetious comment just to be smart.

Instead he replied, “We’ll have to get our feet wet crossing the stream, or go through the bother of shoes off, shoes on.”

“Wet feet!” grunted Zep, still looking carefully up the slope at the likely cave location. “You go to the right and hole up behind those rocks just below that ledge.”

Zep moved left and the two climbed diagonally up to positions just below the bush. As soon as they were both were established in their vantage places, Zep nodded.

Barney called out loudly, “Glynn Foster, … ster, …ter, … ter,” and the echo from the opposite side of the valley added to his call. He dropped his volume and continued. “This is Barney Merrick from the Geraldton Police. We are armed. Come out with your hands up.” There was a low resonance of an echo but nothing was very distinct.

After a full minute, the bushes began to rustle, and Foster struggled to get around the back of the dense foliage. “Hang on a minute you blokes,” he yelled as he pushed the heavy branches aside. He cursed as he was slashed across the face, and he struggled to get his hands in the air as he made his way through the last of the foliage. “I surrender,” he called, looking about for them.

“Both hands on the wall,” called Zep, and when Fozzy obeyed, he moved up to the ledge, handcuffed the prisoner and then indicated to Barney. “Check out the inside.”

“Why me? You pulling rank?” Barney questioned in jest. “Or are you just too wide to get through the gap?”

Zep ignored him as he patted Fozzy down and began, “Glynn Foster. You’re still under arrest for the murder of David Combley and Stan Foster. You . . .”

“I didn’t do it. I’ve told you before that I didn’t do it,” wailed Fozzy.

Again Zep ignored the interruption and completed the arrest, and then added, “You ran from legal custody. You’re not going anywhere until we sort that out.” Five minutes later, Barney clambered with difficulty from the cave with Foster’s gear.

“I had a quick look around,” confirmed Barney. “There are some old bones in the corner that look probably human. The rest of the interior décor seems to be Aboriginal Sacred Site. We’ll need to approach the elders if we want to check it out fully.”

Fifteen minutes later, after temporarily removing the handcuffs to allow Fozzy to descend the slope, the paddy wagon was on the way to the Northampton Football Ground. Foster was inside the back of the lockup wagon, talking through the front grill.

“Those men out at Rat Island were trying to kill me because I saw them kill my brother. They’ll keep trying.”

“Tell me about the drugs in your tackle box,” prompted Barney.

“What tackle box? What drugs?” he answered glibly.

“There were traces of heroin in a fishing tackle box that was discovered by an old scrounger. We traced the box back to you,” replied Barney.

“Oh, that tackle box. I found a small plastic packet of white powder and was going to get it checked out,” Fozzy declared.

Zep turned to Barney and said with a smile, “That’s enough. We’ve got him talking and he’s just confirmed that he knew about the drugs. Save the rest for the interview room.”

#

Barney was off walking around the ground, patrolling the boundary in front of the Northampton member’s stand. By scanning the crowd continuously, looking for Sandy, he was almost certain that the Aboriginal spear man with the vendetta was not present. As he strode among the crowd, he was trying to keep approximately aligned with Joey playing football, but this was impossible as the young footballer had free rein of the entire ground. He was doing it well. Northampton was doing it well.

Joey was playing his usual brilliant game. With at least two taggers on him at all times he still managed frequently to gain possession of the ball. Often he was freely running through the centre or into the forward line or quickly feeding the ball out to teammates. Only Barney and Zep, and a few others in-the-know, noticed how he kept to the central corridor of the field. He avoided the wings and forward flanks by skilfully passing the football to outside players.

Half way through the last quarter Northampton were five goals up and in full control of the match. Barney wandered over to the coach’s box and whispered a few words into the coach’s ear. He nodded begrudgingly and a few minutes later he sent a runner with a message out to Joey. He was rotated off the ground and replaced by another player who entered through the interchange gate. Barney met him at the boundary line.

“I’ve asked the coach to sub you off a few minutes before the end so we can get out of here before the crowd begins to move,” Barney told him. “It’ll be much safer if we leave early for Geraldton. We’ve only got a couple of hours ‘til sundown and then all your troubles are over.”

The police van was parked under shady trees near two large sheds up behind the northern goals. Zep was hovering around to make sure that Glynn Foster was protected at all times. His claim was definitely real, and his life was certainly threatened. The facts were that he was also being held prisoner as a drug runner, was still a possible murder suspect and he really needed to be under continuous full police surveillance anyway.

As Barney and Joey walked to the paddy wagon, Zep was opening the rear door and helping out the prisoner, still in handcuffs. Fozzy had convinced him that the afternoon in the van, drinking lots of soft drinks and eating at least a couple of hot dogs and a hamburger, meant that he desperately needed a toilet. They had condescended to feed and water him after he had complained long and hard that he had been really roughing it in the cave for the last five days. The toilets were nearby, just thirty metres away, so Zep was preparing to escort him there and back when Barney and Joey arrived.

A couple of men, wearing the green and gold scarves of the Northampton Rams Footy Club, were heading for their car that they had parked beside the toilets. In addition, there were quite a few despondent Greenough Rovers supporters wearing red and black who were also drifting towards their own parked cars. These fans had decided the match was lost, and were moving now to beat the crowd and the usual post-match rush down the Great Northern Highway, to return to Geraldton. The two ‘Rams’ supporters reached the car, “blipped” it unlocked, opened the doors and appeared as though they were about to get in.

“I’ll only be two minutes, maximum,” pleaded Fozzy as Zep removed his handcuffs.

“He should be left in the van to sit in his own deep ...” chimed in Barney, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“Well I’m not getting in the back with him if he is,” quickly interrupted Joey. “One of you two can do it.”

Everyone had just about decided that the toilet was the best option when they all sensed the approaching two Rams supporters. They hadn’t got into their car, a black Nissan X-Trail. They were now walking towards the cluster of two policemen and their two protected companions as they argued at the back of the police wagon. The gleam of menacing automatic pistols shone in their hands, and the barrels were aimed at them all.

They were not ‘Rams’ supporters. Around the other side of the ground, a couple of kids were now crying to their mother, that two big men had taken their scarves, and had roughly pushed them away. These two wolves in Rams clothing had blended well into the local crowd and got in close enough to have Barney and Zep at their mercy.

“I don’t want to die,” screamed Fozzy and he sank to his knees at the rear of the paddy wagon.

The two men stopped a couple of metres away and waved their pistols. Barney nodded to Zep and to the pistols. Both were the same type of fully automatic pistols that they had encountered in the Fremantle house four weeks ago and were probably those very guns used against them on Rat Island six days earlier. Deadly trouble for them all.

“You weel drop kah keeess,” the older of the two men demanded to Zep. “And you tree weel gitt in vann.”

The accent was definitely Middle Eastern, thought Barney. These men were killers as they had demonstrated earlier. They had most likely already tortured and killed Dave Combley and Stan Foster in other lonely locations. On Rat Island they had shot to kill both him and Zep. Then it was only the Kevlar vests that had saved them, and they were not wearing them now.

They definitely wanted Fozzy alive for the moment, but they would most likely kill again when they had extracted what they wanted from him. The question was: “Were they prepared to kill in front of hundreds of potential witnesses?” The two machine pistols, that they were waving, made it very difficult for them to even begin to argue.

The trio of Barney, Zep and Joey, who were being threatened, responded by moving towards the paddy wagon, but they were proceeding slowly. The younger of the two hit-men then made a big mistake. He was eager to get his hands on the man that they had been chasing for seventeen days, so he stepped in, bent down and grabbed Fozzy by the forearm. He was going to drag him to the car, while his partner locked away the others. He made the clumsy blunder of stepping between Zep and his own partner.

Zep looked down at the man in front of him and saw that the gun in the young man’s right hand was now pointed down and outwards, and away from the group. His left hand reached down as he grabbed Fozzy. Zep kicked strongly upwards into the young assassin’s groin and slashed out viciously with his left hand at the pistol. It flew away. To keep himself out of the line of fire from the partner, he squatted down low behind the young hit man, grabbed his shirtfront and solidly head butted his nose. The remaining pistol hovered dangerously in his direction, and the man holding it looked intently for an open target.

There was a sudden loud high-pitched scream. The sports ground siren had announced the end of the match. The roar of the crowd of 600 delighted Northampton supporters erupted all around. The head of the man with the gun turned quickly left and right, his gun moving with it. He had been surprised by a noise that was alien to his culture, but that distraction could not last for longer than an instant.

From below the shoulders of the young man who was in agony, Zep pushed upwards, and sent him crashing into his partner. As he staggered backwards he began to retch. Barney unclipped his sidearm, and drew the weapon. The suffering young killer collided awkwardly with his companion and then collapsed sideways. Now with an open target, the automatic pistol was beginning to line up on Zep. Barney shot twice for the chest, aiming for the largest mass in the emergency situation. The impact of the two large calibre bullets was enough to send the older hit-man onto his back. His pistol flew from his hand.

Zep moved to the wounded man. Barney kept his gun out, and his eyes keenly locked onto the young man, who was still vomiting. He lifted Fozzy from his knees. The two fully automatic pistols were well away from the scene and both attackers were incapacitated. Barney moved over to Zep to offer assistance, while he still kept a close watch on the younger hit-man, who was now curled up on the ground, moaning in misery.

Zep was trying in vain to stop the arterial blood flow from two large chest wounds, as the auto-nervous system reacted with continuous convulsions. The bullets had probably created large exit wounds at the rear that would also be pumping blood too. Zep’s eyes briefly met Barney’s and he shook his head. Within seconds the convulsions stopped and the body became still. Lifeless eyes stared upwards. There was no chance for the medical men at the ground to even get to the scene before the killer perished.

As the two policemen were distracted, watching one man expire, while the other slowly recovered, Sandy Comegain moved out from behind the shed beside the paddy-wagon, a spear already mounted in the woomera. There would never be a better opportunity to complete his mission.

Joey was standing beside Fozzy at the rear of the paddy wagon, watching the events unfold. His sixth sense told him to look aside. He saw Sandy launch the spear. His years of training had made him quick and agile, and he was thankful that it came to the fore on that day. He moved with the speed of lightning out of the line of flight.

He didn’t need to anyway. Sandy’s throw showed that his eagerness to achieve his revenge had overridden his hours of concentration during practice. The spear landed with a swift thud, straight through the calf muscle of a very surprised Fozzy, half a metre from where Joey had been standing.

“Bloody hell,” Fozzy yowled in pain and all eyes turned to him. He was standing upright, with two hands clasping the handle of the open rear door of the police wagon, and with a two metre long spear sticking straight through his leg. He kept wailing in distress. The attention turned to Sandy who was now grabbing another spear, a shorter one this time. It was his last spear and he prepared to launch it at Joey. His need for revenge had temporarily clouded his judgement.

Barney stepped across in front of Joey, his weapon still in his hand, and called out. “The Tribal Court allowed you one throw only. Do two and you break your law and my law. Throw it and I shoot back.”

“Don’t do it cuz,” called a desperate Robbie Comegain from behind him. He was still Sandy’s driver, and self-designated protector of his cousin. “That white bugger can bloody well shoot straight.”

As Barney watched Sandy, the bulky form of the young hit-man writhing on the dusty ground, grasped for his leg, and reached into his sock to withdraw a small pistol. He was side on to Barney. He struggled to physically recuperate, clear his head and regain focus in his watery eyes.

“Barney. A pistol,” screamed Joey.

Barney turned his head to see the gaping open muzzle of the pistol and the finger beginning to tighten on the trigger.

