The Cooktown Grave

by Carney Vaughan

  The river wound its way north along the base of a mountain range. The pair paralleled it on its western bank through country so rugged that by midday they had trudged only some four kilometres.

  “We’re never going to get there, at this rate.” Cade said to Salazar’s distant back. He was ignored. They toiled through the afternoon and as the shadows were lengthening Cade realised their task was becoming easier. The river widened as it crossed flat meadowland. “For Christ’s sake Carlos,” he implored, “let’s stop here for the night, I’m stuffed. Let’s cook a meal and have a good rest. I can’t go any further today. My feet are like mincemeat.”

  Salazar was in agreement; his own feet were very sore and probably in the same condition. They needed to rest and eat well. But to show any weakness would erode the psychological edge he maintained over his cowardly cohort. Something else had caused the Colombian to stop at the edge of the clearing; the smell of smoke. Smoke in itself is not an unfamiliar presence in a rural setting but in this case the pleasant smell of cooking added a soft edge to the pungent odour. The Colombian raised his hand as a signal to his companion to stop and be quiet. Cade had, many kilometres back, given up any outward sign of opposition to any of Salazar’s directives when he realised just how isolated they were. He realised just how vulnerable he would be to a swift and silent death. Silent, not because of any stoicism on his part but silent because no one may be near enough to hear his screams. The Colombian went forward alone.

  “We will stop here for the night,” he said when he returned. They stood on a gentle, grassy slope which ended at the muddy river bank. Cade unpacked the tent and Salazar searched the area for firewood. With a good cooking fire burning and the sleeping arrangements ready, Cade searched through the canned supplies for something to heat.

  “G’Day!”

  They both turned, startled. On the other side of the fire, distorted by the shimmering waves of heat a face had emerged from the engulfing dusk.

  “I thought yer might like a bit o’ Barra fer tea,” said the face. It was atop a tall lean frame which carried a large Barramundi on the end of an outstretched arm, “there’ll probably be enough f ’yer breakfast as well.”

  “Why, thank you. You are very kind. We have nothing to offer in return. Perhaps we could pay you.” Salazar gestured to his pocket.

  “No! Turn it up!” the man was visibly upset. “I got plenty.”

  Salazar was out of his element in a bush fraternity where a stranger was entitled, even bound, to share another’s hospitality when offered. The stranger turned to go but then stopped.

  “Look. I suppose yer know what yer doin’, campin’ like this, but the crocs are pretty bad just now. Yer wanta be careful, I sleep in me Pajero.” He disappeared as he’d come.

  Salazar did concede that some of the reptiles he’d seen since they’d been following this brackish estuary would be formidable adversaries in their own element. But not in a life threatening way.

  Cade, into the wee small hours, cringed by the fire while Salazar slept soundly unaware it was Cade’s nervousness which allowed him to do so. He fuelled the fire long into the starry night until his head began to nod. He shook Salazar awake. The Colombian abused him and told him to sleep. All Cade wanted was a change of shift, instead he returned to the fire. At sunup he was stiff and cramped. He couldn’t tell if the slithering and bellowing he’d heard during the night was dream or reality, except that the memory was strong. He was heating the leftover fish on the dying coals of the campfire when the roar of an engine caught his attention. A four wheel drive vehicle was approaching, a Pajero. More visitors?

  “Pack up the equipment.” Salazar was climbing out of the driving seat and Cade knew immediately that the stranger of the previous evening had been repaid for his kindness. He would not be returning to his home.

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  “I’ve been there twice now Warren and the dinghy’s been tied up on the shore. I’m going back there now. If it’s still there I’m going to take it and go on board.” Byers and Parsons had just finished breakfast. “Where will you be today?”

  “I think I’ll be climbing another mountain of paperwork.”

  “OK. At least I know where I can find you if I need to.” Byers dropped the young constable at the station; he took the car and headed for Smith’s Creek once again.

  The tiny stick which he’d placed through the eye of the knot was still there. He reasoned that nobody would replace it if they disturbed the knot. Since the stick was still there he thought it reasonable to also assume that, except by the tide, the dinghy had not been moved. He undid the rope and eased the boat out into the stream where the current carried him a short distance before the outboard came alive. He turned the little craft towards the Monterey Star anchored on the far side of the inlet.

  Byers found Jack’s body without much trouble. There was a lot of blood in the wheelhouse and Jack was crumpled at the foot of the fo’c’s’le ladder. Russell didn’t bother to descend to look for a sign of life, instead he immediately returned the dinghy to its position on the shore and went in search of a telephone.

  “May I speak to Constable Parsons please?”

  “Yes. It’s Warren here. Is that you Russ?”

  “Warren, I’ve found one of the deckhands on the Monterey Star. He’s been killed.”

  “Murder?”

  “His hands and feet are bound and his throat’s been cut.”

  “Like Miller?”

  “His throat’s been cut but I couldn’t see a weapon.”

  “Miller was tortured, is there any sign of torture.”

  “I didn’t interfere with the body. And I don’t think the other deckhand is responsible. I think you’ll find him on board somewhere as well.”

