by Gary Gregor
“I know what it is,” Tracy interrupted.
“Surely you didn’t think you could get out through there, did you Tracy?”
Tracy shrugged. “I had to see for myself.”
“Let me save you the effort,” Garrett said. “The flu up there is about ten inches in diameter. There is no one in the room small enough to get up through there. Even if there was, he, or she, would still have to remove the fan from the top of the shaft. It’s impossible, Tracy. Anyone who tried would get stuck in there and eventually suffocate.”
“John wants his knife back,” Tracy said defiantly.
“Not gonna happen,” Garrett replied.
“We need more drinking water,” Tracy said.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Garrett said. He indicated the partially unscrewed air vent cover above Tracy’s head. “Try any more of that shit and there will be no more water, or anything else.” He turned abruptly, walked out through the door and closed it behind him.
Tracy stared at the closed door. The sound of the locking bolt sliding home echoed loudly in the silence of the prison-cell like room.
20
Russell Foley stared at the shimmering heat haze wavering on the far distant, north-western horizon. Hot, dry, inhospitable desert stretched out before him for hundreds of kilometres, all the way to the Western Australian border. His mind was filled with an eclectic collection of thoughts, none of which led him to anything resembling a conclusion. There had to be something out there. Some place where someone could keep twelve hostages without being discovered.
“What are you thinking about?” Sam Rose asked.
Foley turned and faced his partner. “Water and food,” he said.
“You’re thinking about water and food?”
Foley nodded. “Yeah. If they’re out there somewhere…” he waved his hand across the horizon… “they need water and food. This is the desert. Without water and food, they will all die.”
Sam paused for a few moments. “I’m guessing that such a contingency would have been considered by the baddies during the planning stage,” he said. “Besides, have you considered the possibility that they might already be dead?”
“I don’t want to consider that,” Foley answered.
“Neither do I, mate,” Sam said. “But, if we accept that they have not headed east towards Alice Springs, and we accept there is no place out there to hide them, what is the alternative?”
Foley shook his head and turned back to face the horizon. “I don’t know,” he said quietly.
“Maybe we are not being realistic enough,” Sam suggested. “Perhaps because we don’t want to face reality. The bus is a burnt-out shell, that’s a reality. If they were transported away in another vehicle, it had to be large enough to carry twelve people, that’s another reality. We know that no such vehicle has passed any of our road-blocks.” Sam paused momentarily before continuing. “We also know that it is not uncommon for kidnappers to kill their hostages, either before, or soon after, the money drop.”
Foley turned back to Sam. “Well, aren’t you just a bundle of positivity?” he said sarcastically.
“Reality, Russ. Reality. We really do have to face the possibility that the kids and their teacher may be dead. I don’t want that to be the case any more than you do, but look at what we’ve got. A burnt-out school bus, and not a single sighting of any place they could be held. We’ve got several cattle station aircraft in the air searching hundreds of square kilometres of country. We’ve got road-blocks set up on every road in, and out, of here and we’ve found nothing. Even if we consider they might have slipped through one of the road-blocks, our people north and south along the Stuart Highway have been alerted to be on the lookout. You have to admit there’s not a lot to be positive about.”
“Okay,” Foley said. “I will admit it’s not looking good. However, if they are all dead, there has to be twelve bodies lying out there in the desert somewhere. That’s got to be hard to miss given the low altitude the search planes will be flying. And, it’s only the second day. We haven’t even received the drop details yet.”
“No, we haven’t,” Sam agreed. “But the drop details are irrelevant because we both know there will be no ransom paid.”
“The kidnappers don’t know that,” Foley said.
“I just wanted us to be clear about all possibilities,” Sam said.
Foley patted his friend on the shoulder. “We are clear, mate. In the meantime, I suggest we treat this as a rescue mission as opposed to a recovery mission. I think the hostages are still alive. If this whole thing is as well planned and executed as we believe, the perps have to know we would want to see ‘proof of life’ before we ever agreed to any ransom demand.”