Sandy threw. The spear sliced straight into the outstretched forearm of the attacker and thrust it backwards. The alignment was no longer on Barney. The ruptured arm tendons extended and released pressure on the trigger. Joey took three quick steps and kicked. The gun went flying at least thirty metres. The kick also wrenched the tip of the spear from the wound. Blood flowed freely from the punctured arm.

“Nice one Joey,” called Zep.

“Nice one Sandy,” called Barney.

“Not that good,” grunted Sandy. “I was aiming at the body. The biggest mass, as they say.”

And Robbie Comegain looked to the heavens and just sighed.

Chapter 31

Post Match Blues – Sunday Afternoon

Barney was not happy. He was sitting alone in the grandstand, shivering uncontrollably. He had seen many bodies. He was often called out to view the remains of some unfortunate who had probably died of natural causes, but just in case there were unnatural causes to be uncovered. He had also been involved in murder cases where his observation skills were definitely needed. He had seen death many times.

This was the first time he had been actually involved in it. He had expected that sooner or later he would be faced with life threatening situations. He just hadn’t imagined that, so soon after Rat Island, he and Zep would both be millimetres from death again, and that he personally would have to kill in the line of duty. He could still picture that machine pistol levelled at Zep. He could still feel that hand-gun seeking him out and see the tightening pressure on the trigger. Then the world had exploded into violence and he was part of it.

When the action was over he still had the presence of mind to do his duty. As the crowd arrived, drawn to the scene by the sounds of shots, he heard Zep call out loudly for all to hear. “Police business. Everybody keep your distance.”

People collected around in groups, loudly discussing and pointing. Parents of youngsters saw the gore and tried to shepherd their children away. School aged children pressed forward in bunches, keen to see the real live body, so that they could elaborate on it later among their peers. It would be a talking point for years to come, and the media had not yet become involved to sensationalise the incident.

Zep singled out a Northampton police constable arriving at the scene. “Constable Cripps, I need you to secure those three pistols, there, there and there. They’re vital pieces of evidence. Without handling any part, get them into this evidence bag and then guard them. Stay inside the cabin of the Police Wagon. Thanks.”

Barney looked around and singled out the Geraldton Guardian photographer and called “Phil O’Meara, you are deputised as police photographer to take as many shots of this scene as you can manage. If you’re good, when we’ve finished with them, you may even get a couple of them back.”

“Can he do that Zep?” asked Phil.

“He just did,” was the stern reply.

Both Barney and Zep converged on the young hit man, who was still somewhat incapacitated as he tried to stem the flow of blood from his arm. Zep kicked the bloodied short stabbing spear along the ground, over towards their police wagon. They lifted him to his feet and simultaneously patted him down, covering every inch of his body. Barney took the Rams’ green and gold scarf from around the young killer’s neck and wound it tightly around the forearm. He was then unceremoniously loaded into the back of the paddy wagon.

“We will get to you shortly. Keep still or the wound may bleed you to death,” warned Zep as he locked the door. He grabbed another onlooker, an old footballer that he knew well, to also sit in the front cab and keep an eye on the prisoner through the front grill. “Let me know if his condition changes. We don’t want any deaths in custody today.”

The ambulance arrived in a flurry of dust, lights and noise. It had been stationed on the far side of the ground by the gate. The ambulance attendants were unofficial members of the club, given free entrance and refreshments at all home games in exchange for their Sunday attendance. The St John Ambulance Association was given a large donation to allow this to happen.

Also to arrive promptly were the clubs’ medical men, one of whom was a doctor. He was able to certify officially that the older attacker was deceased, before moving on to take care of Fozzy. He called to the ambulance attendant to get a blanket to cover up the body.

At this time Fozzy was lying on his stomach, the smooth tipped spear through one leg, and the long shaft resting along the ground. That way it took a lot of the weight off. He was still moaning loudly. The ambulance crew and the medical practitioners discussed options, and the doctor immediately decided that it was too dangerous to remove the spear at this location. There was likely to be some arterial damage. The spear had partially sealed the wound, but this could change if it was allowed to shake about.

Some additional local police officers, who had been attending the match at Barney’s earlier request, began to sort out the crowd control situation. The main problem was the dozens of curious young kids, eager to gawp at the spectacle of the spear through Fozzy’s leg, from as close a range as possible. As soon as one group was ushered aside, another lot merged in to fill that space.

Zep was fully distracted dealing with a blustering irate mother who pointed at the blanketed body and the locked van insisting that the police return her children’s scarves. She didn’t care that both were saturated with blood and one had a couple of bullet holes in it. Her young kids were inconsolable right now. Their team had won and they wanted to wave their scarves.

The doctor administered a strong anaesthetic to Fozzy’s leg and gave him a sedative. He called out to the crowd of farmers and town workers that made up the adult onlookers, “Has anybody got a large set of bolt cutters handy in your car?” He would cut off both sides of the spear and bind it up tightly before moving him to hospital. In short order, he had acquired five sets of cutters from the farmers.

With the arrival of more local Northampton police from town, everything seemed to be under control. Barney just had to be alone for a minute or two. That’s how come he was sitting alone in the grandstand when Zep found him.

#

“So there you are Junior,” said Zep lightly, sitting down beside him and looking out across the green grassed oval. Barney took a deep breath.

“You could have been killed,” Barney mumbled.

“That was the first time you had to shoot somebody?” Zep asked softly.

Barney nodded and murmured “Mm.”

“The first time is never easy on you,” said Zep calmly, looking towards his partner. “No time is ever easy on you. But it’s the job. You will be required to undergo counselling for a while, just to ease you through it, and no weapons until after that.” They just sat there in silence for the next five minutes.

One of the St John Ambulance drivers appeared at the steps and announced, “The doc’ is ready to work on the other guy now. Can youse blokes come and unlock the van?”

When Barney and Zep returned to the scene, many of the crowd had dispersed. There was little else for them to see. The ambulance taking Fozzy to the local hospital, forced its way through the remnant groups of onlookers who were still chatting about the scene. Fozzy was still technically under arrest so was accompanied inside the vehicle by two local policemen. After his operation he would be protected continuously by armed guards until he could be transferred to Geraldton. There could be other allies of the killers still at large.

The Geraldton Hospital had been contacted, and had despatched the morgue vehicle to retrieve the body. After the doctor had cleaned, stitched and dressed the wound of the younger assassin, Barney and Zep would take him to Geraldton in the paddy wagon. He was not getting out of their sight until they could find out what was going on.

Barney noticed Sandy and Robbie Comegain, handcuffed and sitting on the seats at the boundary, being guarded by a police officer. Sandy looked totally forlorn as Robbie was loudly berating him for getting him involved in all this. Rather than easing the friction between the two by letting Robbie go, Barney thought that Sandy deserved to cop a lot more aggravation from his cousin.

“Let them both go,” he called out to the officer. “He will be punished enough later. He has just speared a lawyer and we know where to find them both.”

Robbie looked to the heavens and sighed.

PART V

Chapter 32

An Assassin is Interviewed – Monday Morning, 14^th June

They were met by stony silence early next morning. The interview room was cold and forbidding at that time of the day. The conditions were slowly warming to the pre-set temperature, but Barney and Zep were too eager to interview him to wait. They faced the man with the heavily bandaged forearm.

He spoke not one word, not even a nod or shake of the head when asked, in many languages, whether he needed an interpreter or a lawyer. As the digital recording machine hummed, the only survivor of the two hit-men, just sat and stared impassively into space as Barney and Zep tried to interview him. He carried nothing on him to disclose his identity. Finally, they put him back in the cell to let him stew for a while longer.

His dead companion however revealed much more information. His car license plates were now different from the number supplied by the car rental company. The room keys in his pocket gave the name of their new motel room in Spalding, a northern suburb of the city.

The different license plates, GNG 8237, provided an address in Rangeway in the city’s eastern suburbs. It was possibly their headquarters or the home of an accomplice. The house there was in a poor state of repair. The thin water-stained fibro asbestos cladding was in desperate need of repainting.

A carload of Tactical Response Group officers, who were dressed in full assault gear, with “TRG” iridescently emblazoned across the front and back of their uniforms, stealthily moved into position. Barney and Zep held back behind the silent soldiers, as the TRG squad, carrying fully automatic weapons loaded and pointed, moved down the dusty path, past the dead gardens.

The sight of a derelict old Ford on the front verge, with no number plates, and wild grass growing up to the top of the wheels, triggered alarms in Barney’s mind. Seconds later the door was smashed in. “Armed Police, don’t move,” echoed through the building. Some screams arose from inside, their echoes piercing the still of the neighbourhood, and then all went quiet, giving Barney a chance to draw Zep’s attention to the old car. They were attacking an innocent family.

Both Barney and Zep moved humbly into the house. The occupants were lying face down on the floor with their hands behind their heads.

It took quite a bit of explaining and apologising on behalf of the Geraldton police department for the mistaken identity. The number plates had been stolen from the derelict car a few days ago. They were then used by the killers to convert their car to a Geraldton vehicle with the prefixed GNG plates.

The car owner was reprimanded for not returning the redundant plates, and admonished for not noticing that they had been stolen. Zep suggested that, by clearing away the old bomb, he would be doing the neighbourhood a service. And yes sir, the old car would be removed, and the house would have the door replaced, both at Police expense. More apologies uttered and “Good morning sir.” Barney and Zep fled.

#

To postpone having to front Superintendent Strickland for a while, Barney and Zep paid a visit to the motel in Spalding where the hit-men had last stayed. The name on the register for their room was Ben Pubben. The younger hit-man had presented his driver’s license ID, and the accommodation was paid for with an Amex card in the name of Pubben. The car registration quoted was the stolen Rangeway plates. Only the Pubben name was in the register. Mitchel Page, the now deceased killer, had used the room too.

This pair had successfully switched the identities of their car and changed accommodation while the whole of Geraldton’s police force were looking for them.

Inside the motel room they discovered both of the men’s real passports, wallets and travel documents. Their Turkish identities were Demir Aras, the dead body, and Nizam Kavur, the prisoner. Both were Turkish citizens, with entry visas stamped into the passports dated some five weeks earlier. The passports were well used and showed previous visits to Australia, New Zealand and Singapore. The latest travel documents showed a recent flight to Perth from Dubai via Singapore two weeks before Daisy was killed. The return flight was supposedly for three weeks later and was just to Singapore, but this had been postponed or had lapsed.

Zep made two phone calls after Googling the numbers. The first was to ring Immigration to request a copy of the entry documents and visa application for both men for this visit and any previous trip to Australia that could be found. The second call was made to the Turkish Embassy in Canberra to inform them of one dead citizen, Demir Aras, and another, Nizam Kavur, held in Geraldton on an attempted murder charge. Two more murder charges were pending against him. Zep considered that should start the ball rolling.

Both wallets contained credit cards, visa cards issued by Asya Bank in Ankara in Turkey, and also American Express cards, international driver’s licences and several thousand dollars all in Australian currency in large and small denominations. Both men were cashed-up Turks.

Further investigation of the motel room revealed little else. A few items of clothing and personal toiletries and small suitcases were placed neatly where they were expected to be.

“Notice anything Zep,” commented Barney.

“Not really,” he answered as he looked carefully about.

“Except for a few variations in their clothing, both men’s gear is almost identical. They both shopped for toiletries, wallets and suitcases at the same store. Both used the same bank for credit cards. I’ll bet the expiry dates will match each other. These blokes are twins, but with eight years difference in their ages.

“Or clones,” pondered Zep. “But clones modelled from whom? The neat arrangement of their equipment points to some military training.”

