The Cooktown Grave

by Carney Vaughan

  Cade and Salazar watched from a parking spot a hundred metres away until Byers walked out through the front door of the newspaper office. The Colombian was within a breath of asking for Jennison at reception when Byers strolled in through the door. Salazar busied himself with his pockets and allowed the detective to question the receptionist. “Mister Jennison will see you immediately Mister Byers,” she smiled.

  As Byers left the building and as if in answer to Cade’s unasked question Salazar said softly, “No. I will not see him now. Who knows what passed between them. I must plan. Take me to the motel.”

  Chapter

  64

  Sep had been there for an hour before the Paragon breasted its way up Smith’s Creek and into the trawler base. “You took your time,” he said impatiently.

  Billy gave him a sideways glance before checking the mooring ropes and leaping onto the wharf. “You seem a bit skittish, old son. Settle down.”

  “I’m nervous. I don’t like being out on my own lately. Where’s Reg?”

  “Not far away, should be in the Creek by now. Pretty serious eh?” Billy asked. Reg gave them a toot as the Monterey Star came into view and then tied up alongside the Paragon. They left the deckhands to attend to the trawlers and climbed into Sep’s car. On the way across town Sep told Reg as much about events as the journey to Sal’s cane farm would permit. Everyone was there, except the Rigbys, they would be there this evening as usual. Both Billy and Reg were smitten by the pretty young face set in its shock of grey hair. Helen smiled inwardly with a feeling of déjà vu as Sep moved to set up a proprietary barrier between Jan and the fishermen. The afternoon was idled away in small talk. As if by tacit agreement they waited for the Rigbys to arrive. It was old Harry, himself, with loud but logical argument past dawn who convinced Mac he would be safer away from Cairns. But where?

  Reg said, “I know the perfect place but it’s a long, long way from here in the north, in the high north. It’s at least two maybe three days from here by my boat, dependin’ on the weather and the currents. You know it Billy, up the cape past Portland Roads. There’s a creek that branches off the Olive River, Glennie Creek or somethin’ like that it’s called.”

  “Yeah I know, I’ve been in there with you, shelterin’ from the weather, it’s Glennie Creek alright. Up near the tip of the cape, and,” Billy added, “it’s got everything, wild pigs, good fishin’, wild fruit, coconuts even brumbies if you like horsemeat. On top of that there’s an old hut there the croc shooters used to live in.”

  “Sounds lonely,” Helen offered.

  “It is,” said Reg, “that’s the beauty of it. Yer could live there forever ‘n no one would be any the wiser.”

  “Three days. That’s three days back, too,” Mac said, “I couldn’t ask you to waste six days of your fishing time.”

  Reg fixed him with a steady gaze, “I reckon I wouldn’t be wastin’ me time. I expect yer to be back on the Star when this blows over. Besides,” he added, “when I drop yer I might go on out into Torres Strait. There’s some flat muddy bottoms out there near Yorke Island I’d like t’try.”

  “I’ve always wanted to give it a shot around Yorke too,” Billy said, “c’n I come with you? I bet it’s never been trawled out there.”

  “It’s a big ocean and there’s no time like the present Billy, I c’n be ready in a couple a’ days.”

  Sal cleared his throat to gain attention and said, “I think Sep should accompany David. Weren’t two of the victims his fellow aides at the hospital? Surely that is enough reason for him to exercise extreme care.”

  “And what about poor Elaine? The hospital staff is being decimated,” Helen said.

  “Precisely,” said Sal, “that and the fact two men have already entered your home without permission is the reason I now suggest you go with them Helen.”

  “What about Jan? We can’t desert her.” said Helen.

  “She should come too.” Sep shyly suggested. “The two blokes who entered Helen’s house were carrying Jan’s luggage. What do you say Jan?”

  “Why not? Apart from my father You are the only people in the world that I know.”

  “Reg, how’s this? Instead of takin’ both boats out into Torres Strait why don’t you come with me on the Paragon? We c’n drop this lot off at Glennie Creek. We c’n suss out the bottoms around Yorke Island for a week or so. Then we can call in on them on the way back to port. We c’n kill two birds at once and if the fishin’s any good we c’n come back with both boats and fill up.”

