The Cooktown Grave

by Carney Vaughan

  A frown appeared on the pilot’s brow. “We went to Princess Charlotte Bay and boarded the Italian Myth but he was more interested in the skippers of the Paragon and the Monterey Star.” The frown deepened and he said, “But you two should know all this if you’re working with him.” He fronted Cade who turned quickly to Salazar for inspiration and then he demanded. “Let me see your ID!”

  “Certainly sir.” The Colombian reached into his pocket, he turned swiftly and buried the blade in the pilot’s chest. He targeted a spot slightly to the left of the sternum and struck upwards under the ribs. The victim fell to his knees, his amazement focused on the knife handle protruding from his chest. The knife remained there until the light in the pilot’s eyes went out and he fell forward. The Colombian turned the body over and retrieved his weapon. He wiped it clean on the dead man’s shirt.

  “Shit! Carlos. Do you have to kill these people?” What bothered Cade was not the killing so much but the indifference he felt. He was becoming desensitised and at that moment he realised that he too might be able to kill, no matter how unjust the reason, if it was deemed necessary for survival.

  “Now let us eat,” said the Colombian ignoring the question, his features still showing the excitement of his kill, “find a good restaurant and we will have lunch. Tomorrow we will go to Woree. Today we will enjoy and plan.”

  “Port Douglas or town?” Cade asked.

  “Your choice.” His blood lust sated, Salazar was agreeable again and he would stay that way for a short while. Cade drove off in the direction of Cairns. They dined, then swapped the four wheel drive for the sedan and returned to their motel.

  Chapter

  53

  After Mac left, Helen and Jan fell sleep. Helen woke late in the afternoon and made herself a cup of tea. Jan was still sleep ing soundly so Helen didn’t disturb her. When a random flick around the TV channels found nothing interesting Helen took a book to the sofa but there were too many thoughts begging her attention to allow her to concentrate. She put her book aside, turned off the light and sat in the gloom of twilight.

  Poor Harry, she had responded when Mac told her Harry loved her. Poor Harry, she liked him as a friend but men couldn’t be satisfied with a woman’s friendship. Not unless, from time to time, they were allowed to possess them. How long had she known Harry, three years, four years? She couldn’t remember but she was aware Harry wanted more than friendship. He would probably marry her if she wanted him to, but did she love him? Well, she might, that is if she knew what love was. Does anybody know she wondered.

  She thought she’d been in love when her adult world was new and sex was an extension of her perceived love.

  At eighteen she’d been swept off her feet by the region’s football hero, Johnny Madden, a strapping twenty four year old. He’d been rushed unconscious into her ward at the hospital after a scrum collapse. It wasn’t until he regained consciousness that he was cleared of paraplegia and the local football world breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  Madden’s visitors included the Lord Mayor, all of the district football brass and newspaper sports reporters. There was a constant stream of dressing room groupies, or Debbies as some buck’s night wit christened them. An ingenuous Helen was more than a little impressed. When Madden would beg her to stay through visiting periods she was overwhelmed by a vicarious feeling of fame.

  The time came for Helen’s patient to vacate the bed and participate in therapeutic exercise. It was then discovered he had damaged a knee in the crush. He had difficulty even walking; he relied on Helen’s willing young shoulders as a crutch. When the x-ray results came in they confirmed a damaged cruciate ligament. An operation to repair the knee ruled out any more football in the current season and the visitors dwindled. They eventually stopped coming altogether.

  After his discharge from hospital Helen made regular visits to his flat. She could see Madden’s demeanour changing by the day. His bubbling personality had deserted him and he was becoming introverted. He filled her waking thoughts with unfamiliar emotions which fought for control of her mind. What she determined as love won the contest and she entered into the ultimate relationship with him.