“That could explain why each of them had a prepaid mobile ‘burn’ phone,” speculated Barney. “The caller memory for incoming and outgoing calls was switched off, so there’s no record of any calls made. I wonder whether we can trace any calls made through a provider.”

#

When they returned to the office, Superintendent Lindsay Strickland frowned at them as they wandered to their work stations. His usual jovial face was sternly set to reflect his displeasure. “I’ll talk to you two later. You have a fax from the Turkish Embassy to attend to.”

The fax was a big surprise. The two men, Demir Aras and Nizam Kavur, were not Turkish citizens. Their documents were probably forgeries. Zep replied by fax with thanks to the embassy and confirmed that these men were using Turkish identities and Turkish banks for illegal purposes. He also suggested that the Turkish authorities look into the bank accounts, visa cards and American Express Cards, under two names for each man, in the Asya Bank in Ankara in Turkey. He would appreciate any feedback to help him in this murder investigation in Australia.

This made the killer’s arrival details redundant. Immigration records would only repeat the fabrications on their passports and would not show the true origins of the men. The only chance was to get the young man talking.

#

Before they began the interview in the afternoon, the two detectives had made preparations for a concerted onslaught on the psyche of the killer. As usual he said nothing. Barney opened the file before him. The top page was a photocopy of his Nizam Kavur identities. It was a single sheet compilation of his passport, driver’s license, visa and Amex cards. Barney pointedly placed that to one side. He then silently but explicitly placed a photograph of Dave Combley in front of Ben Pubben, alias, Nizam Kavur.

The picture of Daisy showed three days of bloated putrefaction and after being partly eaten by the starving cat. Nizam examined it and looked away in revulsion.

Barney produced another picture, this one of a blow-up of burned blotches on the skin of Daisy’s chest. Nizam just raised his eyebrows. So Barney dropped the plastic evidence bag containing squashed cigarette butts onto the photo and a sheet of paper headed “DNA Analysis”.

The next two pictures were of a close-up of the bullet hole in the forehead, side by side with the striation pattern of a mangled bullet. Onto this display was placed the evidence bag containing a small pistol, followed by a sheet of paper with Nizam’s photo inset above his fingerprint record.

Nothing had been said by any of the three men seated there.

“You still have the option of using an interpreter and a lawyer at any time,” began Barney.

“What we have here,” continued Zep. “is the absolute DNA proof that your partner tortured this victim with cigarette burns. Then you used your small leg holstered gun to execute the man. That is certain.”

Zep glanced at the next page that had the photographs of two machine pistols, a small pile of bullets and a series of striation patterns. He then stared straight into the face of the prisoner, and spoke with the venom of the person who had been on the receiving end of bullets from those same pistols. “Bullets recovered out at Rat Island place both you and your partner as the persons who were shooting at us two police officers with those two machine pistols. We have Kevlar vests with bullet markings in the chests to show that your intentions were to kill. At Northampton you were only prevented at the last minute from killing again with those same machine pistols.

“You’ll be charged with two murders and two attempted murders. Each murder conviction will carry a twenty years sentence before parole. The attempted murder of a policeman carries a maximum sentence of twenty-five years, but is usually from ten to twenty years depending on severity. Your case is close to the top range. You could be given a ninety year jail sentence.” Zep spoke as though this long sentence would please him, a just reward for being the one who was being shot at. He continued a little less passionately.

“If you’re lucky the judge may make the two murder sentences concurrent and give you the minimum for attempted murders of just ten years. The least you’ll be facing is a sentence of thirty years. You’ll be over fifty by the time you see the outside of prison.

“As Allah wishes. I have done my duty,” Nizam’s deep defiant tones echoed in the confines of the stark interview room.

“Ah, so you do speak English,” was Barney’s reply.

“I spent three years in an Australian high school, until I was fifteen. I know your ways. That is all I am saying,” concluded Nizam.

“Murder and torture is not a duty,” stressed Zep, as Barney collected the evidence together. The interview was terminated. They had started him talking and he spoke English. The battle would be resumed later.

Chapter 33

Fozzy’s Second Story – Tuesday Morning

Glynn Foster had spent two nights at Northampton Hospital. The first one was directly following emergency surgery that removed the remnant spear through his calf muscle. He was partially lucky in that it had missed the main peroneal leg artery, but it did slice the vein apart. A long session of microscopic surgery solved the problem, but it meant he was off his leg for a few weeks. The second day was spent in the Northampton Hospital recovery ward wearing off the effects of the anaesthetic. He was also kept there under observation just in case the old wooden spear tip, hardened in fire and ashes, had introduced any unwanted toxins into his system.

Still under armed guard, he was moved to Geraldton early on the Tuesday and was installed in a secure room in the recovery-ward in Geraldton Hospital for a couple of days. It was deemed that a prison cell was not appropriate, and his own home - the murder house - was definitely out too. Also there was nobody around to nurse him until his girlfriend, Elise Basini, was able to come up from Perth. So, late Tuesday morning, he was escorted from the hospital to the police station for an interview, with a wheel chair provided for his mobility.

“Good news Mr Foster,” announced Barney, as he and Zep seated themselves opposite his wheelchair in the interview room. The video camera was running, and he had been warned of his rights. “The charge of murder has been dropped. You are no longer classified as a killer.”

“Then why am I here?” Fozzy inquired innocently, running each hand alternately down the wheels of his chair so that he half rotated side-to-side.

Barney ran his eyes down the single page in front of him and said clearly and methodically, “The criminal charges you will face are:- setting a man-trap, threatening to incinerate two police officers, escaping police custody while under arrest. All of which, as a lawyer you will know, can accumulate to a prison sentence. We can also add the civil offence of failing to report two murders, and the cultural offence of invasion of a sacred site, but these may be just heavy fines.”

“But I was running for my life. You both now know that,” pleaded Fozzy. He stopped moving and squarely faced them.

“These few charges are quite minimal compared to the final ones of trafficking in heroin and dealing in a Class A Prohibited Substance,” proclaimed Zep as he slapped both palms on the desk between them. “Your drugs killed one person and had two others near death, both of them school children. Are you sure you don’t want a criminal lawyer here to assist in your defence? This charge is a long way from the divorce courts you have been accustomed to.”

“I found the drugs,” Glynn Foster bellowed out. “They were not mine. All this happened because I found the drugs.”

“Then tell us all about them,” pressed Zep.

“It’s a long story,” Fozzy began his explanation. “I’ve got my pots to pull every morning, you see. It’s in my blood. This way I get the best of both worlds, being a lawyer and going crayfishing. There’s nothing like being out on the ocean at dawn, fresh air, peaceful and with the anticipation of the daily catch.

“Our dad showed us a great cray spot when he was alive. Some of the professionals use it early in the season, but then it becomes more profitable for them to move out to the Abrolhos. It is a mound about five kilometres out, a bit too far for most amateurs, but my cruiser is designed for it, bigger and faster.” He squared his shoulders and sat up straighter in the wheelchair showing obvious pride in his boat.

“That’s why I keep it in the Marina rather than boat ramp it every day. I can go immediately and precisely to that mound using GPS, and it has never let me down.”

“Is this story going anywhere?” grumbled Zep. Fozzy ignored him and continued his narrative. He had a university degree in speaking and a captive audience in this interview room.

“This particular morning, about a week before the close of the crayfish season, I was out on the mound and had pulled my pots, as usual getting more than my quota. I threw all the small kakkas away and some of the smallest legal sized ones in order to keep down to the quota. I had to do that because lately the fisheries inspectors had been seen around the boat ramps. Anyway I had just finished baiting up and threw my two pots back in, when I noticed this white float some half a kilometre out to sea. It was a strange place to drop a craypot, because it was over the edge of the mound and bloody deep out there. So I checked it out.”

Fozzy was in his element. He was on trial, giving his own evidence, in his own court, so he hammed it up, performing court room style. There were only two members in his audience, and they were not amused.

“Get to the point,” cut in Zep. Fozzy again ignored the interruption.

“I looked all around and there was no one about, nobody visible between me and the shore, so all curious-like, I pulled the pot. I wanted to know how deep it was set, and if there were any crays down that far. I’d only dragged it up about five fathoms when this package surfaced, attached by a clip to a ring in the rope. It was all plastic wrapped and looked like white flour inside. I knew immediately that it was drugs, but I couldn’t help myself from unclipping it.”

At the first mention of the drugs, Barney and Zep sat up and became a lot more interested in Fozzy’s ramblings.

“I didn’t finish checking that pot, but cleared out right quick. I got almost all the way back to shore and that’s when I saw those two men in the other small cabin cruiser. They must’ve just launched from the boat ramp in town, near the harbour. As soon as I’d tied up, I grabbed my backpack and stuffed the package inside. It weighed a ton, probably about five or six kilos.

Zep frowned and Barney raised his eyebrows. This volume was unexpected news. Fozzy blissfully continued his story.

“I got out my tackle box and flick rod, for appearances, and took off along the Marina wall. I went as far as the northern breakwater so that I could have a good look inside the plastic pack in a quiet spot without any interruptions. When I broke the seal on the waterproof wrapper there were five smaller waterproofed packages. I estimated each to be about a kilogram.”

Glynn Foster held out a hand, palm up and jiggled it up and down, indicating how he estimated the weight.

“I used my fishing knife to dig into the plastic of one of the packets, dug out some powder, smelled it and put a small dab on my tongue like they do in movies. I don’t know what heroin smells or tastes like but within a short time I felt a bit of a buzz, so I was pretty sure it was the real thing.

“I wanted more to be able to test it somehow, somewhere else, so I tipped out a load of hooks from a clip-lock plastic packet and filled it with powder. It was quite difficult to pour it out through the knife hole, so I propped the empty packet in the tackle box and carefully squeezed the powder out into it. I managed quite well with very little spillage.”

Barney and Zep listened intently, their body language encouraging Fozzy to keep on going uninterrupted. Their questions for clarity could come later.

“I kept that little packet in my tackle box and then buried the backpack with rest of the stuff into the base of a sand dune above the high water mark on the beach just north of the Marina. I figured that nobody would dig that close to the dunes to make sandcastles, and the packages inside my backpack were supposedly waterproofed even if the underground water level rose up through the sand.”

“What?” exclaimed Zep, sitting bolt upright. “Are you saying that there is five kilograms of heroin still buried in the dunes?”

“Yep.”

“Interview suspended at 10:44 a.m.,” declared Zep, his own chair fell backwards as he stood and spun Fozzy in his wheel chair towards the door. “Barney. Grab raincoats and pick up a shovel as we leave? Let’s go.” Barney reached over and clicked off the recorder and ran after them.

In a little under an hour, Zep was struggling to push the wheel chair back through the damp sand as they were returning from the beach to the car. The cold wind contained particles of spray, whipped up as the waves crashed onto the marina wall. Within the short time they were on the beach, their clothes were dampened as it blew through them.

Barney was following carrying the backpack. He hefted it up and invited a response from no one in particular. “What do you reckon this is worth?”

Fozzy answered first with his guess, “About 50,000 dollars.”

Zep, wheezing hard with effort of pushing through sand, grunted, “For five kilos, one and a half million in its pure state.”

Fozzy turned around and gaped at him. “That much for just that?” he exclaimed astounded.

Zep stopped, turned the wheelchair around and found that pulling it was easier. He continued, “And fourteen on the street after it has been cut.”

“Fourteen million dollars?” whispered Glynn Foster.