  “Sounds alright to me. What d’ya reckon? Three days to Olive River, another couple out into the Strait, that’s five out ‘n five back. A week or two checkin’ out the catch if the moon and the weather’s right. That’s about three weeks all up. If I c’n get the Star up on the slipway here in Cairns the deckies c’n anti-foul it, ‘n do maintenance on it while we’re gone. That’d be great.” Reg could see something positive coming out of all this and was keen on the idea. He added, “C’n we get back to the boats soon?”

  “Yeah, Sep’ll take us, won’t you?” Billy asked.

  “I’ll take yer.” Rigby volunteered. “Sep’ll ‘ave plenty ter do ‘ere.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, I’ll have to get out to the fisherman’s shack and pick up my runabout and outboard. We’ll need something like that up north.” said Sep. “Can I borrow the ute, Dad?” he asked. When Sal nodded he asked, “Like to come for a drive back to the shack, Jan?”

  Chapter

  65

  About three hours north of Trinity Inlet just square of Buchan Point Jan bolted out of the wheelhouse. She hung her head over the side of the boat and threw up. Helen and Sep got up to follow. Mac put a restraining hand on Helen’s arm and winked. She smiled and sat down.

  Dawn was just making itself more important and apart from Sep and Jan all on board were at this moment having breakfast. Seated in the wheelhouse nook was Helen, ‘Monk’ Travers the deckhand who won the toss, and old Reg and Mac. Billy was perched on the comfortable swivel seat behind the wheel with his feet up. He drained his coffee mug and watched Sep and Jan with her head in a bucket return through the sliding door. “It don’t taste as good comin’ up, does it, Love?” he asked with a chuckle. Jan pushed her head further into the bucket. Sep gave Billy a look he reserved for cockroaches as he helped the pale faced girl down the fo’c’s’le ladder and into a bunk.

  “It’s better if she stays up ‘n keeps her eyes on the horizon.” Reg offered.

  “Too late for that,” Sep was becoming more frugal with his words. He was swallowing so often his trip to the rail was imminent.

  “Bill. Do you think we could stop off in Cooktown when we get up that far? It’d give Jan a chance to recover and there’s something I want to do.”

  “Sure Mac no hurry, all day tomorrow’s untouched, as they say. We’ll get there this afternoon sometime. We might even stay overnight, wha’d’yer reckon Reg?”

  “I’m easy, and I think I’ll be able to keep a beer down by then.” Reg rubbed his hands together.

  “Righto you lot! Turn to. That’s Walker Bay on your portside. Next stop, Endeavour River and Cooktown.” Reg’s booming voice left them all with no doubt as to where they were. They passed a navigation light on a grassy hill which had been named Grassy Hill and then entered the calm harbour which was the mouth of the Endeavour River. On their left was the waterfront wharf and after making fast the Paragon Billy, Reg and Monk, the deckie headed off along Charlotte Street to the pub.

  There was still an hour of daylight left. “I’m going for a walk,” Mac declared.

  “May I come?”

  “Sure Helen, I’m sorry I should’ve asked. What about you two?” Mac turned to Jan and Sep.

  “I need a shower and clean clothes,” said Jan.

  “I’ll keep Jan company,” Sep gave them a shy grin.

  Helen and Mac le
ft the trawler and walked up Charlotte Street, as they passed the Captain Cook memorial Mac asked, “Have you been in Cooktown before.”

  Helen shook her head. “Never.”

  “Good. I’ll have a chance to show off. I know it well,” Mac skited. “Over there,” he pointed, “on the other side of the bay on that mangroved beach Cook laid the Endeavour on its side would you believe? His crew repaired a hole in the hull that happened out on the coral reef. Then they sailed it home, halfway around the world. Amazing! To some Australians, not all, James Cook RN was the Yuri Gagarin or the John Glenn of his day. And see that hill,” Mac pointed in the opposite direction, “he went up there with his telescope and mapped a way through the reef and out to the ocean.” Helen was seeing Mac’s unguarded and sensitive inner self as he added softly, almost to himself, “Over two hundred years ago and here we are walking in the man’s footsteps.”