“I’m with you all the way, buddy.” Sam said. “So, what’s next?”
“I want to go to the Tilmouth Roadhouse,” Foley answered.
“Really, why?”
“I’m not sure,” Foley said. “The roadhouse is the nearest place to both Papunya and Haasts Bluff. Obviously, there are people there. If the perps went that way, someone may have seen something. They may have stopped for fuel, or supplies. Beyond the roadhouse is hundreds of k’s of nothing. They are transporting twelve hostages who all need to eat and drink. At different times they will need toilet facilities etcetera. It’s a long shot but we’ve got nothing else. I’ll call the chaps back at Haasts Bluff and let them know we will be late getting back.”
Cool, refreshing air, streaming from the vents in the powerful air-conditioning system inside the Tilmouth roadhouse, offered travelers brave enough to tackle the hostile environment along the length of the Tanami Track a welcome respite from the energy-sapping heat of a searing, central Australian desert day. As though in some bizarre contest with the cooling breeze, the odour of fast-food emanating from a long, glass-fronted bain-marie atop a long counter a few steps to the front of the entrance door, and designed specifically to assault the senses of the weary traveler, wafted through the roadhouse interior.
Having refueled their vehicle, Foley and Rose pushed through the front door and paused just inside.
Sam inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled loudly through his mouth. “Aaah…”
Foley turned to face Sam. “What the fuck was that?” he asked.
Sam smiled. “Roadhouse take-away, Russ! What could possibly smell better than that?”
“How about onions cooking on a barbeque at the local sewage treatment plant?” Foley suggested.
“You have got to be kidding! Don’t you just love the smell of piping hot junk food?”
“Not particularly,” Foley responded. “Probably been sitting in the display cabinet for two days. You never know what potentially life-threatening disease you might contract from eating that stuff. I never eat roadhouse junk food.”
“That’s because your idea of living dangerously is to put beetroot on your hamburger,” Sam commented. “And, may I remind you, hamburgers are considered junk food by those who know about healthy eating.”
“Every time I put beetroot on my hamburger, I wind up with it all down the front of my shirt. And, may I remind you, the hamburgers I eat are made with healthy, whole-grain bread.”
“Of course, that makes all the difference,” Sam said sarcastically.
“Let’s get a coffee,” Foley suggested.
“Coffee? It’s a zillion degrees outside and you want hot coffee?”
“Toughen up, cowboy,” Foley said. “This is the desert, of course it’s hot outside.”
“What’s wrong with a cold beer?”
“We’re working. You know I never drink alcohol when I’m on duty.”
Through a door with a small glass window fixed in the top half and obviously leading to a rear kitchen area, an attractive young girl appeared. She stepped forward and stood at one end of the food display and looked across the room at Foley and Rose. She was very pretty, with thick, shoulder-length, blonde hair cascading neatly onto her shoulders.
“
Wow!” Sam muttered softly.
“Behave yourself,” Foley ordered.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the girl greeted them. She smiled widely, displaying perfectly even white teeth. “Can I help you?”
Foley stepped forward, up to the counter, followed closely by Sam. “We would like to pay for fuel, and order two flat-white coffees please,” he said.
“Certainly, sir. Would you like the coffee to go?”
“No, we’ll have it here,” Foley answered. “I have a voucher for the fuel, and my friend will pay for the coffee.” He handed the girl a Northern Territory fuel voucher, stepped aside and Sam moved forward to the counter.
The girl smiled at Sam. “That will be nine dollars for the coffees, sir. You can sit in the dining area and I will bring them out to you.” Her voice was soft and her accent suggested northern Europe.
“Norwegian?” Sam guessed.
“Swedish,” the girl said. “I am from the city of Hudiksvall, on the Bothnia Gulf”
“Swedish,” Sam said. “I was close.”
“Sweden and Norway share a border,” the girl smiled.