“Also, probably a few dozen lives and hundreds of ruined individuals, many hours of hospital time and many months of social work,” added Zep. “Then there is police time, court time and jail time for the distribution networks. That is an expensive bag of trouble. Let’s get it back into a secure lockup.”

When they returned to the station, the bag was given to forensics for analysis before being locked away. The three of them resumed their places in the interview room, and turned up the room heater. Glynn Foster blithely continued his confession.

“After I buried the drugs, I began fishing on the northern breakwater for a while, just for appearances. It was then that I saw my brother’s crayboat Fizzogg arriving, so I packed up my fishing gear and walked around the Marina to see him. I left my fishing gear on the jetty close to the crayboat as I climbed aboard looking for my brother, but there was nobody there. Even Paul and Nathan Clarke, the two deckies, had cleared out.

“Then across the water I saw my brother heading to my own cruiser. He must have gone around through town so we would have bypassed each other. He was down inside my boat, and climbing out, when these two men grabbed him and pushed him back and took off, as I told you before.”

“Keep going,” urged Barney. “Tell it again. This one’s for the video recording.”

Fozzy was happy to keep talking, but his voice was now full of sorrow.

“I didn’t know whether to start up and chase them or not. I had worked with my father and brother quite often so I knew how to fully operate that crayboat. But I wasn’t sure whether these heavies were armed, and they had just kidnapped my brother who looked like me and was on my boat. I decided to wait it out, grabbed a beer or two from the fridge and watched from the bridge of the Fizzogg. Two hours later my cruiser returned, but no brother. I waited until the thugs had left, went to my own cruiser and took off to search out there. Six hours searching. Nothing.” He grabbed a tissue, wiped his teary eyes and blew his nose.

“And to top it off,” he sniffed. “By the time I got back to my fishing gear at Stan’s boat, some cheap bastard had stolen it, with that small packet of drugs inside.”

“We now know that your brother was tortured and killed over those drugs,” interrupted Zep. “Obviously they wanted you, and they tortured him to find out all they could about you, and then dumped him over the side. We didn’t find enough of a body to determine how he died.”

“I know that now,” Fozzy sniffed again. “It was all my fault. Dave Combley was tortured too in an attempt to try to find me. I saw all those cigarette burns and the bullet hole. Horrible,” he shuddered involuntarily. “It was then that I fully realised they were after me, so I went into hiding. First I hid out on the crayboat until the cray season ended and Rat Island was deserted. Then I hid on Rat.”

“Why the man-trap?” demanded Barney.

“I had no weapons, so I had to figure out some defence against two men if they came looking for me. The bullet hole in Daisy’s forehead said they had a gun, and were willing to kill. I wasn’t armed.

I fitted out the old wooden building so that there was only one entrance, and a smoking fire just enough to be visible. I removed the handle to make it a one way lock. The diesel fuel and petrol I got from jerrycans at the store and the extra cross-bar to seal the door was easy to attach by using a battery driven drill and screws. I had intended to disarm them and bring them in to justice, but if it had to be, I was prepared to strike the match and take the consequences.”

“Hmmm,” murmured Zep in disapproval. “Later, when you were under arrest on the jetty, and as soon as the firing started, you fled the island. Hence the charge of escaping police custody when under arrest.”

“I saw you both hit in the body and go down. There’s no way I was going to stay around without protection from you blokes. They had machine pistols and by the accuracy of their shooting, they knew how to use them.”

“Where’d you go?” questioned Barney. “The Air-Sea Search and Rescue failed to spot you next day.”

“I left the islands during the night, and headed north for quite a ways, then circled around and made for Horrocks Beach. There’s a jetty there, so I tied up and snuck over to the Clarke brother’s house, my brother’s deck hands. We’re all good mates from when I occasionally work on the crayboat with Stan, and the Clarke parents are like friends of the family. They all helped me out that night.”

Glynn helped himself to a glass of water and drank half of it in one swallow. Continuous talking was thirsty work.

“Paul and Nathan drove the crayboat back to the Marina early before dawn. They’d done enough skippering to know the Fizzogg pretty well. They were both hoping to get a skipper’s ticket as soon as they turned twenty one, so they’ve been practicing steering and navigation with Stan’s help. Stan’s car keys were still on the rack in the crayboat and the car was stored in a shared garage lockup with the Clarke’s car, so they knew where to find it. They drove Stan’s car home and it’s now hidden in their garage in Horrocks.”

“Ah – h,” murmured Barney, as one of their puzzles was solved. Zep glared at him for the interruption.

“I considered that with the boat back in the Marina, the search would be centred in and around Geraldton, and likely extend down to Perth. Doing it that way I figured that Horrocks wouldn’t rate a second thought.

“The old man, Julius Clarke, told me the place to hide. He’d grown up, the son of a crayman, in Horrocks and as a kid had found a new cave in the limestone hills near the mouth of the Bowes River. It’s in the hills opposite the well-known Willigulli Caves that were used as a campsite by the early Aboriginals. It was quite eerie so young Jules never went far into it, enough to see it was an Aboriginal spirit cave and so he left it alone and didn’t talk about it.”

Barney nodded wisely in agreement, remembering how he had briefly seen the inside of the cave of bones with his torch.

“With my emergency situation, he decided he needed to reveal its location, and told me how to find it. Mrs Clarke prepared a sleeping swag and a bag of food. I was prepared to last for weeks on iron rations and then to use Stan’s car to flee to the East. That’s until Joey turned out to be there already.”

#

With Fozzy declaring a drug haul of that magnitude and the prisoner admitting to Islamic Jihad actions, Barney and Zep issued the warnings. They spent the rest of the day on the phone, using faxes and writing up reports. They contacted the Australian Federal Police, Interpol and the American CIA. Detailed information was passed on about the drug runners using false passports, Turkish Visa accounts and the American Express Gold Cards. If this was a terrorist organised drug syndicate, then these national and international authorities had their own extensive infrastructure, and the clout to call on the rest of the world for assistance.

Zep made a direct call to the Turkish Embassy to make them aware of the fact that the false passports were being used for international drug trafficking. He also suggested that any return information on the bank accounts, Visa and Amex cards for these two terrorists, would assist them in eliminating the dishonour of any Turkish connection.

Chapter 34

Breaking Down a Killer – Wednesday Morning

“How’s the arm healing?” enquired Barney as he sat face to face with Nizam Kavur, aka Ben Pubben.

The prisoner made an almost imperceptive nod of the head and watched disinterestedly as Zep switched on the video camera and got comfortable in the chair beside Barney.

“You have not requested a lawyer yet, so we’ll continue here with just the three of us,” said Barney. “As soon as you decide that you need one, we will arrange it.”

“We’ll have to call you Nizam until you tell us your real name,” admitted Zep. “We now know your driver’s licence uses one set of false names and your passport, under a different name, is also false. Interpol are working on your banking accounts, so it shouldn’t be too long before they track down your real name.”

“Now,” began Barney, taking the lead. “Further evidence has come to light. You and your partner were involved in the trafficking of heroin and we have witnesses. The sentence for that carries a maximum of twenty-five years, but this is usually only fifteen to twenty years, depending on the amount of drugs. Your package was a large importation. The drugs were responsible for the death of an elderly man, and nearly killed two children, so you will also be charged with supplying drugs leading to these events. This is at least another fifteen years. All up, you’ll face a minimum, repeat minimum, of sixty years in jail before parole. You will die in prison.”

“It is Allah’s will,” shrugged the prisoner.

“Let me tell you about Australian prisons?” Zep took over. “We don’t starve our prisoners or treat them badly. You’ll be given a nice comfortable bed in a cell. The food is well prepared western food, and lots of it. You will get bacon and eggs every morning, pea and ham soup or pork and beans on toast for lunch, maybe even ham and cheese and salad sandwiches, and then pork steaks or sweet and sour pork for many of the evening meals.”

“You don’t scare me into having to starve instead of eating pig,” snapped the killer. “The Quran in 2:173 says ‘That which is necessary makes the forbidden permissible’, so I am allowed to eat swine to survive.”

He had made another small step towards opening up and talking to them. Barney and Zep looked at each other and mentally made high fives.

“But Allah forbids,” confirmed Zep, “and so the Quran makes it unlawful to eat pork as it is believed to be filthy, because the pig eats everything including human faeces and carrion. Swine flesh breeds diseases that are easily transferred over to man. Your internal body organs will be made very filthy after sixty years of pork.”

“So be it,” he smirked.

Barney broke in on cue. “When you die in prison, your body will be so old and so filthy, that when you reach “Paradise” you will not be acceptable to the virgins that are waiting there for you. And you certainly will not be young enough to perform for them.”

“So be it,” he murmured quietly.

There was a chink appearing in his armour. Did his faith in his religion have a weak spot?

Zep continued. “Our prisons are also very modern facilities. We don’t have shackles and chains. We have every cell facing large open-plan cell blocks. There are big mess halls for dining and common shower blocks. Normal prisoners are allowed to inter-mingle all day, but are locked up at night usually with one other cellmate. This sometimes does allow gangs or power groups to form among the inmates but that is more preferable than every prisoner being alone and going stir crazy.

“You are small and not very powerful without your machine pistol. By the time you die in prison you will have been loved by so many men that you will not know what women are. You won’t see another woman until after you die. The beautiful virgins in “Paradise” will probably not appeal to you anymore and they may not want you, a man’s plaything.”

Barney took over and going way over the top with these stories. He added, “In fact, some of the vicious long term murderers cut the penis off the small prisoners, so that they will never be men again, just a bitch.”

Zep was having trouble controlling an outburst of laughter, but the prisoner was squirming uncomfortably.

“So you see Nizam,” Zep cut in before Barney went too far, and spoke soothingly with his serious but condescending tone. “You will end up inside prison with the long term vicious prisoners. We can do nothing for you unless you help us. If you help us to catch the ring leaders of the drug smugglers we can get you classified as a State’s Evidence witness with a much reduced sentence. You’ll still serve jail time, but how much time depends on how much help you are to us.”

The two detectives paused, watching, allowing the argument to sink in. The ‘coup de grace’ was now to follow and Zep had timed it perfectly.

“The law says you must be provided with a lawyer if you have none of your own. We know nothing about you and you haven’t told us whether you have the friends or the funds to pay for legal representation. Once we establish who you are, you will be able to communicate and organise funding for your own lawyer, who may be able to get you a very light sentence. But at this stage, by law, you’ll have a lawyer appointed by the State.

In came Fozzy in his wheel chair. “Glynn Foster, lawyer,” he introduced himself.

“No!” screamed the man they knew as Nizam Kavur. “My name is Ahmed Nadeem. I am a citizen of Saudi Arabia.”

#

The interview resumed four hours later, with Ahmed now flanked by a real criminal lawyer, urgently flown in from Perth, at the expense of the Saudi government.

“I am the youngest son of a textile merchant in Riyadh in Saudi Arabia,” His voice was soft and pensive as he carefully chose his words. “As a boy I was sent to a school in Perth to learn English and the Western ways. My father wanted me to be able to buy and sell in the European markets and in Australia and North America.

“When I was just fifteen at school in Australia, my father was visiting Pakistan with my older sister to buy textiles. They were both killed there by an American drone rocket when a terrorist was targeted. It was said to be collateral damage and the Americans were terribly sorry it had happened to two innocent people, but I was enraged.”

Barney and Zep projected their body language to show partial interest, but with relaxed postures. They didn’t want to appear too eager, trying to make Ahmed feel that he was the one in control. They let him tell his story.