  They passed a large cannon of an age long gone. Helen read aloud a painted sign which told her…this cannon circa 1803, three cannonballs, two rifles, all made in Scotland along with a competent officer of unknown origin were sent to Cooktown to repel a threatened Russian invasion. The invasion was a real threat ‘circa 1803’ but this day it was difficult to suppress a chuckle. The allocated defences seemed to suggest the invading Russians would be arriving in a dinghy.

  After a quick round of the historical museum they emerged into the roseate presence of a glorious sunset. “We’ve got about an hour, hour and a half of twilight yet, are you tired, Helen?”

  “No. I feel wonderful, I’m just getting my land legs,” but she stumbled as she and Mac leapt a deep water filled gutter. Mac took her hand and steadied her. “Well, I thought I was.” she laughed.

  “I’ve got to pay a visit to the cemetery, if you’re up to it.”

  Helen’s hand was still captive and had not been released some twenty minutes later when they stood beside a white marble grave. The grave was covered in limestone chip gravel and had a large marble cross at its head. Helen felt a sense of loss as Mac withdrew his hand and knelt by the cross. “I have to do something.” he said, lowering his head. She wondered what sad tale was involved. Was it one of Mac’s friends or relatives lying sightless in this cold white tomb in this lonely place?

  Helen knelt and closed her eyes. She would say a prayer but she couldn’t remember any. There was a scraping sound, she opened her eyes. Mac was vandalising the cross, he was removing a large plastic box from a cavity at its base. He looked around and then handed her the box, “Open it,” he said, and then set to work to repair the destruction he’d caused.

  “It’s full of paper…Mac…Mac! It’s money…There’s a small fortune here!” She was breathless.

  “There’s a big fortune there. You can help me count it later.” He smiled and took her hand again.

  “Where did it come from? How did you know it was here? Who does it belong to?”

  “It’s mine Helen, my earnings. I couldn’t afford to have it in a bank in case I had to leave the scene in a hurry. This place is so isolated that I could come here at any time and retrieve it. Just like now.”

  Helen didn’t pursue the subject, she was frightened that some awkward or unconvincing answers from him might alienate the warm feeling she had for this mystery knockabout.

  Chapter

  66

  “The Harbourmaster’s office places the Paragon on its way to Torres Strait and the Monterey Star on one of the slipways up Smith’s Creek.” Cade was sitting across the motel dining

  table from Salazar. He had a few mouthfuls of food, not many, since he felt Mick Miller’s transmitted death throes. He was reminded of a fish on a hand spear. It was a sensation which, as a child, used to thrill him. But now the memory of those vibrations in the knife handle as it pierced Miller’s heart filled him with abhorrence.

  “Eat! Must you be told?”

  “I don’t want food.” Cade pushed his plate away. “I don’t understand why we have to kill all these people.” There was something different in Salazar’s attitude towards him. Even though it was an order there was a trace of concern there that he should eat, whereas recently as yesterday Cade had feared for his life. The Colombian’s anger created by the loss of Miller’s list threatened to bring about his, Cade’s, murder. Something had happened last night, something bloody. Salazar’s mood today was similar to his mood on the day after Elaine Johnson’s death.

  “I will explain once and once only, never again question me, I am sick of your prattling. We are here to deal with Brannigan’s brother and to do so we must find him. Have you forgotten that our whole operation is at stake? We must not be identified. We must not leave witnesses. Now do you understand?”

  “I suppose so,” Cade sighed.

  “So. We will wait until the painting of the hull is finished and the boat is back in the water. You say three to four days, it may give us the time and opportunity to question the newspaper reporter. The two women from Woree and the Bernard person seem to have gone to ground. It is my belief that they figure prominently in the protection of David Brannigan. More so since you say one of them is this Morrison girl. I think the others I suspect are nothing but, as they say, red herrings.”

  Chapter

  67

  Monk stood at the bow watching Billy through the windscreen and waiting for the signal. Billy nodded and Monk disengaged the winch. The anchor splashed its way to the bottom followed by three rattling fathoms of chain which bent back under the boat. He gave the thumbs up as the anchor caught and held; he let out another four fathoms and re-engaged the clutch.