  “The homicide guys aren’t here at the moment, I’ll see the sergeant.”

  “Say that it was an anonymous call, please Warren, I don’t want to get caught up in the questions just now. I need to be a free agent until my boss allows me to become involved. I’ll be in touch.”

  Byers desperately wanted to become involved. He headed for the post office to call Sydney. A short explanation of recent developments, lo cal facts and clues combined with his theory soon convinced his boss something tangible was emerging in the north. The hunt for their own murderous phantom seemed to have gathered pace. Before Russ reached the Harbourmaster’s office less than a kilometre from the post office a fax was on its way to the regional criminal investigation department. It identified Detective Sergeant Russell Byers of the New South Wales police department. It requested local support for him in his hunt for a southern criminal.

  Byers learned from the Harbourmaster that the Paragon was, “Somewhere up north and if it can be contacted I’ll get the skipper to get in touch with the police station here in town,” Byers thanked him and headed for the police station.

  Parsons was at the front desk. “Hello Warren.” Byers greeted him.

  “Your authorisation came through a half hour ago Russ. You’ve just got to identify yourself.” Parsons informed him.

  “I’m going to see if I can get you to work with me again, do you mind?” Byers asked.

  “Is the Pope a Protestant?”

  Chapter

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  Mac had rigged a string with some empty cans on it to clatter and jangle every time the shack door was opened. He did it to remind the occupants, himself included, that each time they went out something malevolent could be lurking. Under normal circumstances no such warning would be necessary. But so much had been happening lately he was constantly preoccupied. A lot of his actions now were mechanical. “I’ll do that, Helen,” he said. He rattled the cans as he took the teapot from her and headed for the end of the jetty. She went with him.

  “I wonder what the big brute is doing at this very moment.” she pondered.

  “If he d
oesn’t want to be seen we won’t see him. He’s probably watching us emptying the teapot,” he replied. She shivered and he continued. “We’re safe as long as we maintain our space and we’re aware of him, or them. And as long as we treat them with the respect they deserve. They only see us as food.”

  They returned to the shack and the cans provided Jan and Sep with an early warning. They leapt apart, each pretending to inspect different areas of the cabin.

  “Who’s for a cuppa?” Helen asked suppressing a smile. Mac didn’t hide his.

  He opened the door to the perishables cabinet in search of the condensed milk, “Phew! I think I’ll get rid of this fish.” he said.

  The cabinet was a ‘Coolgardie safe’, quite an ingenious piece of work. A number of basic laws of physics were employed in its design. The capilliary action of seeping water and the chilling effect of evaporation were the primary principles involved. Provided with a good draught and a shady location it could keep butter firm on the hottest of days. It was made creepy-crawly and ant proof by standing the legs in cans or saucers of water. Its design had served the outback for the hundred and fifty years prior to refrigeration. But now the fish was suspect and in their isolation food poisoning was not to be risked.

  After the brew had been drunk and the mugs washed and dried Mac picked up the fish and said, “I’m going to get rid of this.”

  Helen said, “I’ll come.”

  “Bring the torch.” It was still light. Mac wondered if Sep and Jan would recognise the subtle signal he was giving that they would be alone till after dark. The cans rattled and he and Helen left them and returned to the end of the jetty.

  “I wonder if they got the message.” Helen mused. “You know Sep is really smitten.”

  “So am I,” Mac said.

  “Eh…What…I mean I beg your pardon.” Did she hear correctly?

  The tide had bottomed out and the current was non-existent. Mac hefted one of the suspect fish and tossed it ten metres out into the creek where it floated motionless. How to resurrect the topic? That was Helen’s concern. At least without seeming to be too interested in case what she thought she heard was wishful thinking. She returned to the subject of Sep and Jan.

  “Mac, Jan and I have had some long discussions about you and Sep. And she says she feels a little uncomfortable with Sep when you’re around. I volunteered to talk to you about it,” she told him.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked.

  “She told me all about herself and your brother, Danny, and how much she loved him. And how finding his body triggered a mental breakdown. She told me that she lost his baby, a boy, and then her mother. And fifteen months of her life. She’s grown very fond of Sep and we both know that he’s hopelessly hooked on her.”

  “Yep, she’s been through a lot and I may be insensitive but I don’t see the problem. I’m happy for her and I’m happy for Sep, and I’m more than happy for myself because he’s not all the time hanging around you…” They both swivelled their heads in the direction of the gentle swishing sound that came from the creek. They were in time to see the jaws closing on the discarded fish and the great snout resuming its false smile of contentment.

  “Oh!. My god.” Helen was transfixed.

  “OK. Let’s see how brave you are you big…” Mac finished the sentence under his breath. He threw another of the fish. It disappeared and then resurfaced to float a couple of metres from the creek bank. Except for the diminishing distance the only clues the huge beast was moving were the almost imperceptible ripples on the slack surface. They streamed like miniature bow waves from each side of its long fat snout. The great head rotated slightly and the fish was gone.

