‘Well, yes, of course. Ring him. We can finish discussing this later.’ Emily waved a hand in the direction of Finn’s phone. ‘We certainly need to know about Ben and Tammy.’
This time, when Finn posed his question, the sergeant was prepared to oblige.
‘Ben Shaw’s missing,’ he said. ‘He left for a jog on the Possum Ridge track near Lake Barrine yesterday afternoon and he hasn’t been seen since. Looks like he might have stumbled on a little drug-cooking operation. About five kilometres in, there’s a burnt-out camp not too far off the track. No one there now, of course, but we found the remains of a gas cooker and traces of chemicals.’
‘What about Tammy Holden?’ Finn asked. ‘She’s Ben’s girlfriend and she hasn’t opened her salon this morning.’
‘That’s because she was over at Possum Ridge at first light searching for Ben. Seems she found his cap near the hut. She’s pretty shaken.’
‘Shit.’ This didn’t sound good.
‘That’s all I can tell you at the moment,’ the sergeant said. ‘I’ve contacted Mareeba and the CIB, of course, and we’re in the process of setting up a full-scale search.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure you’re busy, mate. Well, thanks for the update.’ As Finn hung up, he shot a glance in Emily’s direction. ‘It’s entirely up to you whether we need a Dolly reporter for the Bugle. In the meantime, I have some serious news to chase.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Sixteen hours earlier …
Ben Shaw had never expected to love the rainforest. He was a surfer. Three generations of his family had lived on the Gold Coast and a love of the ocean was in his DNA. His earliest memory was the salty smell of the sea and the excitement of small waves slapping over his chubby toddler toes. No question, the hardest part of moving north had been giving up his morning board-riding ritual. Luckily, Ben’s desire to start a new life had held an even stronger allure.
These days, his mornings began in the bakery when it was still pitch black and the roads were empty. Long before dawn he was hefting heavy bags of flour, measuring out live yeast, sugar, salt and water, and pouring them into the huge mixer. Breakfast was several cups of tea drunk on the hoof while dividing up the various doughs and rolling them into loaves or buns.
He would add extra seeds to some, cheese to others, or rosemary and olives. And then there was the pastry to be rolled for meat pies, his customers’ favourites.
Ben didn’t mind the hard work. The satisfaction and honest toil of owning a successful business made up for some crazy mistakes in his past.
Just the same, he was striving for the whole work-life balance thing, which wasn’t easy given that his partner, Tammy, was also busy with her hairdressing business. Ben had settled on an afternoon run to replace surfing for his fitness fix. By then, his shop’s shelves were almost depleted and he could leave young Melanie Frith to serve behind the counter.
Jogging through a rainforest track could never replace the thrill of riding a perfect wave, but Ben had learned there were definite rewards to this new lifestyle. The birdsong in the forest was amazing, and the run took him beneath a massive green canopy arching metres above, where shards of light reached through branches, making patterns with shadows, and small creatures such as pademelons scurried off the track.
This afternoon, however, new tyre tracks leading off into the scrub snagged Ben’s attention. He stopped jogging. The tracks had probably been made by forestry blokes, or researchers. There was a team from James Cook University looking for giant quolls, the ones with the spotted tails.
Two of the researchers had become regulars in his shop. Both lean, bearded fellows – one always ordered a curry pie and his mate preferred the vegetarian chilli. Interesting blokes to have a yarn with. Ben had discovered all kinds of fascinating folk on the Tablelands, and he liked mixing with them. Anyway, whether or not these new tracks were made by these scientists, they were worth a quick gander.
He wouldn’t go far.
He didn’t have to. About three hundred metres in, Ben skidded to a stop. Just ahead, a mud-splattered four-wheel drive was parked. And beside it stood a small demountable shed, the sort that could be flat-packed and assembled with a spanner and a screwdriver. The shed was about the size of a small room and covered with the green shade cloth normally used for garden nurseries.
Whoah. The mesh looked more like camouflage than shade.
Suspicion slithered down Ben’s spine. He was pretty damn sure this wasn’t a scientists’ hideout and his instinct was to get away from there. Fast.