“I returned home to help my two brothers to continue to run the textile business. One day I was approached by an emissary of Al-Qaeda. He asked me whether I wanted to avenge the murder of my father by the Western forces. I was aged sixteen when I went with them to Yemen, to a mountain training camp near Abyan, to undertake military training and learn much more about Allah’s will and the teachings of the Quran.

“I was there for two years, learning to be a soldier for Al-Qaeda, with much weapons training. I was also a tutor helping the English teacher so that many of my fellow trainees could speak some of the language. My partner Demir, I don’t know his real name, was one of my tutorial group, but from him I learned much more. He taught me to drive and to use a power boat and how to act like an older man in social situations. I am nineteen years old, but all my false documents say twenty two years. When we were ready we were all issued with false Turkish travelling identities, and some also got Australian driver’s licences and boating licences.”

“All? Ready?” queried Zep, to get more details. “How many were there training with you?”

“About forty young men were training in the camp. Some left early and some arrived later. Most of us were trained for behind-the-lines, covert operations like this one.”

“Your false passport says that you have been to Australia recently. Why was that?” Barney asked.

“We have a contact who has been here for six months organising a local business front as a luxury car importer. Secretly he is establishing connections in the local drug gangs. He came in on a long term “rich businessman” visa, supposedly with exorbitant funds to invest in this country. We came to Perth together, with another courier bringing in a small sample of drugs. I was on a one month tourist visa. I went to work with him, and learned how I could fit into that job later. My strength in the English language would be valuable later as a local organiser. I was going to come here for more financial training with him on my next trip.

“The drugs we were supposed to collect in Geraldton were to be given to this organiser in Perth for him to distribute. He would use his new local drug connections to pass on the drugs to them to re-sell into their normal markets. He would collect the payments, either digitally into his new luxury cars business account, or in cash and he would then bank the money.”

“That would have resulted in a lot of money collected,” commented Zep. “What will he do with it all?”

“In digital form he will organise the funds to go off-shore using international transfers such as internet banking, B-Pay and Paypal to an international account. Using his recently set up business front, he would be able to transfer tens of thousands of dollars monthly to his parent company as supposed payment for expensive imported cars and spare parts.

“If he got cash, he would visit many widespread bank branches to make cash deposits to top up established overseas Visa, MasterCard or Amex accounts. Putting in a few thousand with each deposit, it was dribs and drabs, but he could send out around $150,000 per month, using both digital or cash transfers. Within six months he would have sent the $750,000 that was to be collected for the drugs.”

“But that is only a small part of its real market value,” insisted Zep in disbelief.

“We wanted to flood the market with drugs, not make the full cash value. Large amounts of cheap drugs on the street of a western country would drain the strength of that country. It would also create a much larger market for future shipments and then we could plan for many alternative delivery methods, and get bigger profits later.”

“Your local contact has been here for six months preparing for the drugs arrival. Did you come to Perth with him on the same flight six months ago?” questioned Barney.

“Yes.”

“His name?” requested Zep.

“I don’t know his real name, or even his passport name that he uses to come and go from Australia, but his business name is Barry Cronin,” confirmed Ahmed Nadeem.

For the second half of the interview he was questioned on his movements around Geraldton. He grudgingly admitted that he had shot David Combley. His partner had killed Stan Foster, shooting him in the water after he was thrown overboard.

“We were desperate. It was necessary to find the man who had stolen our shipment. We could leave no witnesses,” justified Ahmed. “We were already late in delivering it, and questions were being asked about our commitment to the cause. We only had a few more days before we would be sent home in disgrace, maybe even executed ourselves for failing in our holy mission.”

Chapter 35

Shipping Intelligence – Thursday Morning

“So where are we?” Zep posed the question. They needed to properly analyse what had been extracted from the sequence of interviews, both with Foster and with Ahmed Nadeem.

“The drugs have appeared somehow on the buoy, so they must’ve been deposited there by a passing ship or a small fishing vessel,” claimed Barney. “That’s almost certain.”

“It’s probably not one that had entered the harbour, otherwise they would just bring them in, and run them ashore,” countered Zep.

“Although by offloading them outside the harbour, it meant they wouldn’t have to face the sniffer dogs of the port’s drug security detail,” deliberated Barney.

“I know that all big ships are identifiable, and their movements are known to the port authorities,” went on Zep. “So we can find out which ones moved in and out of harbour from the Australian Maritime Safety Authority, the AMSA, here in Geraldton.”

“So we start there?” Barney reasoned.

Thirty minutes later, Barney and Zep appeared at the Geraldton offices of AMSA in Foreshore Drive to enquire about ship routes and locations as they entered and left the port. By producing their credentials at the front desk, and requesting to see the senior officer, they were escorted to meet Lieutenant Kim Holland, the officer in charge of the Geraldton facilities.

After they explained the purpose for the visit, the O.I.C. agreed to show them the online Vessel Tracking Automatic Identification System, the VTA-IS. It involved a large display LCD screen on the wall, showing computer images of dozens of dots around Geraldton and the Mid-West Coast. Each had a direction arrow, and showed a coloured label to identify each type of ship. To explain the VT-AIS, he took over the control of the computer from the young female operator who then joined the only other staff member in the office, and each was now seated on a comfortable swivel chair to watch the performance of their CO.

The heartiness, with which Lieutenant Holland explained the system, demonstrated how much he enjoyed his job and how proud he was of its operations. “If we move the cursor onto the label it expands to identify the boat. A single click and we are provided with full details of the ship. We have both real time viewing and historical vessel track-analysis to support maritime safety, environmental protection, search and rescue, traffic volume control and border protection. AMSA officially monitors every ship inside the 200 nautical mile Australian zone. In actual fact, the VT-AIS records the data for ships up to 1000 nautical miles from the coast, incoming and outgoing.”

He waved the computer cursor over a cloud of smaller dots in and around Geraldton Harbour. “The exceptions are the hundreds of pleasure craft and small fishing boats that are within five kilometres of the coast. These are just too numerous and too small to keep track of. But any boat of reasonable size is registered, and officially tagged with an On-board Position Locator, an OPL, as a condition of their licence, and then tracked. This now includes professional crayboats and fishing trawlers. They are about the same size as the people-smuggler’s boats. Any unregistered or untagged boat showing on radar is immediately flagged, and if necessary is intercepted.”

“Why didn’t we know about this development in boat tracking when we were looking for Foster’s crayboat,” bemoaned Zep. “We would then have known to look in Horrocks at the Clarke’s residence.”

“That part of the system is much newer,” answered the CO. “It was deemed necessary with the arrival of the smaller people smuggling boats, especially after the one that sailed undetected into Geraldton Harbour.”

“The drug shipment was dropped at the craypot buoy sometime before the early morning of 26^th of June,” said Barney, to focus back onto their current task. “The buoy was half a kilometre beyond the known shallows over a mound that crayboats use in the early part of the season. What do you have coming close to that location. It’s about six kilometres due West. We need vision for the days prior to that Thursday?”

Lieutenant Holland turned to the keyboard and skilfully began loading up images onto the wall display. By running historical data for the early season crayboats, he precisely located the mound, and then selected a position about the right distance further out. He inscribed a bright red circle to indicate the estimated location of the drug drop-off.

“There’s probably dozens of ships moving through Geraldton for, say, three days before Mr Foster found the drugs,” he remarked as he clicked the mouse, and the screen widened to show the harbour’s environment. Another few key strokes and it began to show vessel tracks going back in time from that date. He stopped the time counter after three days and began to forward the tracking. They all watched the screen at the bright red circle. No moving tracks of any big ship came close.

There were just a few boats entering Geraldton from the Abrolhos, a tourist cruiser to and from the islands, plus two other crayboats belonging to fishermen who had finished up before the end of the cray season. Stan Foster’s boat Fizzogg was not one of them, as he had arrived later that morning of the 26^th, which was after the drugs drop-off deadline.

“We can probably rule out those other small boats,” conceded Zep. “If they had drugs on board, they would land them with little difficulty. No reason to offload and double handle the shipment. What about big boats that came close enough?”

“Those two tracks are 60,000 tonne iron ore carriers to and from China coming down the inside passage,” explained Lieutenant Holland reading the serial numbers against the tracks. “They stayed and loaded at berths five and seven for about three days. That other track is a 35,000 tonne wheat ship from China going into berth two for two days and leaving south to top up at Kwinana on that outward-bound track. There was a 16,000 tonne mineral sands ship loading at berth four but its arrival and departure were outside your time frame. All other vessels used the outer shipping lanes to pass Geraldton, and were well out from the Abrolhos.

“All except that one,” added Lieutenant Holland, pointing to the trace of a ship coming slowly south, using the inside passage.

“What is it?” inquired Barney.

The maritime officer clicked the mouse onto the serial number at the tip of the moving trace and the details of the vessel named Shabnavaz were displayed across the bottom of the screen. He summarised them and read out. “She is an Iranian registered container freighter, about 1,200 tons, bound for Melbourne with unspecified cargo. She left Singapore eleven days earlier. Small and slow and probably using the inside passage because the waters are a little calmer. Let’s have a closer look at her.”

He toggled the mouse some more, and zoomed in on the track, and said, “The right time. She passed about four kilometres away from the bright red circle position of the buoy at around 1:00 a.m. on Thursday morning. The plot shows a straight track with continuous speed all the way.”

“So it was at night when no fishing boats were around.” Zep was thinking out loud. “Do you have any historical radar?”

“We have snapshot radar plots and we may have infrared satellite coverage if a satellite was operating in that sector during that time frame.” When the AMSA officer typed in a series of instructions, the screen showed a set of radar plots, giving them no further details other than the traces had already shown. Switching to infrared, the satellite working above at that time showed the ship’s infrared heat signature in a series of thumbnail photographs about an hour apart. He zoomed down onto one that was well north of Geraldton and began tracking slowly through the hourly photos, focussing down on the ship each time.

At the third shot, Barney cried out, “Stop. What’s that spot?”

Next to the ship was a miniscule white dot, but being already close to the maximum zoom they could not distinguish any further useful information.

“It looks like the heat signature of an outboard motor,” postulated Lieutenant Holland. “Perhaps from a lifeboat, but more likely it’s an inflatable, as they’re built to be more robust so they can be launched and retrieved even while a ship is still in motion.”

“But it’s still ten kilometres away from the position of the drug buoy,” argued Zep.

The Lieutenant described a possible scenario, “It would be much faster than the ship, so it could travel shore-wards to the buoy, do the drop and then catch up to the ship further south. The ship need never stop or slow down and doesn’t get any closer than four kilometres from the buoy, and so doesn’t display a variable track to any observers.”

“Let’s see the next photo, one hour later,” requested Barney. Five pairs of eyes looked at the ship’s trace due west of Geraldton, but ten kilometres out. The officer scanned down the image towards the expected buoy position just six kilometres out. All eyes followed and carefully inspected the infrared photograph.

“There,” pointed one of the young operators. She indicated a small white speck about three to four hundred metres seaward of the bright red circle on a vector heading back out to sea, so that it that would intersect the slow freighter further south. “It has been to the buoy and now is returning to the ship.”

“I guess that confirms the drop off,” announced Zep.

Lieutenant Holland switched the screen back to historical tracking and quickly ran the trace back to when the Shabnavaz first came under the VT-AIS. It was located about half way from Bali to the Australian mainland. He then ran a slow continuous trace on the ship.

“Strange,” he commented. “When it was first picked up approaching Australia from the north, she’s doing around ten knots, which would be close to her maximum continuous cruising speed. Her speed then decreased and increased as she moved around the coastline. Here she is, doing six knots off Karratha, then ten knots going past Carnarvon, six knots again at Geraldton, ten knots passing Fremantle, Albany and Esperance and six knots at Port Lincoln.”