  “Try this one, you cow,” Mac said. He threw the remaining fish high up onto the beach where the monster would have to totally expose itself to retrieve it. The signals were processed and the decision was made. The animal moved swiftly this time to overcome the slippery incline of the muddy bank. A century of survival in this environment had programmed the creature’s brain, its memory banks held all of the information necessary for its attack and safe retreat. Helen and Mac watched in awe as the charge was made. They saw the transparent membranes close to protect the eyes. The creek erupted in unimaginable violence as the crocodile catapulted itself onto the land. With a loud grunt it scooped up the large fish. It then turned to plummet the muddy slope and disappear under the surface of the brown water. The creek was restored to its erstwhile placid condition as the waves became ripples and emanated into distant reaches of the creek.

  “Oh! Wow! My Godfather! Did I really see that? Did that happen?” Helen asked.

  “He’s over five metres and he’s dangerous. He’s not afraid of anything.”

  “No, but I am.” At some time during the few seconds that the action had taken Helen realised she had moved to Mac and encircled him with both arms. The entire length of her body was in warm contact with his and it felt good. His arm, too, had wrapped itself around her. That also felt good. Mac tilted her chin, their eyes shone softly at each other.

  “Dangerous or afraid?” he smiled and pecked her on the cheek. She coloured but sought his lips. She was driven by an inner urge as powerful as that which had motivated the crocodile in its instinctive grab at the food. And Mac responded just as fiercely. They stood and embraced on the end of the jetty.

  Mac could hear the screaming of a motor vehicle in low gear across the creek. He was surprised. He said, “Listen, we’re not alone,” and a short while later a group of small crocs spooked by something unseen slid into the creek from the opposite bank.

  Sundown was imposing a purple hue over the scene when the cans on the string rattled and Sep yelled. “Quick! Mac I think you’d better see this.” They returned to the hut.

  The television was on and a newsreader was saying…

  “…the bodies were found this morning by a local policeman in response to an anonymous phone call…”

  A description of the victim’s injuries was given.

  “…the owner of the boat has not been found but police do not fear for his safety as it is thought he is on another trawler in northern waters. Police hope to contact the boat soon. Until they do his name and the names of the victims are being withheld until relatives have been informed…”

  The pictures of Mac, shaven and unshaven, were again displayed on the screen with voiceover. “Detectives wish to interview this man in connection with this and similar crimes in the district.”

  Salazar and Cade peered through the mangroves. They had watched as Helen and Mac embraced at the end of the jetty on the opposite side of the creek. “We are on the wrong side of this infernal river!” Salazar’s mood was black. At least, thought Cade, he couldn’t be blamed. The Colombian was always in charge. He even drove the damned stolen Pajero.

  “Now we must backtrack around the upper reaches of this river and return up the other side. It will take at least two days of travel before we reach them. Two days wasted!” Salazar’s face was flushed.

  Cade thought it wise to say nothing of the mistake; it was the first time he had ever seen the Colombian lose his composure. Instead he said, “Carlos, I think we had better stop to rest and eat.”

  A slithering followed by a loud splashing caught their attention. They watched several two metre crocodiles take to the water. Two metres was about the average size of all of the predators they had seen while parallelling this river. Salazar and Cade had no idea of the existence of the monster which lived there. Neither had any awareness that a creature of its size could inhabit such serene precincts.

  Salazar’s silence following Cade’s suggestion that they rest and eat was taken as tacit agreement by Cade; he returned to the vehicle and unpacked the tent. When he remembered the crocodiles he packed it away again. Tonight he would sleep in the vehicle. Salazar could please himself.

  Chapter

  76
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br />   The person in the empty brine tank had been dead about twenty four hours from what appeared to be suffocation. Byers sat on the transom while the local men investigated. Some of them had disposable masks on their faces. Others covered their mouths and noses with handkerchiefs as they gathered the forensic evidence within their individual expertise. Without a local resident ME a doctor from the public hospital was always seconded to the force when needed; today it happened to be David Bramble. It was Bramble who approximated the time of death subject to further evaluation; his judgement was based only on a cursory examination of the bodies. The one in the fo’c’s’le had been dead for over two days.

  “It’s difficult to be precise in this heat and humidity, Detective.” Bramble told Byers.

  “I should’ve been more aggressive, I should’ve come on board earlier, he might be alive.” Byers nodded towards the brine tank.

  “It’s not your fault Russ, don’t blame yourself. You weren’t officially on the case until this morning. We wouldn’t be here yet if you hadn’t pushed.” Parsons put his hand on Byers shoulder and the old detective looked up at him.

  “Warren. Don’t ever fail to be shocked by something like this. Even if you have to bullshit to yourself, take the time to do it. If you ever become immune, you’re lost.” he said. Then he asked, “Has contact been made with the Paragon?”

  “Not yet but the Harbourmaster has been in touch with the Roman Myth, the skipper saw the Paragon off the top end heading for the Strait. He said they weren’t on the air.”

  “Is he sure?”

  “Yeah, even as a speck on the horizon most of these fishermen can tell a boat by its shape.”

  “Take me away from this please, Warren. There’s nothing we can do here.”

  On the station whiteboard was a note for Parsons to ring the Harbourmaster. It was late in the afternoon and they went the way of the Harbourmaster’s office on their way home.