But before he could move, he heard a footstep behind him. When he spun round, he came face to face with a middle-aged man with long, greasy greying hair. The guy was wearing green overalls and he was pointing a shotgun at Ben’s chest.
Shit. Ben threw up his hands. ‘Steady on, mate. No problems.’
The guy in overalls stepped forward, glaring, still aiming for Ben.
‘I know this is none of my business,’ Ben said. ‘I’m just on a jog.’ Don’t do anything stupid, he begged silently.
Panicked possibilities flashed through Ben’s mind. He could try to run. Perhaps not a great idea when he was covered by a shotgun.
He could grab the gun and disarm this prick. Yeah, and that would be sure to result in this crazy bloke pulling the trigger.
Maybe this was a simple misunderstanding that could be sorted out quickly?
Maybe not.
Keeping the gun still levelled at Ben, the guy in the overalls yelled, ‘Hawk, get out here.’
‘Wha-a-at?’ called a muffled voice from inside the hut. ‘I’m busy.’
‘We’ve been sprung.’
Fuck. Now Ben was gripped by real panic. This was no small misunderstanding. As a second man ambled out of the shed, he knew he was in grave freaking danger.
This second guy was wearing spray painter’s goggles and a safety mask. He was younger, stockier, with muscular, tattooed arms and very short hair. Slowly, he lifted the goggles to reveal cold grey eyes. He pulled the mask from his mouth.
‘What are we gonna do, Norman?’ he asked the guy holding the gun. ‘I haven’t even finished the first cook-up.’
Ben’s worst fears were now confirmed. He’d stumbled onto a lab producing ice. One of the worst possible drugs with highly dangerous producers and pushers.
Ben’s experience with a bunch of surfies using pot and ecstasy on the Gold Coast had cost him a criminal conviction, a term on a prison farm and a police record … but that paled into insignificance beside this mob.
No doubt they were producing ice in various remote locations, as well as in the cities. The shed was easily demountable, so they had a portable operation. But Ben knew this sort of set-up was never a two-man operation. There were sure to be big-time crims involved.
Norman, with the shotgun, now motioned to the guy called Hawk and handed him the weapon, making sure the muzzle was still pointed at Ben.
‘Here’s what you’re gonna do,’ he told Hawk. ‘This is your chance to do more than play the boy scientist with your chemicals. It’s time to show you’re really one of us.’
Hawk’s gaze narrowed as he kept the gun pointing at Ben, but it was hard to tell his reaction to these instructions.
‘Take this turkey down to that old mine shaft we found,’ the older man said. ‘Top him and drop him down it.’
‘You’re crazy,’ Ben cried. ‘I wouldn’t —’
‘Shut up,’ yelled the older man, while Hawk took another step closer, still keeping the gun levelled at Ben’s chest.
Aghast, Ben managed to suppress another desperate urge to protest. To explain. To beg.
‘We don’t want to do it here,’ Norman went on. ‘We’d have to bury the unlucky bastard and, if you’ve noticed, we don’t have a fucking shovel.’ He heaved a sigh, as if the troubles of the world were on his shoulders and not on Ben’s. ‘I’m not interested in dragging a heavy bloke like this fucker through all that scrub,’ he said. ‘So you walk him down to the
shaft and do it in one hit.’
To Ben’s dismay, Hawk didn’t protest. He merely stood, frowning, until Norman made an impatient, shooing gesture. ‘Just get on with it and then we’ll torch this place and get out. This shitstorm is all thanks to you, you know. You said you could be trusted to find a good spot.’
Ben swallowed the glob of fear in his throat. He was sure he was too shocked and scared to think straight, but he tried to comfort himself that at least he wasn’t dead yet. He knew there was no point in pleading.
His only hope was to make a run for it once they were out of Norman’s sight. One on one with Hawk, he might just have a chance.
If he stumbled a bit, he might get close enough to grab the gun and throw his best punch. Hawk wasn’t a big bloke. Ben was fit and strong and reckoned he could tackle him easily if he didn’t have a gun.