Barney shouted, “Got it! Doing only six knots at Geraldton when the drugs were dropped was to allow the inflatable time to complete the mission. This wasn’t a single drop-off. They’ve done it before at Karratha and later at Port Lincoln, and we’ll probably find more drops further around the coast.”

Lieutenant Holland read the slow-downs from the screen as he followed the trace. “Slow at Port Lincoln, then she stopped at Melbourne as advertised, slowed again at Lakes Entrance, Newcastle, Cairns and finally rounds Cape York Peninsular, probably heading back through Indonesia to Singapore. It’s a drug run with a difference that keeps away from major cities, except for one Melbourne stopover.”

“Avoiding naval bases and radar installations and the big city security and customs patrols,” broke in Zep. “Each of those drop-off harbours is in a different State, but not a capital city, so no borders are crossed getting the drugs into the main city. All except Karratha, which is possibly the drop-off for the North-West mining centres and probably Darwin.”

“Can you give us the time stamp for each of the slow-down ports?” requested Barney taking out his notepad and pen.

“Certainly. Here’s the list.” The officer read off the time and date as he again traced the shop’s track around the coast. “Karratha around midnight on the 22^nd June, Geraldton at 1:00 a.m. on the 26^th June, Port Lincoln at 11:00 p.m. on the 3^rd July, Melbourne Harbour overnight on the 5^th July, Lakes Entrance at 2:00 a.m. on the 7^th July, Newcastle at 1:00 a.m. on the 9^th July and Cairns at 1:00 a.m. on the 15^th July. Every one of them was timed to be offshore around midnight or just after and the ship steamed up to ten knots or slowed down to ensure that it would be there at the right time.”

“What did she do in Melbourne?” queried Zep.

Lieutenant Holland adjusted the time scan and zoomed in to focus on the Shabnavaz’s movements while in Port Melbourne and gave his interpretation from the trace. “She anchored near the fuel depot and stayed there overnight. It’s likely that she was bunkered there by a fuel barge. She sailed around 9 a.m. next day without moving to a wharf and didn’t do any unloading or loading of containers. Because she didn’t berth, she was probably not given the once over by Customs and Excise, so wasn’t searched for drugs with sniffer dogs.”

“You said the port of origin was Singapore,” pondered Barney. “Where was she from before that?”

Lieutenant Holland immediately phoned his counterpart in the Singapore Shipping Authority. The reply he received told them that the ship was not who she pretended to be. “The Shabnavaz was not from Singapore. She came from Shabahar in Iran, near the Iranian and Pakistan border. She had merely anchored outside Singapore and refuelled overnight and then left for the Melbourne destination. That was how she was logged as ‘from Singapore’ in the Vessel Tracking register.”

“So where is she now?” inquired Barney.

The lieutenant keyed in a few strokes and the screen showed a flashing dot north of the Gulf of Carpentaria. “Her location at this time, around midday Western Standard Time, is about two hundred kilometres west of Cape York Peninsular, probably heading towards Singapore.”

“Then most likely on to Southern Yemen and the home of Al-Qaeda rebels,” suggested Zep.

Chapter 36

Ship to Ship Chase – Thursday Afternoon

Barney shut his eyes and began to nod his head and then shake it, nodded and shook. They all stared at him. He opened his eyes and gazed back. Then he spoke.

“Ten knots you say. Hmm. How fast is an Australian patrol boat, and is there a patrol boat in the vicinity of Darwin?”

“I see where you’re going,” acknowledged Lieutenant Holland reaching for the mouse to check the VT-AIS vessel tracker at Darwin. “There’s the HMAS Mildura out on patrol looking for people smugglers just north-west of Darwin. She is an Armidale Class patrol boat and can cruise at more than twenty-five knots. If she’s heading to Singapore, the Shabnavaz will be still be sailing in Australian waters for the next two days until she passes Darwin. That’s providing they are not spooked and run for it, north into Indonesian waters.”

The Lieutenant grabbed a calculator and within a minute he announced, “There are three scenarios.

“Firstly, if the ship turns north immediately it will be just a half day from the Moluccas in Indonesian waters, well before we can intercept her, and then we can’t touch her.

“Secondly, if the Shabnavaz maintains her present course and speed, the HMAS Mildura from Darwin can intercept her along her present line, covering the 1700 kilometres at a closing speed of thirty-five knots and will take about twenty-six hours.

“Thirdly, if the Shabnavaz continues on her present course for six more hours, before making any course change, we can catch her in open waters, no matter which way she goes. We need to get the Navy involved as soon as possible.”

He reached for the phone and rang the Navy. This task was far more important than AMSA’s usual call for a search and rescue mission, and the Navy was usually cooperative with those requests.

After the call, the officer explained it all to Barney and Zep. “We could only confirm a drop-off of five kilograms of heroin to the Navy, but with the story linking the ship to a possible thirty kilograms, they were very interested. They despatched the patrol boat HMAS Mildura immediately. International drug running onto Australian shores is within their brief. Even if the ship turns north after the six hours limit, we can still board her in open waters. The Third United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea, which we know as UNCLOS III of 1982, allows us to chase her under Article 110. Quote “Boarding of ships on the open sea involved in the illicit drug trade is permitted.” That’s as long as there is “hot pursuit”, where we’ve been chasing her from within Australian waters, even if she doesn’t know we are chasing her. Now all we can do is wait for a day or two.”

“Not even that,” remarked Barney. “We’ll know in six hours.”

Zep breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. He had everybody’s attention. “If the Geraldton drop was going to be five kilograms, judging by her slow-downs near the other ports, that ship has probably already landed twenty-five more kilograms of pure heroin. We have a major problem around Australia.”

#

Just six hours later, Zep phoned the AMSA officer to get an update on the pursuit.

“Good news,” was Lieutenant Holland’s first reply. “The ship has not changed course, so we’ll be able to intercept her in Australian waters, or just beyond. It’s still on a westerly course doing the usual ten knots. It looks like she’s headed for Darwin and not Singapore, so the shortest direct route stays well within the Australian 200 kilometre zone. The estimated intersection time will be late afternoon tomorrow. I’m not privy to the Navy’s tactics, so all I can do is monitor the positions of both the ships on the VT-AIS.”

“Great,” exclaimed Zep. “Will you be watching there all night?”

“No. I was only staying late in the office tonight waiting until that six hour deadline passed, but I’ll be keen to watch the unfolding of events tomorrow. We close down here in Geraldton overnight, and the system is monitored from both Fremantle and Sydney.

“I’ll be back on duty tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. and will phone you if there have been any new developments. If you want to come in and watch dots converging on my screen, you’re welcome to come in tomorrow. I estimate that contact will happen around 4:00 p.m.”

“Thanks,” replied Zep. “If we can get there, we’ll be there.”

#

A few hours before four the next afternoon, Lieutenant Holland rang Zep’s mobile.

“Four o’clock will be a bit premature fellows, I’m sorry to say,” apologised the Lieutenant. “It appears that the HMAS Mildura slowed down considerably, and the intercept will be at night. She looks like she’s currently doing about fifteen knots and her track looks just like any old freighter as she approaches the Shabnavaz. I reckon they will surprise her in the dark some time after 7:00 p.m. I’ll be staying here if you still want to come in and watch.”

“You betcha,” replied Zep. “We’ll be there.”

Barney rang Carleen to say that he’d be late home. As he talked on the phone he had an idea. “Hang on a minute,” he told Carleen, “I’ll ring you back shortly.”

He immediately phoned Lieutenant Holland at AMSA and asked, “Can I bring my girl in to watch too? She’s a Guardian Reporter, but can be very discrete if required.”

“Ok, but I’ll have final decision on anything that is published, and it will have to be approved by the Navy too,” the officer answered.

Barney then re-connected with Carleen again.

“Carleen, do you want to have a look at the Australian Maritime Safety Authority offices, and the vessel tracing screen they use?”

“When?”

“Seven o’clock at AMSA in Foreshore Drive.”

“I’ll be there.”

They arrived together at the AMSA office to watch the unfolding action. Barney and Zep were excited to be able to watch just two dots converge. Carleen was in awe of the tracking facilities that the AMSA used to monitor the shipping movements around the coast. She was also intrigued when she was told the reason that the three grown men were so keen on watching the two dots in the Gulf of Carpentaria.

Some two hours later, the dot representing the Shabnavaz was slowly approaching the position of the navigation buoy due north of Rimbija Island. This was the northern most tip of the long island peninsular jutting out into the Arafura Sea from Arnhem Land in the Northern Territory. It was around 9:00 p.m. in that time zone and probably quite dark. The dot representing the HMAS Mildura was approaching from the opposite direction. Four pairs of eyes in the AMSA office watched the screen intently to see any change in the pattern of the slow movement.

There was no front-on contact as the watchers had expected. Both dots veered right to starboard as per the rules of the sea and were passing each other. Then the Shabnavaz apparently stopped and the Mildura turned to catch her.

The two dots stayed together for an hour, before both moved off together towards Darwin, with the HMAS Mildura in the lead.

“I guess that’s all folks,” said the officer of AMSA, mimicking the end of the old loony-tunes cartoons.

“I don’t believe we all watched two dots on a computer screen for four hours and nobody complained,” grinned a delighted Barney. “Riveting stuff. We got her, Zep. We got the bastards.”

“I’m sorry, but you won’t be able to publish anything about this incident until it’s cleared by the Navy,” Lieutenant Holland insisted to Carleen.

“That’s okay. It’ll keep. Let’s go and eat. My treat,” prompted Carleen. They all joined her for a quick bite at Skeetas to thank the AMSA officer for his efforts and to celebrate the capture of the Shabnavaz.

#

The following afternoon there was a phone-call, a radio telephone, from a ship at sea to CIB Geraldton. It was the first mate of the HMAS Mildura.

“Am I speaking to Detectives Marcon and Merrick?” he enquired. Once it was confirmed that they both were listening, he continued. “I have been given permission to telephone you to thank you for putting all of us on to the Shabnavaz terrorist drug vessel. Well done.”

The deep voice continued, with the slightly modulated sound of the radio telephone. “We are just entering Darwin with the ship now and the Australian Federal Police will be waiting to take these terrorists away for questioning. They have been a very silent mob so far.”

“How did the capture go?” queried Barney. “We were monitoring your relative positions at the AMSA office here in town.”

“Interesting,” mused the first mate. “We may have to look into that aspect of naval security if we can be fully tracked by everyone on the mainland. However, to get back to the Shabnavaz, we had no trouble boarding. We sent out our two RHIB Zodiac inflatables earlier in the evening, so they would not be detected by that small ship’s radar. They were parked in the dark beside the navigation buoy north of Rimbija Island.” His voice faded and then returned, as some hiccup occurred in the satellite link.

“We timed the arrival of the Mildura to be at that precise position, but nearer the shore, and we displayed numerous ship’s lights as we passed, to attract the attention of the Shabnavaz. When we were all in line, the RHIBs closed in and eight armed assault personnel boarded using grappling hooked ladders. We put them silently onto both sides, so by the time they were aware of us, we were all over them.”

“So all over in one hit,” commented Barney over their speaker phone.

“Not quite,” was the reply. “One crewman from down below heard the furore above before we could secure that area. He rushed out onto the deck and ran towards the side of the ship with a package. Our assault team thought it may be a packet of Semtex or C4 so ordered him to stop and drop. He didn’t, so rather than taking the chance on him throwing a bomb at the RHIBs, they shot him.”

