The Cooktown Grave

by Carney Vaughan

  “You’ve done this a few times,” Byers congratulated him.

  “Some,” grinned the pilot. He cupped his hands and, reading the name off the bow, yelled, “Hello, Roman Myth.”

  “Whaddyouse want?” asked a scruffy head which appeared from the wheelhouse.

  “We’re after the Paragon and the Monterey Star, any idea where we’ll find them?”

  “They were on a north beat. We passed ‘em on our last run south, they trawl a bit faster’n us. They should be here in an hour or so. Who wants ‘em?” asked the head.

  “Cops,” said the pilot. The scruffy head disappeared to be replaced by another.

  “Do you want a cuppa?” asked a female voice. Before the pilot could answer, Byers, who never missed the chance to socialise, yelled back, “Sure do, thanks Ma’am.” He and Parsons wrestled the cockle shell from its sconce on the chopper, luckily the right way up, into the sea. They soon stood safely and mostly dry on the back deck of the Roman Myth.

  Byers let Parsons make the introductions and when they each had a steaming coffee mug in their hands Gino, the scruffy head, asked “Whaddya want Reg and Billy for, whadda they done?”

  “They haven’t done anything. We want them to help us in our investigations if they can,” said Byers as he produced the two photos of Brannigan, he passed them to Gino who gave them a cursory glance and retreated for a while into the wheelhouse.

  “I got ‘em on the two-way, they’re on their way. They’re just on the other side of the island, shouldn’t be long. I told ‘em to hang off the back of us,” Gino said when he returned. He looked longer at the photos and grinned. “Bloody Mac! Hey, Maria, it’s your boyfriend. What’s he done?” He looked at Byers who waited for Maria’s comment.

  “He’s not my boyfriend, Gino,” she said shyly, “I just think he’s a nice man, when he’s sober,” she added. Parsons had grown used to Byers style; he was waiting for the bomb to drop.

  “He escaped from prison. He was serving time for killing his brother.” There it is. Parsons watched their faces.

  “Aw bullshit!” A pause and then, “Nah. He wouldn’a done that.” said Gino. A wide-eyed Maria put her hand to her mouth and said nothing. What seemed an interminable silence followed as Byers waited for more comment from the pair. Parsons didn’t speak; he didn’t want to interrupt the wily old bloke’s line of inquiry. The silence was broken by Gino, “Here’s the Paragon now,” he said, then added absently to nobody in particular, “the wind’s coming up.”

  They all followed Gino’s gaze to the south where the Paragon could be seen surfing a wind swell into the calm haven on the lee side of the island. It was closely followed by the Monterey Star. The trawlers loomed larger as they neared the stern of the Roman Myth. Gino moved to the transom to catch the line thrown by the Paragon’s deckhand. Byers could clearly make out the features of the skipper at the wheel as he stemmed the current while Gino made fast the line.

  “Bill Rigby? I’m Russ Byers and this is Constable Warren Parsons, thanks for turning up so promptly.” Byers was looking into a pair of wary blue eyes set in what he thought would be a friendly face in other circumstances. The face was set on top of a muscular, capable looking young body.

  “Gino tells me you want to talk to me and Reg. What about?”

  They sat on the transom; Parsons leaned against the sorting tray. Rigby had a shrewd idea they were after Mac but he waited for Byers to begin. Byers in turn waited for the scrambling figure of old Reg Williamson to settle himself. Before producing the photographs he stood to get a clear view of the reactions of both Rigby and Williamson. He gave Williamson the photo with the beard and Rigby the one without.

  “Christ! It’s Mac. Where is he? What’s happened to him?” Williamson was excited. “It’s my deckie. He’s missing, I’ve still got all his gear on board.”

  “Yeah, it’s Mac,” said Rigby handing back the photo. He felt relief now that old Reg would find out about Mac. He loved Reg like a father and had wanted to tell him about Mac. He was too simple a character to be devious. “What d’yer want him for?” he asked.

  “I’m from Sydney Homicide, this is David Michael Brannigan a prison escapee. He was serving a sentence for killing his brother.” Byers attention was flitting from face to face. Their reaction was the same as all the other people he had questioned.