Just the same, dread settled like concrete in his belly as he and Hawk set off through the thick, trackless scrub, ducking dangling vines and hopping over tangled tree roots. Sure enough, a walk through the forest quickly lost its charm when a gun was pointed at him.
Ben waited till they were out of Norman’s earshot before he started to plead. ‘You know you don’t have to do this,’ he told Hawk. ‘Think about the consequences if you get caught for murder.’
‘Shut up and keep walking,’ came the snarled reply.
A few metres on, Ben tried again. ‘You’re bound to get caught eventually. And Norman’s going to blame you. That’s why he wants you to do the dirty work, so he’s got someone else to blame.’
Hawk didn’t bother to respond to this. He simply kept Ben well covered with the shotgun. And he also kept his distance, making Ben’s stumbling and punching plans impossible.
Eventually, ahead in a clearing, was a stand of well-weathered old timber posts. Some of the posts were covered with vines, but despite the overgrowth, it was easy to see the partly overgrown, gaping hole in the ground.
The mine shaft. Ben’s stomach dropped as if his body had already been tossed down into those black depths. His skin was slick with sweat, but he bloody well wasn’t going to just stand around and let himself be executed. He’d rather attack and fight for his life.
As he clenched his fists, however, Hawk stepped even further away. Out of reach.
Ben lunged forward. ‘No, you don’t.’
The note of warning in Hawk’s voice brought Ben to a halt. There’d been no sense of threat in his tone.
‘Listen very carefully,’ Hawk said quietly. ‘And keep your mouth shut. You’re not going to be shot. Not by me at any rate.’
Not going to be shot. The words circled in Ben’s head. Weak with relief, he grabbed at a vine to keep himself upright.
‘I’m a Fed working undercover,’ Hawk went on. ‘I’m going to fire a shot to convince Norman I’ve done my job, and you’re going to sneak out of here.’
Ben nodded, hardly daring to believe his bloody amazing luck.
CHAPTER FIVE
Chloe had never flown into Cairns before, so she found herself glued to the plane’s window, taking in as many details as she could of the steep cloud-wreathed mountains rising out of the shining aqua-marine sea. She’d always thought Sydney Harbour was spectacular from the air, but the far north was just as stunning. And yet, so different, she almost felt as if she’d arrived in another country.
‘Coming home, or arriving on holiday?’ enquired Chloe’s plump, grandmotherly neighbour, who’d been asleep for most of the flight.
‘I’m actually starting a new job,’ Chloe told her.
‘Aha.’ The woman beamed at her. ‘Welcome to the north. You’re going to love it. I moved up here more than forty years ago and now I never want to have to live in the crowded, cold south again.’
‘That’s good to hear.’ Chloe was feeling a little nervous about the huge step she’d taken.
She’d been so impulsive. Yikes, most girls had rebound romances after they split up with their boyfriends, but she was having an entire rebound lifestyle. She had resigned from her job at Girl Talk magazine to work on a tiny newspaper at the other end of the country.
The decision hadn’t been easy, of course.
When Chloe had first realised that she must leave Jason, she’d imagined she would find a one-bedroom flat in Sydney and stay on at Girl Talk, while investigating her options for IVF as a single mum. But she’d felt so let down and disappointed and generally pissed off – and a bit of an idiot, too – for having stayed so long in a relationship that was obviously going nowhere. She’d decided that a clean break was needed. A fresh start with new opportunities to explore.
The hard part had been telling her family. Chloe’s two sisters were both married with good jobs, super-successful husbands and two beautiful children apiece, and Chloe had hated having to reveal her disastrous failure on the relationship and family front.
Her mum had tried to be understanding, but she’d spoiled it by commenting that she’d never been sure about Jason.
‘There were important little clues,’ she’d told Chloe, unhelpfully. ‘I always noticed that at family barbecues Jason never once offered to help your dad to flip steaks, or to help me with carrying out the salads, or carting the dirty plates back to the kitchen.’
Chloe supposed her mum had been trying to reassure her that she’d done the right thing by leaving Jason. Unfortunately, her comments had only added to Chloe’s huge sense of failure. The urge to get away had been overwhelming.