The first mate didn’t say whether the shot was fatal, and before either of his listeners could ask, he continued, “This is the main reason that I am phoning you. The supposed Semtex turned out to be a package of heroin, about ten kilograms. We actually intercepted one of the drop-offs before it reached the coast, thanks to your quick thinking and planning.”

“It was all due to the great help from Lieutenant Kim Holland, the local Officer in Charge of AMSA in Geraldton,” confirmed Zep.

“He will also be contacted and personally thanked. So gentlemen, thank you on behalf of the Navy. Over and out.”

Barney and Zep’s eyes met as the officer signed off, and they both grinned and nodded to each other.

#

Almost a week later the Australian Federal Police also contacted Barney and Zep. Again the call was taken over the speaker phone on Zep’s desk, so both could hear the conversation. Each man was relaxed, seated comfortably at their own desk.

“We have finally been able to get some information from the drug running terrorists that you were able to send our way,” the AFP inspector told them on the telephone. “The ten kilograms of heroin that we took off the intercepted Shabnavaz was due to be dropped off at Lakes Entrance, then split into two and sent to Melbourne and Launceston. That night the Bass Strait seas were horrendous, with a winter storm throwing up huge waves as we know it can. The drug terrorist’s inflatable craft could not be launched, and they had to continue sailing on between six to ten knots or risk drawing attention to themselves.”

“So why didn’t they drop off the drugs much earlier than Darwin?” questioned Barney in a loud voice so he could be clearly heard from his seat on the other side of the office desk.

“They thought about dropping it at Newcastle with the Sydney package, or at Cairns with the Brisbane package, but both of those were fully organised and they really didn’t want to compromise those arrangements. Instead they arranged for the original pick-up crew from Lakes Entrance to drive all the way to Darwin, where they would pick up their package there.”

“But wasn’t there already an arrangement for a drop there?” asked Zep.

“No,” replied the Federal Police Inspector. “Darwin is too well serviced by radar and Naval personnel. They didn’t want to chance it, until it became necessary after the Lakes Entrance failure.”

“It would’ve been dodgy,” agreed Barney. “How had they planned to bypass the port security?”

“The ship was to enter Darwin around 11:00 p.m. with the excuse of re-fuelling after last stopping in Melbourne. However, on the run down to Darwin, they were going to drop off the inflatable. It would hide in one of the many inlets at Melville Island until early next morning,” the officer paused, and then added. “That way the inflatable would not be associated with any ship’s trace and would possibly be too small for coastal surveillance to take any notice of it.”

His authoritative tones continued to ring out through the white desktop speakerphone.

“The inflatable would enter Darwin via one of the well-used boat ramps to the north of the town, where there are many others using those ramps. They had chosen Buffalo Creek, because if the pick-up crew had not arrived with a boat trailer, they were then going to go up the creek, pull the inflatable out of the water and wait in the bush.”

“Don’t they know that’s crocodile country?” chuckled Zep.

“We laughed when we heard that too,” chortled the AFP Inspector. “We thought about letting them try. It may have saved the taxpayers the cost of a very expensive and very public trial to prosecute the foreign drug traffickers. We are still uncertain whether to attach the label of terrorist to them for a trial, which they certainly are. It may reopen the death penalty argument for foreign terrorists and become another political hot potato. The Buffalo Creek option seemed the best way out of it.” The officer’s laughter at this totally improper option was infectious. Barney and Zep both grinned.

“So all up, we know that there were to be six deliveries in five states. Thanks to you we have scooped up the drugs due to be marketed in Western Australia, Victoria and Tasmania, so fifteen of the thirty kilograms of heroin have been accounted for. We now have to trace the rest of the shipments. We would like to thank you for being so aware and quick on the trail.”

“You’re welcome,” said Barney and Zep together.

Chapter 37

Follow the Money – Friday morning

The peaceful early morning in the two storied unit in Claremont was shattered as the front door was smashed aside. Thermal imaging scans had detected just one person, who was asleep in one of the upstairs bedrooms. He had no chance to escape from two floors up, and was arrested.

All the details about the local and international counter terrorist operations were fed back to Barney and Zep after they had been finalised during the following weeks. This was as a courtesy for their initial involvement in uncovering the full extent of the attack.

#

The TRG raid on the terrorist’s local headquarters was organised by the counter terrorist squad of the Australian Federal Police on the morning after the Shabnavaz was intercepted. They used the information extracted by Barney and Zep, to target Barry Cronin’s car importing company in Perth.

Cronin’s Claremont residence was also his office. A single computer desk and chair with one laptop computer sat in the corner of the kitchen-living room. This was seized. There was no need for desktop computers or filing cabinets in a virtual company set up on a very temporary basis.

Paperwork and files were almost non-existent. A few pieces of retail car mail and advertising were on the corner of the desk. These were the few industry connections laying pretence to this being a fully operational company. The remainder of his residence revealed little else. The spare bedrooms were set up for up to four guests, but there was no evidence of other permanent residents.

Cronin had made one massive blunder. In the laptop computer, he had used internet banking for forwarding digital transfers into overseas accounts. He had set up quick connections ready to access various BSBs, but did not have the time to delete them before being surprised. His laptop was seized and once his login password was bypassed his operations were dissected.

#

The National Counter Terrorist Committee, the NCTC, were immediately notified about those BSB’s representing several international accounts used by the terrorists. So now they could probably trace the owners of these accounts. Even if the actual owners turned out to be untraceable, the overseas accounts could possibly reveal digital transfers from other Australian drug operators. It would require the active cooperation of some well-known international banks.

A request, through Interpol, was sent to the overseas banks holding these accounts. One account belonged in the Asya Bank of Turkey. With the Turkish Embassy already in touch with the Turkish National Intelligence Agency, known as the M.I.T., the bank was approached with legal warrants on the falsified clients and they quickly obliged by releasing the account information of the drug terrorists. The reply came within eight hours.

Asya Bank found there were already large amounts of money being funnelled into that bank account, but these were quickly being transferred onwards into a Swiss account. One of the small contributors from overseas was confirmed to be Barry Cronin’s car importing company in Perth. The incoming BSB numbers for two other large depositors were confirmed as accounts registered at bank branches in two other Australian capital cities.

The Australian Federal Police, in conjunction with the police from each of the states, used court orders on these two BSB’s to get full information of the likely fake companies. These companies’ digital transactions were then meticulously scrutinised before any action was taken.

The terrorist drug operators dealt wholesale, and although the drug price was less than half the usual market price, they still needed to find the big local distributors. Contacting these traders and arranging for the large payments was taking time.

None of the drugs were available in Perth, Melbourne or Hobart because these had been intercepted. However, in the three other state’s capital cities, more than half the drug shipment was still unsold, and still in the hands of the terrorists. They were in the process of negotiating the sales.

In addition, incoming fund transfers into the terrorist operator’s accounts revealed some of the local major drug purchaser’s accounts. Working from the top down, massive raids rolled up quite a swag of traffickers and pushers, and also recovered further proportions of the drugs.

Sometime after the Asya Bank released details, two other Eastern European banks also gave up the account details of the terrorists. Further ripples expanded through all other Australian states. This second wave was not as successful as the first, as the terrorists had been warned and had begun to shut down their operator’s locations and abandon their accounts. There was still enough cheap smack on the streets to cause a lot of misery so it was only a partial victory for both sides.

#

Another positive spin-off from querying the accounts came from American Express. When pressure was applied from the US counter terrorist department of Homeland Security, the credit card company investigated how Amex cards could be issued to terrorists at a false address in Kubris Street in Ankara. It was verified that the address was not false, only the people were. There was an agent in residence at the address continually applying for Amex Cards under many different names, all with pre-organised fake IDs for that particular address and established accounts in reputable banks.

American Express ran checks on that Kubris Street address and revealed there were already twenty fake cards issued to that location. These were made inoperative and any queries on these were referred immediately to Interpol. Amex also checked their system for any other multiple cards from single addresses and, by systematically ruling out known apartment buildings and the like, they were able to close down another hundred or so false cards that were being used around the world.

American Express also contacted Asya Bank and other reputable banks that had established accounts with solid balances that had allowed the terrorists to gain access the Amex Cards. The fake ID’s and fake addresses of over 120 terrorists were checked by those banks against accounts held, and these were all frozen indefinitely. Again, any queries on these accounts were referred immediately to Interpol. The banks were now sitting on millions in deposits that nobody could legitimately touch.

If Fozzy had not pulled someone else’s craypot, who knows what might have happened.

Chapter 38

Just Another Saturday – Saturday

The remains of Stanley Foster were cremated in a private ceremony at the Chapel in Utakarra Cemetery early on Saturday morning. His brother Glynn (Fozzy) Foster was accompanied only by his girlfriend, Elise Basini, and Barney, Zep and Carleen.

There were probably dozens of crayfishing mates who would have liked to pay their last respects to Stan, but Fozzy wanted a quiet cremation. A memorial wake would be held in the Gero Pub on the next Saturday for all the mates, with Fozzy promising to provide a sumptuous repast of food and drinks.

“He was the last of my family,” murmured Foster as the casket was finally conveyed away into the hole in the wall. “I’m leaving Geraldton. There’s too many bad memories for me to stay here now. I still have uncles, aunts and cousins in Perth and now I’ll have Elise with me. We’ll live in Stan’s house and my cruiser can be moored in the nearby Hillarys Boat Harbour. I’ll be able to crayfish and fish from there.”

“Leaving town, Eh. I don’t know about that,” frowned Zep seriously. “We haven’t decided whether we’ve finished with you on the issue of importing heroin. If you had handed it straight in, there would be two children still playing happily at school.”

“That’s the biggest regret of my life,” shuddered Foster with deep emotion. “Also, Stan and Dave wouldn’t have been killed. That’s why I have to leave Gero.” His shoulders dropped and his head was bowed. “I have a chance of a fresh start, away from all those memories.”

The winter’s morning sun provided a little warmth, as the group strolled between the graves on the way back to their cars. Fozzy had perked up somewhat and was chatting about his plans for the future.

“Elise has talked her repossession company boss into allowing us to start a ‘WHUPT’ franchise in Joondalup, with Elise as the assessment agent and I’ll be the qualified lawyer to access the magistrates with the paperwork. I’ll also keep on doing divorce cases. There are ten times more repossessions and divorce cases in that north suburban mortgage belt than in Perth City or in Geraldton.” He took hold of Elise’s hand and kissed it tenderly.

“I figure we will need additional law partners and more assessment agents within a year or two. It will be a goldmine for us. ‘WHUPT’ will get their percentage too.”

“What’s going to happen to the crayboat?” questioned Barney.

“And the lease on Rat Island?” added Zep.

“I’m going to sell a half share in the company to the Clarkes. The old man, Julius Clarke is going to come out of early retirement and spend one or two seasons on Rat Island showing his two sons the crayfishing ropes. They should both be able to pick up their commercial skipper’s tickets within that time. Then the old man can retire again.”

The group paused as the cemetery gate was held open by Barney, for them to pass through. Fozzy was unstoppable once he had begun talking.

“They reckon they will pay off the half share of the boat within five to eight years. They probably will too. They’ll need to take on a decky or two. Joey Collard has a cousin in Northampton who has just finished year twelve, and wants to be a crayfisherman, so there’s one to start with.”

“Have you seen Sandy Comegain since the incident?” enquired Zep.

“Yeah, I saw him about buying that jabbing spear that saved all of our lives. He said it was now his lucky spear and would not part with it for anything in the world. He settled on $5,000.” Fozzy grinned, pleased at his powers of negotiation.