  “Bloody hell!” said Rigby. “Nah, that’s gotta be wrong.”

  “I’m with Billy,” said Reg, “I can’t believe that.”

  Byers asked more questions and was soon convinced they couldn’t or wouldn’t help him find Brannigan but they did help him in reaching a decision. During a half-hearted rummage through Brannigan’s gear the pair came across an exercise book. Byers opened it. “Jesus!” he exclaimed. He flicked through the pages, “Tax stamps! The man’s a bloody saint, Warren.” They said thanks and goodbye and returned to the idling chopper.

  “Any luck?” asked the pilot after they had secured the dinghy and were back in the relative safety of the chopper cockpit.

  “Yep,” was all Byers said. Parsons studied his face trying to figure what the luck was that he had. The old detective was silent on the trip back to Cairns and responded only in monosyllables and grunts to Parsons’ attempts at conversation. Deep in thought Byers recalled all of the interviews he had with everyone who knew Brannigan and he knew they would never give him up. The fishing fleet was an enclave of hard living, hardworking people who accepted anyone into their ranks and reputations began only at that time. Anything before that was in another life.

  They landed at Cairns and Byers paid the bill with plastic. He followed Parsons out to their car still lost in his thoughts. They were about halfway to town when Byers suddenly broke his silence and told Parsons to pull to the side of the road. “Let’s talk all this over, Warren. See if we agree on any points.” They took no notice of the rental car which had been following them and was now forced to pass. It disappeared over the next crest and parked off the road. It waited.

  Byers sat for a while in silence. He put his thoughts in order and then he started. “As I see things, Warren, correct me if you think I’m wrong, those last two blokes, Williamson and Rigby between them have known Brannigan, let’s call him Mac everybody else does, for nearly all of the time he’s been on the run. They had not one bad word for him. The people at the hospital were the same, they like him.

  “When you left me yesterday I walked the entire waterfront hawking Mac’s photos and I got the same feedback. Everyone’s first recollection of him is that he’s a drunk, a fall-down, sleep-in-the-park, brown-paper-bagwino drunk. But during conversation they never mention it again, they only talk about his good side. They seem to rehabilitate the man and dry him out while they’re talking. Perhaps his drunkenness could be just a cover. What do you think?”

  Parsons gave Byers a crooked grin “P’raps his goodness is just a cover.”

  “Well, you might be right but my gut feeling says your not.”

  “I’m with you, Russ, that was just a weak joke, sorry.”

  “No. You’re right to consider other aspects and you must. You’ll do OK Warren. But always remember this. We interfere in peoples’ lives and we control their only real asset, their freedom.” Byers stared through the windscreen at the Coral Sea for a full five minutes and Parsons waited for him to go on. “You know, I gave young Rigby the photo of Mac without the beard,” Byers began, “and he recognised him immediately. He’s seen him since he received his injuries and I’ll bet you a hundred bucks to a pinch of shit he knows exactly where he is. I’ve got some more people to see yet. They’re the other two sisters and the nurse’s aides, Smith and Miller, and Bramble the doctor. We should be able to interview them all at the hospital, if they’re not on duty we’ll get their addresses and see them at home. I’m going to give the rest of the pubs a miss; I don’t think we’ll learn anything more from them.” He smil
ed, “Unless you’d like to go on another pub-crawl.”

  Parsons shook his head with exaggerated slowness. He groaned. “No Thanks!”

  “Seriously though,” Byers continued, “If Brannigan, or Mac, came to me with his hands out I’d take him back, but I don’t think he represents a danger to anyone. To track him down I’d need to live here and, judging by the response of the people I’ve interviewed so far it could take years. I’m sure my boss wouldn’t cop that. I’ll see these other people and if they have nothing to offer I’ll let Brannigan die a natural death.”

  Byers could see by the look on Parson’s face he didn’t agree. And who could blame him, he was a new enough young cop to be still filled with youthful zeal he wanted his man. Byers had long, long ago had that knocked out of him by a lifetime of frustration and sometimes outright opposition by his seniors. Some of whom didn’t want the boat rocked and others who chased a crooked dollar. Russell had survived by interpreting justice. He received some satisfaction and peace of mind when he could act as he was going to in this case. Brannigan’s recapture was going to be put in the too hard basket; there were many personnel in Byers’ own department who deserved to be locked up before Brannigan.