  Because it was new the sex was exquisite. She was unaware of all other feelings. They were pushed into remote places in her mind but the signs were there. It was because of her emotional conflicts and her raw inexperience in dealing with them that the signals went unheeded. The sickly smell of liquor on his breath of late was always there. The neglect of his dress; his punctuality; his growing indifference towards her which manifested itself as forgetfulness; it was a one way avenue to destruction. It ended in drowning. Upside down in a creek bed, Madden was too drunk to undo the seatbelt. Death by misadventure was the kind verdict, but she knew he was really killed by an army of backslappers who deserted him.

  Love? In later years she analysed the feelings she’d had for Johnny Madden. It was love, certainly, but it was a maternalistic and protective love. It wasn’t the unqualified, uninhibited love which is everyone’s dream, their expectation and their right. He had been an injured soul who needed support.

  Now! About Mac, there’s an interesting man. He’s a real mystery. An ugly tramp which crossed her trim bows about six weeks ago. He was, overtly, a drunken knock-about; covertly a well-educated, gentle and caring entity in conflict with that of a felon; an escaped convict on the run. Now that’s intrigue…intrigue by the bucketful. Somebody was tickling her chin. Was it Mac, or was it Harry?

  It was Jan “I’m sorry Helen, I tried not to wake you. I was fixing your blanket, you looked uncomfortable. I feel terrible. I kicked you out of your bed.”

  “I settled down here to read last night and lost interest, so I slept here. What’s the time?”

  “About seven,” Jan said, “the paperboy’s been, I’ve got the kettle on. Would you like some toast?”

  “Yes please. This is the life. I wonder what the poor are doing this morning.” Helen sat up and adjusted her pillow.

  Chapter

  54

  SEX SLAYING – HORRIFIC MURDER AT WOREE was the banner headline on the front page of the Cairns Sentinel. The story which spread over the first three pages was accompanied by photographs of the dead girl. They were copies from snapshots taken from her album. There were pictures of the outside and the inside of flat four 1017 North Street, Woree. The story was run under the name of Bill Jennison, Police Roundsman. Except to say the body had been mutilated the story carried scant detail of the actual murder. The victim’s workmate, the matronly Muriel Payne, told investigating police she thought Miss Johnson had made arrangements to meet a policeman on the night she was murdered. But she was not entirely sure as she had heard only fragments of a one sided phone conversation.

  “Poor Elaine had been evasive when I asked her but she did say that there was a police investigation going on.” Muriel Payne had broken down at this point and was granted sick leave, she was currently being treated for a nervous disorder. The article went on to say that police were interviewing ex-boyfriends and rounding up known sex offenders.

  Warren Parsons took the news badly when he learned the murder victim was the pretty young blonde from the hospital reception. He had intended to follow up on her obvious interest in him. As soon as he was free from the paperwork accumulated during his stint in plain clothes he had intended to renew the acquaintance.

  He never found the time. He had his normal work to catch up on, writs to be served, robberies and assaults to be reported on. A huge report on his time with the Sydney cop had to be given to his superiors for costing. He was a little more disturbed when he realised he was to be interviewed by officers investigating the murder.

  “Come in and sit down, Constable.” Parsons entered the office at the invitation of the redheaded slab of plain-clothes who was seated on the desk. He was offered the only chair. Obviously by design the red head was an intimidatory metre ab
ove Parsons’ own head. Even though he was still pretty green the young cop knew the drill. When he was settled he noticed another man leaning against the wall behind the door. “I’m Jim Haines and this is detective constable Don Jacobs,” the redheaded slab continued. “You probably know we’re investigating the murder of the young woman from the hospital.”

  “I guessed you were,” agreed Parsons.

  “Well, there has been some talk of a covert police investigation and I believe you interviewed the victim,” Haines suggested.

  “It was hardly covert, I’ve only just handed in my report. Have you read it?” Parsons asked.

  “Hmmm. Yeah.” Haines continued. “There’s a witness, a Missus Payne who said she thought a cop interviewed the victim. Then later the same day the girl took a phone call from someone she called ‘Officer’. The victim then said she wasn’t allowed to discuss it or something to that effect. This happened on the afternoon of the day she was killed.”