“He’s going to use that money to buy into a share of Jimmy Solong’s business of artefacts and performances. He says he’s now an ace at spear throwing, and is practising the boomerang with Jimmy. He played the didgeridoo for me, and he’s not bad at that. It should turn out okay for him.”

As they reached their cars, before going their separate ways, Fozzy paused and faced Barney and Zep, with a very serious expression on his face.

“That spear will be mounted in my lounge room to remind me how lucky I was to survive those three weeks and the people who helped me through it. Thanks guys.”

#

Later that Saturday morning, Carleen was wandering absent mindedly along Chapman Avenue, the main shopping street of Geraldton. Ahead of her, two young men closed ranks, stopped and turned around, forcing her to also pause. She looked up at them and recognition dawned on her. They were two of the youths from Perth who had promised to get even with her for her defensive attack on them. One of them still had a noticeable limp from her kick that had smashed his kneecap.

Before she could react to the frontal barrier she was grasped strongly from behind by the third youth. The limping lad moved in, avoiding her potentially lethal kick, and punched her in the face. She yelped in pain. The other young man moved in, intending to repeat the act.

“What’s going on?” hollered the young pharmacist racing out through the door of his shop. The pharmacist, Steve Tipping, recognised Carleen immediately. “Oi you three, leave her alone.”

“Piss off,” snarled one of the attackers. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

“It certainly is,” Steve replied. “Shane, Brad, Robbie,” he yelled loudly across the street to the set of a half a dozen shops. “Come over here.” Three young men emerged from different premises opposite.

“Todd, Wayne, Give us a hand.” Four young men sitting outside the coffee shop forty metres away stood up and wandered in. Four other similarly built pedestrians joined them.

“I have just made it all of our business,” emphasised Steve Tipping. “Let her go.”

“Who’re you?” scowled the man still holding her.

“These three gents are my team mates from Railways Football Club. Those two are from Towns Football Club, he’s from Northampton, these three are from Brigades Club and finally these two are from Greenough Rovers. Carleen is my mate’s girl.”

Steve stepped calmly forward and clasped the man’s forearms and exerted the strength of a league footballer onto the wrists of the young man, forcing him to loosen his grip. With Carleen free, Steve called the others to hold fast to the three attackers, who had no chance against the strength of fit young men. He then moved in, searched each and removed their wallets. From each he visibly extracted only their plastic driving licences and then threw the wallets to the ground in the middle of the group.

“Perth lads, I see,” observed Steve reading the addresses on the plastic cards. Returning into his shop momentarily, he returned with a coloured photocopy of all three licences on one sheet of paper, which he held aloft as he threw the licences down onto the wallets strewn across the footpath.

A police patrol car swerved into the curb and the two uniformed Constables Ian Barrett and Matt Winter got out and looked at the increasing crowd. “Steve. What’s up?” asked Barrett, picking out the man at the centre of the ruckus.

“A trio of Perth heavies pushing Carleen around. Give me a couple of minutes and then you can have them if you still want them.”

Trusting the level headedness of the local pharmacist, Constables Barrett and Winter leant back onto their car, folded their arms and watched.

“Let them go,” ordered Steve, with his pharmacist’s coat glowing blindingly bright in the midday sun. He then fixed his focus and spoke evenly at the three Perth men in the middle. “The lads that you have around you are representatives of some of the football fraternity in Geraldton. Behind these men are another 150 league football players, backed up by another 150 reserves and 150 colts players.” He stood tall, and waved his hand to encompass the wide world beyond.

“In addition there are several thousand past players and club members from each of the seven football clubs, totalling close to a quarter of the population of Geraldton, Northampton, Mullewa and Chapman Valley. You have just been seen assaulting Carleen, so have immediately made enemies of a very large proportion of that crowd.” His voice stayed quiet but his glowering eyes said it all.

“If Carleen is touched ever again, your car license photos and addresses will be enlarged and pinned up in every football club premises and around most of Geraldton too. You can expect visitors in Perth from any one of thousands of angry men.”

“Pick up your wallets and licenses and piss off. We look after our own up here. Carleen is a Gero girl.”

Chapter 39

End Game

“Whew. What a week that was,” Barney raised his glass. “Just last Sunday, Fozzy got speared and the two killers chasing him are now out of circulation. The Australian and international police forces are tracking down terrorists through their banking habits. We captured a shipload of drug running terrorists. Carleen got assaulted. And finally Joey got the invitation to attend the AFL training and assessment camp before the end of the year draft.”

Holding out his glass of beer, he said, “Here’s to a better future. Cheers,” and they all clinked glasses.

Barney and Carleen, Zep and Shirley, Joey and Polly all sat in a secluded corner of the Brigades Football Club lounge to enjoy a quiet drink. Railways had the bye that week, so they had all gone to see Joey’s Northampton defeat Brigades at Spalding Park, and followed up with a celebration drink.

Joey was asked to tell the story about the cave.

“This goes nowhere beyond this group,” he insisted, and received their assurances. “My tribal dreamtime tells of a white man found wandering in the bush, close to death. He was so white, they first thought he was a ghost. They fed and watered him while they decided whether to worship him, enslave him or just adopt him. Because he had some skills that they hadn’t seen before, they took him into the tribe.

“This white man was found near the cave of the ancients, where they kept the sacred message sticks and the musical instruments for special coroborees. There was another white man dead inside the sacred cave, and to avoid waking the spirits of the dead, they left the body there. I reckon they avoided the smell of decay for a few years, and used the cave only on great occasions. The bones have now been there untouched for a hundred years or more. When us young fellas get initiated we get to see into this cave of bones.

“There was a legacy from the dead man. They discovered that he had arrived with a lot of sharp stones, ideal for cutting and tattooing. The cave then also became the sacred cave for initiations. We have no circumcision in our tribe, but the cutting stones were perfect for tattooing, and the dark ochres around the cave are excellent dyes for the tattoos. The living white man was the first to use the stones to be tattooed in this sacred cave of bones.

“He married into the tribe and used his special skills to make strong grass ropes and sew hides together with leather thongs. Kangaroo skin is not thick so the clothes didn’t hold together for that long. This man they named Deccaman.

“I am in deep shit with the tribe because I let you know the place of the sacred cave. I will be punished, but I’ll argue I had to do it to get that other white man out. I know you two can be trusted, so the elders may go easy on me. Old Bradley says he’ll help me. But now I’ll have to find a way to make absolutely certain that Foster and the Clarke brothers don’t reveal the cave of bones.”

“I have already begun to do that,” interrupted Zep. “Glynn Foster could be facing a long prison sentence for landing five kilograms of heroin into Australia. He claims he found it, but he didn’t hand it in. It’s a prohibited substance and he knows it. He also broke open the waterproof seals, and poured some out into a packet that killed one person and put two children into life support, so he distributed the drugs that caused these results.” Zep paused, looked around the very attentive group, took a mouthful of beer and continued.

“The double murders were terrorist actions, and Ahmed Nadeem will be convicted on his full confession during the interview. I have offered Foster a stay of prosecution on the drugs issue if his knowledge about the cave of bones is never revealed. As a lawyer he knows that we will be able to discover enough evidence to convict him, even if it is stored for over fifty years.”

“Speaking of court, Sandy Comegain saved my life,” interrupted Barney. “So I really didn’t want to leave him at the mercy of Glynn Foster, just because he speared a lawyer. I have already told Fozzy that he had better not prosecute. He has to keep away from court because, as a witness to an assault of a prisoner in custody, I would be called upon. In court I would have to bring up all the events of the day – two previous murders, a fugitive from the law, armed terrorists in pursuit, protective custody, the police shootout - and again he would have to be charged with the drug issue.

He now knows that he has to keep quiet about the accidental spearing, lucky for Sandy. He is actually talking with Sandy and helping him to get on the straight and narrow so there should be no problems between Fozzy and Sandy.”

Zep resumed control of the conversation. “I should be able to convince the Clarke brothers to keep quiet about the cave. They could be charged with aiding and abetting a fugitive from the law. They deliberately drove that crayboat to Geraldton so that Foster would not be discovered. They were also unlicensed as skippers at that time, and both boys hope to get a commercial crayfishing license in the future. They wouldn’t want a charge of illegal use of a commercial crayboat ruining those hopes.”

Zep drained the remaining third of his glass, and was thinking of another, but Shirley shook her head. He looked to Barney, but he was busy with Carleen’s attention. So he continued, “Old Julius Clarke kept it secret for over fifty years, so I am certain that, with an appeal to the better nature of that family, they will let sacred stones lie and not reveal the location of the secret tribal vault. So the cave should remain safe.”

Barney looked at Carleen. “You have a great story. As an insider you know the full picture, but I’m sure that when you write it up there’ll be no mention of any cave. Might I suggest that Fozzy was hiding out in the back shed at the Clarke’s in Horrocks, and was found by Joey when he was looking for a place to hide out also.”

“That certainly sounds feasible,” agreed Carleen. “Although as a reporter I should be reporting the truth.”

“Then don’t report all the facts. Omit details and be safe,” argued Barney. “The hideout was ‘at Horrocks’, which it was, and leave it at that.”

“More betterer,” chuckled Carleen in agreement. “Because I am part of this group, I am in the position to be able to get the story, but I don’t want to offend anyone. And that includes the tribal elders with their sacred relicts. It also means that any mention of the Clarke family will be left out. I’ll do it ‘at Horrocks’, full stop. After all, I’m a Gero girl now.” She grinned, winking sideways at Barney.

“Thank you,” said Joey and he continued his story. “About twenty years ago, the tribal elders had a look at the sacred cutting stones. They sussed they were from a Europe to China trader, and were bits of an old broken ceramic pot or urn. They decided that the markings on one of the shards stood for ‘Venerable Old Chinese’ and it was likely being carried by the white-men going home from China in the last century.”

“V.O.C.,” squealed Carleen. “That’s not a hundred years old. It’s more likely 400 years old. That’s the Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie, the Dutch East India Company and those white men could have been off the Batavia in 1629. We have to find out.”

Joey became very fidgety and emotionally disturbed by the way this conversation was suddenly going. He had nightmarish visions of dozens of scientists traipsing through his tribe’s sacred cave: anthropologists, archaeologists, antiquarians, historians, museum curators, collectors. The location would be revealed to the entire world: convoys of cars, generators, lighting, cameras, shovels, sieves, TV crews and so on. Probably followed by tourists stomping about in their thousands.

“No!” he stood and shouted vehemently. “The tribe will never allow it.”

“But it’s a significant find in the history of this State,” quietly insisted Carleen. “We may be able to get DNA from that body in the cave and could try to match it to a family by using the records of the Dutch East India Company. There are Captain’s log books and crew’s lists for many of their early fleet that may reveal the identity of possible white men on the West Coast. Dutch family records are excellent.”

“Then you’ll have to do it without ever accessing the cave again,” insisted Joey firmly. With a little more composure, he sat down. “I’ll help you where I can. That survivor of the two white men had a name. He was called Deccaman because he said his name was Decca. If he was a 400 year old Dutchman, and not a hundred like we thought, you might still be able to find his Decca family history. You might even be able to track them through his DNA.”

“So you know where he is buried?” enquired Barney.

“No way. Tribal folklore don’t talk about that sort of records. But this man was taken in and married into the tribe. He was named Deccaman because of his white man’s name. At my own tribal initiation I was named Deccalari, because he was my direct ancestor.”

Joey sat straight upright and placed his strong hands onto his chest, and said proudly. “I carry his DNA.”