  It was two in the afternoon on the fourth day since leaving Cairns. The Paragon had dropped anchor in the Olive River about eight or ten kilometres upstream from the mouth. They had moored at the point where Glennie Creek entered the Olive. Both runabouts were in the water filled with gear and provisions. Billy and Mac had already taken one load to the hut about a kilometre up the creek. They had left half a dozen mosquito coils burning to evict the mozzies and other insects which had taken up residence there. On their first trip they travelled together in one dinghy, Mac wasn’t sure what to expect and he was pleasantly surprised when they reached the shack.

  Alongside a beach there was a jetty with steps disappearing into the water. From the top of the steps the jetty continued as a walkway some twenty five metres to the front door of the shack. It was elevated a metre and a half on piers so that its floor and the jetty walkway were on the same level. This was crocodile country. On the way up the creek they’d counted dozens of telltale slither tracks with paw prints either side, on both banks of the creek.

  “We’d better get our gear stowed before dark and get settled,” Mac said. Billy nodded. For the pioneers it was too close to sundown to organise a cooked dinner with the basic facilities existing at the shack.

  They dined on the trawler and while it was still light headed back up the creek. To ease crowding Billy, Reg and Mac travelled upstream in the trawler’s dinghy while Sep took the women in his runabout.

  “Did y’see the tracks on the banks?” Reg asked Mac.

  “Yeah. Sure did. There’s a lot here, and some big bastards, at that.” Mac responded.

  Billy chimed in, “They seem t’know they’re protected. There’s a few livin’ as far south as Cairns, probably further. I know there’s a couple up Smith’s Creek. They’re shy, yer never see ‘em but yer can see where they’ve been. They’re cunnin’ bastards when they’re hungry.”

  “Judgin’ by the numbers there must be plenty of tucker for ‘em around here.” Reg added.

  “Yeah, but some reckon they don’t always eat straight away. If it’s too big and tough they kill it ‘n stash it till it gets soft enough to tear apart,” Billy said and then added, “once they grab you and do that old crocodile roll, you’re fucked. You’ll end up sharin’ their cave with ‘em if they’ve got one.” The primal odour of d
ecaying flesh hung heavily in the air but mingled with the smell of rotting vegetation it was difficult to discern in that virginal environment.

  “I reckon I can smell them now.” Mac gave a shudder.

  “Yeah,” Billy agreed, “there’s usually an airhole somewhere in the top of the cave, ‘specially if the entrance is below the surface. I read once where an African native was taken by a croc, but he wasn’t killed. When he came to, he was in a cave on his own an’ he dug ‘is way out through the airhole.”

  “Lucky bastard!” Reg exclaimed, he looked at Mac. “You lot wanta watch y’selves or you could all be croc shit next week.”

  Monk watched from the wheelhouse doorway as the dinghies rounded the first bend in the creek and went from his view. He flicked on the twoway radio and it crackled to life, “Might as well see what buzz is goin’ down.” He made his way down to the rear deck to try his luck for some fresh fish for tomorrow’s breakfast.

  “Paragon…Paragon…Paragon…Do you read me?… Monterey Star to Paragon… Come in Paragon. Over.” He walked slowly into the wheelhouse and picked up the handset. Before he could respond the call came again.

  He waited for the ritual to finish and answered, “Paragon to Monterey Star. Keep yer hair on Jack. What’s yer trouble? Over.” He had detected an urgency in the deckie’s voice that wasn’t usually there.

  “Aagh. Where are yer Monk, where’re y’been? I been after yer all day… Uh...is the skipper there? Over.”

  “No he’s just gone ashore with…Wait there, get on the trunk. Over.” Billy had told him the trip was for reasons he didn’t want others to know about. He knew his skipper, and Reg, were going out into Torres Strait to try some new trawling grounds. Competition among the boats was so strong that the only advantage to be had was to be first on the scene. Billy wouldn’t be amused if it was broadcast over the two-way. The trunk radio operated more like a mobile phone except the cost was negligible. There was a common channel, shared by a clique of boats, and private channels – even scrambler’s – for secrecy between individual boats. It was this device to which Monk had directed the seemingly distraught Monterey Star deckhand.