  “You’re the boss, Russ.”

  “OK. I suppose we’d better get back to the hospital. Let’s get some tucker first. I’m as hungry as a hunter’s dog.”

  Parsons nudged the lever into drive and eased the car back onto the bitumen; they sped off over the hill towards town. The rental car followed.

  Chapter

  44

  Mac listened to the percussive beat for a while before he saw the lights of the helicopter travelling north, it passed low overhead; probably AWOL deckhands chasing their boats. On the beach adjacent to the hut he had camped out under the stars as he always did on fine clear nights. The previous afternoon he had spent gathering driftwood from the shore and storm broken tree branches from the rainforest on the other side of the road hemming the shoreline. As darkness fell he lit a fire and cooked a meal. Weather permitting it was a ritual which took place each day. He liked to spend as little time in the fishermen’s shack as possible. If anyone wanted him during the day he would see the flag hanging over the verandah rail. At night he would investigate any lights in the vicinity.

  Mac’s days, whilst at the shack, began just before dawn with a bite to eat and a cup of billy tea. By sun-up he was usually out past the inner reef, dragging the pick just clear of the muddy bottom until it snagged a coral outcrop. He’d been given some diving gear by Billy; it had arrived via Harry Bernard. There was a facemask, snorkel, short wet-suit, a webbing belt and some lead, swim fins and a handspear. Mac’s diving up to this point had only involved the welfare of the particular boat he was on at the time, and its nets. Now he was diving to counter boredom and also to eat. As a result he could get down ten metres or so and even take fish at that depth. He knew the perils of hyperventilation and he didn’t push his luck. But with six or seven deep breaths he could stay down long enough to coax a painted cray from its coral cave.

  Today would be different though, today at sunup he would get out on the road and hitch-hike into town. He was lonely; he needed somebody to talk to. He could resume his drunken bum’s role and listen to the scuttlebutt. He lay back on the sand and studied the stars. The Southern Cross had done its tumble and gone down behind the inland hills and Venus was now just brimming the seaward horizon. He would take a walk around town, which would cure his loneliness for a while. Then he’d visit the hospital and thank all those who looked after him. He could also find out if the photo in the Cairns Sentinel had stirred up anything.

  He caught a ride in the front of a freezer truck on its way back from Port Douglas. It put him out near the hospital. He knew what the matter was, it was loneliness. But a walk and talk around the pubs wasn’t going to cure it. Who was he kidding? He wanted to see Helen to hear again her soft voice; he missed the touch of her cool hands. He cautiously entered the hospital precincts from the rear and made his way as inconspicuously in broad daylight as he could. He rounded a corner of the boiler-room and a voice asked, “What d’you want?” It was Miller.

  “I don’t know if you remember me,” Mac answered. “I was a patient here about a month ago. I wanted to see Sister Bell.”

  “Yeah I remember yuh. Y’did a moonlight flit. She’s not on.” Miller also remembered she seemed out of sorts when he shot through.

  “Any idea where I could find her?”

  Miller, in a fit of spite, gave Mac her address. “She lives out at Woree near the racecourse, Herbert Street. I don’t know the number, it’s about the third house on the left past the shop. Ask in the shop, they’ll tell ya.” He felt a certain glee at divulging the address of that toffee-nosed bitch to this derelict. Miller hoped Mac would worry Christ out of her.

  Mac thanked him; he left and caught a bus out to Woree.

  Chapter

  45

  Cade waited until the unmarked police car came over the hill. He waited until it was a half a kilometre down the road before he pulled out and followed. Before leaving Sydney Benson had handed them information he’d been given by his bent cop. It was the airline on which Byers would travel, the place where he would be staying, etcetera, whilst in Cairns.

  Cade and Salazar had been tailing Byers since they found him at Hide’s Hotel on his arrival two days before. They took twelve-hour shifts. On this day Cade had parked the car on the opposite side of Shields Street and sat in City Place until the crowd was gone. He returned to the car about midnight. At three fifteen a.m. the unmarked police car was back at the hotel. Cade recognised the driver who disappeared and returned a few minutes later with Byers in tow. They sped off in the direction of the airport.