  “We didn’t interview the girl, she just put us in touch with someone we did interview. Did you get a description of the cop?” asked Parsons.

  “We did. We were told that he was tall and athletic and looked Italian or Spanish. Latin, anyway.” Haines answered.

  “Well, Russ Byers, that’s the Sydney cop, is about as ocker looking as you could get and it certainly isn’t me. Is it?” Parsons grinned. It was infectious, the two detectives grinned along with him.

  “Thanks, Constable. If you think of anything more, I’d like to know. Keep in touch.” Haines ushered him through the door as another detective was entering.

  “Grab your gear, Blue,” he said to Haines, “there’s been another murder. A bloke’s been stabbed on Four Mile beach up at the Port. A helicopter pilot.”

  Chapter

  55

  Ten o’clock in the morning, Helen was shaking and sweeping and dusting and Jan was buzzing around, helping where she could as they exchanged small talk. “Is there a shopping centre close by?” she asked. “I need a lot of personal things, a toothbrush, deodorant, and the like. I’d like to chip in with some groceries, too.”

  “Yes,” said Helen, “let’s get cleaned up and go shopping, I’m sick of this. I’ll lend you a pair of shorts and a top and some thongs, you’ll feel more like a local. Do you need underwear?”

  “I do. I’ll have to buy some; something cheap until my luggage turns up.”

  The supermarket was large enough to live one’s whole life in without ever leaving it or wanting for anything except, perhaps, a social life. And even that could be catered for under the same roof if one’s expectations were in anyway modest. Jan and Helen had filled two trolleys and pushed them out of the store to the home delivery station. They took out the frozen stuff and the perishables the checkout girl had placed in separate carrying bags. Helen filled in a form at the newsagent’s and took it to the cash register, “Got to put my Lotto in,” she said, and then she saw it.

  The headline, SEX SLAYING – HORRIFIC MURDER AT WOREE.

  “Gee Jan, that’s where we live, at Woree.” She picked up the paper and Jan watched her face grow pale as she read the story. “Jesus! Jan, it’s Elaine. She works with me. Oh God, beautiful young Elaine, why?” Jan took her parcels from her and led her out of the place. There was a coffee shop with sidewalk tables and chairs a few paces away. They stopped at a vacant table.

  “Let’s sit here for a while,” Jan said, “I could do with a coffee, I don’t know about you.” She left Helen and went into the shop to order. When she returned Helen’s face had regained some of its colour. Jan was carrying two steaming cups. “Are you OK, Love?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m OK,” Helen answered, “shocked, but I’m OK.”

  Jan let Helen finish her coffee in silence and waited for her to make a move. Whilst waiting she idly watched the passing procession of shoppers lugging food and drink. She was reminded of an anthill which had been stomped on, shocked into alert. The car park was full and cars circulated waiting for others to vacate their parking spots. Her attention was drawn to one of the circulating vehicles; something had attracted her, something obscure. The car passed from her vision and began another lap. Could it be the car? No, that was silly, she hadn’t been in town long enough to know one car from another.

  “Is something wrong, Jan?” Helen noticed her squinting and straining upright in her chair as she followed the progress of the car roof. By then it was at the other end of the car park.

  “That car, there’s something about it. Oh. I don’t know.” Helen followed Jan’s gaze but the car had passed from view. “It’s gone. It’s probably just my imagination, it runs away with me sometimes,” Jan said more to herself than to Helen.

  They took a cab from the rank and each became lost in their own thoughts until Helen’s audible intake of breath brought them both back to the present. A fleeting glimpse along North Street as the cab passed that intersection was enough to reveal two police cars outside the building where the Johnson murder took place.

  “Poor Elaine. Who could do such a thing?” Helen asked herself with a shake of her head.

  “The police will get him,” Jan said mechanically and unconvincingly. She didn’t know what else to say.