Of course, Chloe couldn’t be sure if she was running away or making a bold new move, and she suspected that her neighbour might have plied her with more advice or questions if the plane hadn’t touched down just then. As they taxied over the tarmac, the pilot welcomed them to Cairns, while passengers throughout the plane reached for their phones.
So, this was it. She couldn’t turn back now.
Chloe dug her phone out of her bag, hoping to find a message from her new editor, Finn Latimer. The newspaper’s owner, Emily Hargreaves, had assured her that he would be waiting for her in the arrivals hall, having driven down the range from Burralea on the Tablelands.
While her phone came to life, she shot another glance through the small window to the majestic green mountains that towered behind Cairns. Somewhere up there beyond those sky-piercing hills, her future and her new job at the Burralea Bugle awaited her.
Thinking of the journey yet to come, Chloe was aware of a tingling in her spine, and her decision to head north no longer felt slightly crazy, but suddenly more like an admirable adventure.
Her excitement fizzled a little, though, when she checked her phone and there was no message from Finn Latimer.
Oh, well. Perhaps he was still waiting for confirmation that her plane had landed.
The plane trundled to a halt and the cabin was filled with the sound of unclicking seatbelts, of overhead storage lockers being opened as passengers scrambled to collect gear. Chloe, hemmed in next to the window, checked her phone again but there were no new messages.
That was cool. Perhaps Finn Latimer was running a bit late. It was probably quite a long, windy drive down the mountain.
Chloe was determined not to start worrying. Nothing would hassle her today. Over recent weeks, she’d already been through the worst.
This was the start of a brand-new chapter in her life. Positivity and optimism were her watchwords.
By the time Chloe reached the baggage carousel, there was still no message from Finn Latimer. While the suitcases and boxes trundled past on the conveyor belt, she scanned the faces of the men in the crowd, but it wasn’t a lot of use when she didn’t really know what her new boss looked like. She hadn’t spoken to him during the interview process, which had been conducted via email and Skype with Emily Hargreaves.
Emily had been very warm and reassuring, but later, when Chloe had looked up her new editor on the internet, she could only find photos and information about a foreign correspondent. This guy was a tall, commanding figure with a lot of sh
aggy dark hair and a longish face that was rugged rather than handsome. Chloe could remember having seen him on television. He was a hotshot reporter who covered the world’s major trouble spots. No way would he be working on a tiny country newspaper in Far North Queensland.
Chloe had come to the logical conclusion that the Burralea Bugle’s editor must almost certainly be the foreign correspondent’s father. It wasn’t unusual for fathers and sons to share names and career choices, and it made sense that her boss at the Bugle would be an old codger. Emily had mentioned his vast experience, so he’d probably been working on newspapers since before computers, in the days of hard copy and hot metal. Maybe when the crowd around the carousel dispersed, she would see him waiting patiently off to one side.
Chloe’s suitcase arrived and she managed to heave it successfully from the flowing luggage stream. With the handle extended, she hitched the strap of her laptop bag over her shoulder. Great. She was organised. Ready and raring to go.
She turned, scanning the thinning crowd of tourists and locals, searching for a lone figure, probably a man around her father’s age, nudging retirement. His hair would no longer be dark like his son’s and, after years of staring at computer screens, he could well be wearing glasses. If he was a rural type, he might be a bit red and wrinkled. Lost a bit of bark, as her dad might say. He might even wear jeans and an Akubra …
Unfortunately, Chloe couldn’t see anyone who fitted any version of this imagined persona. In fact, apart from a couple of earnest fellows holding up placards with other people’s names, she couldn’t see any man – old, young, dark haired or bald – who seemed to be standing alone and waiting.
As the passengers from her flight filled their luggage carts and drifted away, she allowed herself a small moment of worry. Perhaps Emily Hargreaves had forgotten to pass on her phone number to Finn Latimer, although that seemed rather unlikely. Perhaps he’d been held up on the road for some reason. Apparently, it was more than an hour’s drive down from Burralea to Cairns.
The Summer of Secrets Page 3