  Cade was frustrated as he watched the diminishing strobe lights of the chopper disappear in the predawn blackness. Pondering its destination he went for coffee at the airport terminal. He phoned Salazar in his motel room. The Colombian thought the chopper trip could be important, he arrived a short while later in a cab. He climbed into the rental car where he waited with Cade some distance from the Cape Helicopter Service. After about four hours and just when he was beginning to think the two police had given him the slip they returned from where ever it was they went. On the way back to Cairns the police car pulled to the side of the road. Salazar instructed Cade to continue on over the next hill and wait, now they were back on the tail. Byers’ car parked outside Hide’s and the two cops went into the dining room.

  Salazar had compiled a list of places Byers had visited; he studied it while waiting for him to reappear. He had watched the pub crawl from a safe distance. And he had followed the cops yesterday to the hospital; then to the Cairns Sentinel and the Harbourmaster’s office. Later he had shadowed Byers as he canvassed the trawlers on the waterfront in Smith’s Creek.

  The helicopter trip this morning had Salazar a little unsure of his plans. He had to find out first the aircraft’s destination and then he could look at the entire picture. The helicopter pilot was given top priority on the Colombian’s list. Cade was next to useless to him, he was in a permanent state of agitation. Salazar used him only for errands and odd jobs. When Byers and Parsons reappeared and drove off in the direction of the hospital the Colombian had to prod Cade into following.

  The two police spent about an hour and a half at the hospital. Then Salazar had Cade follow them to an address in Woree, a suburb on the southern outskirts of Cairns. They watched and waited as the two cops interviewed a woman at the front door of 2015 Herbert Street. She didn’t invite the police inside and after ten minutes they headed back to town. Cade followed them to the Cairns Sentinel and then, after a short stay, back to Hide’s Hotel.

  It was about two in the afternoon when Salazar saw Parsons drive away from Hide’s pub. He left Cade to wait and tail Byers wherever he went; he then took a walk out of town to the hospital. He approached the glassed
-in reception desk in the public waiting area. The same blonde who had flirted with Parsons was on duty.

  “May I help you, sir?” she asked.

  “I’m sure you can, I’m making enquiries about a certain Sydney detective who is here in Cairns investigating a case. I believe he has been to this hospital.” Salazar informed her.

  “I’ve seen him,” said the blonde, “he was here with another detective named Parsons. How can I help you?”

  Salazar’s tone became conspiratorial. “Can I speak to you in private, Miss? It’s very important.” The blonde exchanged raised eyebrows with the other woman in reception; she excused herself and came out from behind the glass screen.

  “Thank you, Miss ... er.”

  “Johnson, Elaine Johnson,” supplied the blonde.

  “Thank you, Miss Johnson. Before I begin I would like to impress upon you the secrecy with which my investigation must be handled. I and my partner are from Sydney, New South Wales Police Internal Affairs. We are following a trail of corruption and vice and I must insist anything which passes between us must go no further. Until I have your assurance that this will be so I cannot proceed,” the Colombian was at his agreeable best, “may I have your co-operation?”

  “Of course.” Miss Johnson was just as flattered, as she was curious. “Is there somewhere we can discuss this matter?” Salazar asked. “We can go to the staff canteen.” she said.

  As soon as they were seated Salazar produced a notebook and pen. “Now, Miss Johnson, I’m Officer Robert Gomez and I’ll need a...”

  “Please call me Elaine.”

  “Thank you, Elaine, now I’ll need a complete list of all of the people the other detectives interviewed, but first for my records where do you live?” “I live at Woree, 1017 North Street, flat four, it’s the next street to Helen Bell, she lives in 2015 Herbert Street. She’s one of the people who was interviewed,” Elaine Johnson closed her eyes and tilted her head in recollection. “Also there’s Harry Bernard, an aide, Doctor David Bramble, Mick Miller and Warren Smith, they are both aides. There’s Mary Cable, she’s a sister like Helen Bell. Oh, and probably a number of nurses and pink ladies and some friends of the two aides. That’s all I think.” She paused and then added, “yes I’m sure, that’s all.”