  Herbert Street was coming up fast. “The next on the left please driver. It’s the third house past the shop.” Helen paid the fare and the two walked up the front steps into the house. They unpacked the groceries and stacked them in the freezer in silence. “I’ll put the kettle on. I think we need a cuppa,” said Helen, and then, “Oh bugger! I forgot to bring the tea, it’s still with the groceries at the supermarket.”

  “I’ll go.”

  “We’ll both go and I’ll introduce you to my grocer.” They pulled the front door shut behind them and descended the front steps. The pall of gloom which enveloped them in the cab had lifted and they were chatting brightly again as they entered the store. Helen introduced Jan to her grocer and after an exchange of pleasantries Jan said, “I think I’d rather have a Coke.” She removed two cans from the drink cabinet. “How about you?”

  Helen nodded and got a couple of straws from a dispenser on the counter and they both sat at the table near the shop window. Helen sighed and said, “You know, Jan, I love this town, and I love its people, I can’t believe a local did that to poor Elaine. I choose to believe it was an outsider, a tourist or a seasonal worker or the like.”

  “Eh…what?” Jan wasn’t listening. Her eyes were travelling and her head was turning as though following an object in flight. She put her hand on Helen’s arm. “That car again.”

  Helen turned to see a car stop three or four doors past her house. The front passenger door opened and a tall, slim olive skinned man got out and went to the boot. He removed a suitcase and a small carry-on bag which he placed over his shoulder. He walked back along the footpath, paused in front of Helen’s front gate for a second to verify the number and then mounted the steps to the front door.

  “Hey!” Jan exclaimed. “That’s my suitcase, Helen, the airline must have tracked it down. Wonderful!” Excitedly, she was out of her seat.

  “Wait! There’s something wrong.” The urgency in Helen’s voice was enough without the restraining hand. Jan stopped, she flopped back onto the chair.

  “Wh…what…”

  “That car. When the police came to my house the other day about Mac, that car or one very much like it followed them when they left and there were two men in it as well.”

  “Couldn’t they have been more police?” Jan asked.

  “Well I suppose so but it’s a rental car. See that logo on the back windscreen, it’s the same logo, very distinct, very unusual.”

  The man at the front door when nobody answered his knocking signalled to the driver of the car, he then rummaged in his shoulder bag and turned his attention to the door lock. The driver alighted and approached Helen’s house, when he re
ached the front gate he glanced up and down the street and then bounded up the steps. Both men disappeared into the house.

  “My God. What a hide.” Helen was shocked at the ease with which they entered. She looked at Jan who was trembling and who had visibly paled.

  “Could they still be police?” Her voice held a hint of hope.

  “Yes they could, but I don’t think so. That’s the same man who was driving the other day and I think the other one was his passenger.”

  “Are you going to see what they want?” Jan asked.

  “No. I don’t trust them. Besides, what are they doing with your suitcase?”

  “Yes, that’s weird.”

  “And what the bloody hell are they doing in my house. No. I’ve got to find Mac.”

  Helen used the red phone. She rang for a cab and arranged to pick it up around the corner on the main road.

  “The Base hospital please driver,” she said as they climbed into the back.

  Harry was off duty. Helen knew exactly where he would be in the evening, she hired a car. Because it was only two in the afternoon, to waste time she took Jan on a tour of the district. They reached as far afield as Kuranda on the edge of the Atherton Tableland. From that high vantage point up on the mountain range they looked back down on the beauty which was Cairns. Geometrically precise patterns of sugar cane farms segmented into reddish-brown and green sections carpeted the seaboard. Out on the blue horizon the tiny jewel of Green Island shimmered from the distance. It was all visible through the caramel scented smoke haze which rose from fires burning the trash from the approaching cut.

  “I love this part of the world, Jan.” Helen said dreamily. “I can never take it for granted. I get a fresh thrill each time I take in this view.”