“I don’t suppose your name is Gretel?”
“My name is Elsa,” she confirmed. Can I get you something to eat with your coffee?”
Sam glanced at the vast array of food in the display cabinet, and then at Foley. “You want something? A pie… a bucket of hot chips… or maybe a cream bun?”
“No, I’m good. Just the coffee will be fine,” Foley answered.
Sam looked back at the pretty Swedish girl and, along with the money for the coffees, he offered her his well-practiced, come hither smile. “Just the coffees, thank you.”
The girl indicated a large seating area at the far end of the room. “Thank you, I will bring your coffee in a few minutes.”
When Foley and Rose were seated, Foley said to his partner. “What were you doing?”
“What?”
“What were you doing? Were you hitting on her?”
“No, I wasn’t hitting on her, I was just making conversation.”
“Bullshit, you were hitting on her. I know you too well, Sam. You have a girlfriend. You can’t be hitting on every good-looking girl you see. What would Sarah say?”
“Sarah? What do you mean ‘what would Sarah say’?”
“You are still seeing Sarah, aren’t you?” Foley asked.
“Yes, of course I am. Every time she comes back into Alice Springs from Uluru.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be hitting on pretty backpacker girls working their way around Australia. Besides, she’s probably twenty years younger than you.”
“I wasn’t hitting on her,” Sam insisted. “Anyway, it was you who shoved me forward to pay for the coffee… again! Why am I always paying for the coffee?”
Foley smiled. “Because you are an idiot, and you love me,” he said.
“I love Sarah,” Sam said. “You, I tolerate.”
When the coffee arrived, it was, much to Sam’s disappointment, delivered by a man. As he approached their table, Foley leaned close to Sam and quietly said, “See, you frightened the girl off with your smarmy, lecherous look.”
“Smarmy? Lecherous? Who, me?” Sam asked.
“Button it, Sam,” Foley ordered.
“Gentlemen,” the man said as he placed the coffees in front of Foley and Rose. “Elsa told me you were with the police. I’m Gareth Dover, the manager here at Tilmouth. Is there anything I can do for you? I assume this is not a social visit. There were three of your colleagues here late yesterday. That’s more cops than we’ve seen out here in the last two years. No one comes way out here on a social visit.”
Foley offered his hand. “Russell Foley,” he said. “This is my partner, Sam Rose.”
The three men exchanged handshakes and Foley continued. “No,” he said. “This is not a social visit. We are here on business. Perhaps you can help us.”
“I’ll try,” Dover said.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the school bus hi-jack?” Foley asked.
“Yeah, nasty business,” Dover nodded. “Your chaps spoke about it yesterday. As I told them, I don’t know how much help I can be but I’ll do what I can.”
“You obviously get a bit of through traffic here,” Foley began. “Either heading to Alice Springs, or north-west towards Western Australia.”
“More traffic than most people would imagine,” Dover agreed. “It seems everyone wants to challenge the Tanami Track. Why they would want to if they didn’t have to, I can only wonder.”
“We’re interested in a bus, a large van, or perhaps an enclosed truck large enough to carry twelve people?”
“You mean the hostages?”
“Yes,” Foley nodded. He sipped cautiously at his coffee. “Maybe they stopped briefly to re-fuel, or buy supplies.”
“I told your chaps yesterday, I’m not watching the front all the time, as you can imagine,” Dover explained. “And, trucks are common through here. Mostly cattle trucks, either empty and heading back to Western Australia, or full of cattle heading to the rail-head in Alice Springs. I can’t say I’ve noticed a vehicle such as you’ve described, but that doesn’t mean one never came through. It just means if it did, I didn’t see it.”
“Does all through traffic stop here?” Sam asked.
“Most do,” Dover said. “Even the cattle trucks. They rarely need fuel because they are all fitted with long-range fuel tanks. But, if they are heading to Western Australia, there is a lot of nothing between here and there. This is a good rest stop for them to take a break and have a feed. Some camp overnight in their rigs before heading off, usually before dawn to escape the heat of the day.”
“What about men on their own? Or two, maybe three, traveling together in the one vehicle?”
“That’s also common,” Dover said. “Young blokes on an adventure, or ringers from one of the local cattle stations.”
“Recently, in the last two or three days?” Sam pushed.
“Yeah, a few.”
“Any stick out to you?”
“Stick out?”
“Yeah, you know, out of the ordinary?”
Dover seemed to think about the question for a few moments. “Well,” he said eventually. “There was a couple of blokes who came through. Yesterday in fact. Stayed overnight and left this morning.”
“What was it about them that caught your attention?” Foley asked.
“I dunno,” Dover continued. “I suppose it was their look more than anything.”
“Their look?”
“Yeah. They didn’t talk much. Just sat at the bar, had two beers each; which in itself is unusual for a couple of young blokes, they had a meal and went to their room.”
“What else did you find unusual about them?” Sam asked.
“Well, I spoke to them briefly when they checked in. Said they were heading north to look for work on a cattle station. But they didn’t look like cattle station ringers.”
“How so?”
“Too clean cut,” Dover explained. “Neat, short hair, clean clothes. Even their sneakers looked clean. Ringers are a rough and ready lot. Scruffy looking. Well-worn, tough, hard-wearing boots, not soft, clean sneakers. These two just didn’t look the part.”
“Maybe it was their first time as ringers,” Sam suggested.
“Maybe,” Dover said. “But I don’t think so. And, then there was their gear.”
“Their gear?”
“Yeah. You know, like swags, tool box, and spare Jerry cans with back-up fuel. All they had was two small overnight bags in the back of their vehicle.”
“What sort of vehicle?”
“That was the only thing that looked like it belonged. A Toyota four-by-four tray-back with drop sides.”
“Were these blokes young, or old? Black or white?”
“Youngish,” Dover said. “Both white. Average height and weight. Maybe in their mid-thirties. Short, clean-cut hair. Both fit looking young men. Looked like the
y worked out.”
“I don’t suppose you would have their names?” Sam asked.
“Only one of them. The one who checked in. I’ll check the register and get back to you.”
“We would appreciate that,” Sam said.
Foley and Rose watched the man turn and walk away to the front counter area.
“What do you think?” Sam asked Foley.
Foley shrugged. “Dunno,” he answered. “Might be something. All we can do is run the name through the system and see what we get.”
“I have a feeling,” Sam said.
“A feeling?”
“Yeah, a gut feeling.”
“About the would-be jackaroos?”
“Yeah, about them.”
“Do I really need to hear it?” Foley asked.
“Not yet. I’ll sit on it for a while.”
“Good idea,” Foley said.
The manager returned with a sheet of paper. He placed it on the table in front of Foley and Rose. It was a copy of a page from the guest book-in register from where details of the client could be entered into the roadhouse computer system.
“His name was Smith,” Dover said.
Foley picked up the registration form, glanced quickly at it, and then passed it to Sam. “John Smith,” he said. “Now there’s a genuine Aussie name.”
Sam read the form and handed it back to Dover. “Did he look like a ‘John Smith’?” he asked.
Dover shrugged. “What is a ‘John Smith’ supposed to look like?”
“Like someone whose real name is not ‘John Smith’,” Sam answered.
“I don’t know,” the manager said. “I just require them to put their details on the form. If those details are false, there is not a lot I can do about that.”
Sam glanced at the form again. “There’s a vehicle registration number here,” he said to Foley. “Might be an idea to run it through the Motor Vehicle Registry.”
“If ‘John Smith’ is a false name, I’m betting the rego will also be false,” Foley said. “We’ll phone it through to the chaps back at Haasts Bluff and get them to run it through the system.”
Sam turned the manager. “Do you have CCTV footage here?”