Disguising Demons

by Brigid George

  “Don’t know much about him before he became a monk.” Jake swiped his phone’s screen to scan through his notes. “Born in Melbourne in 1969–”

  “What date?” Dusty interrupted. “What date was he born?” She gleamed with triumph. “Bet he’s Aries the ram.”

  Jake looked appraisingly at Dusty and pointed his finger in her direction to acknowledge her idea.

  “You could be right. Unfortunately, we don’t have those details.”

  Jake explained that the only background the monks insist on is name plus year and place of birth. Novices are asked to arrive with nothing except the clothes they are wearing. Keys, wallets, credit cards etc are not brought into the Sanctuary. Ram had joined Sunyarta just after the monks had been given the land on the hill and was the first non-Burmese to join.

  “So, Ram might have been living here in Port Douglas when he entered the Sanctuary,” said Dusty.

  “We didn’t get to the point of digging too far into his history,” said Jake. “If we’d had longer to work the case, we would have done an extensive background check. As it was, we only looked into his background as a monk. My focus during the investigation was naturally on his current life and the local scene. We interviewed all the monks. Ram seemed to be well-liked. Certainly no indication any of them wished him harm.”

  The waitress arrived with the drinks I’d ordered. We smiled our thanks and she responded with a cheery “Enjoy!”

  Chapter 5

  Jake went on to explain that the police had established Ram’s movements in the twenty-four hour period leading up to his death. The day before he died had been his regular day for volunteering at the retirement home called Alexandra Village.

  “The monks said he was uncharacteristically agitated when he returned.”

  “Because…?” Dusty raised her eyebrows.

  “He wouldn’t tell anyone what was wrong. Just went straight out to the garden and stayed there till after sundown. One of the other monks found him sitting on the ground in a vegetable patch as if he’d slipped into a reverie and hadn’t noticed the time passing.”

  “Something happened at the retirement village to upset him?” suggested Dusty.

  “Nup. Not there. On his way home. Moose Mulligan attacked him. Moose has always hated the monks. Calls them bludgers – among other things. Blames them for taking his family’s land. That day he took his anger out on Ram.”

  Dusty interrupted. “Moose?”

  “Mike Mulligan’s been called Moose as far back as I can remember.”

  “You being a local boy an’ all.”

  Jake responded to Dusty’s mocking with a good-natured grin before turning to me. “I was born in Port. Grew up here.”

  That surprised me. “I thought you trained with the Victorian police.”

  Jake explained that his family moved to Victoria when he was in secondary college. On leaving school he had entered the police service there and later transferred to Queensland Police.

  “I couldn’t wait to leave the Arctic state and come back to the sunshine,” he said with a teasing glance at Dusty.

  “Arctic state!” Dusty defended her home state indignantly.

  Satisfied at eliciting the reaction he’d anticipated, Jake grinned and changed the subject. “Back to Mulligan.” He glanced down at his notes. “The day before Ram died, Moose’s red truck was parked in Macrossan Street near Rocky’s Cafe. Ram was walking along the footpath. When he drew level with Moose’s truck, he stopped to adjust one of his sandals, using the vehicle for support. Mulligan came out of a shop just up the street. The sight of Ram leaning on his truck got Moose all riled up. He rushed at the monk waving his arms about like an agitated gorilla. Apparently, Ram turned around awkwardly, lost his balance and fell over.”

  “Let me guess,” said Dusty. “Moose Mulligan just drove off and left the monk lying on the footpath.”

  Jake nodded. “Rocky came to the monk’s rescue. He was sitting out the front of his cafe playing the guitar which he often does when business is quiet. He helped Ram to one of the cafe’s outdoor tables and gave him a glass of water.”

  “Was that the first time Moose had attacked Ram?” asked Dusty.

  Jake shook his head. “He’d already had a go at the monk a few weeks before the Macrossan Street incident. He was convinced Ram had dobbed him in to the police.”

  “For doing what?”

  “Moose has a few acres not far out of town; land that wasn’t part of the fire sale to pay the family’s debts. His grandfather gave it to him as a twenty-first birthday present. It’s quite secluded, hard to access and surrounded by National Park forest so Moose came up with an idea for a lucrative business enterprise.”

  “Growing marijuana?”

  “You got it, Dus. He’d established a thriving illegal marijuana plantation. When someone reported it, Moose reckoned he knew who it was. Ram. For Mulligan this was the last straw. The way he saw it, first the monks took his family land then they took away his only remaining source of income. One day just after he got out of jail, Moose bailed Ram up in the street. He was basically behaving like a feral adolescent screaming his head off, yelling, ‘How dare you! How dare you!’ Witnesses say he was throwing around the famous expletive starting with F as if it was a new word he’d just discovered.”

  Dusty grinned and turned to me. “See what a gentleman Jake is. He’s protecting my sensitive ears.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” Jake gave Dusty a warm glance. “You always hated people using that word.”

  “A legacy from my nan. I probably should get over it. Thanks anyway.”

  “You’d better brace yourself when you interview Moose Mulligan; he’s not the type to spare anyone’s feelings.”

  Dusty shrugged. “How did Ram react when Mulligan let loose at him?”

  “Didn’t say a word. Just moved away. Which made Moose even angrier. He was spoiling for a fight and didn’t get one. Called the monk a yellow-bellied dingo who didn’t have the balls to stand up for himself.”

  “Why did he think it was Ram who’d reported him?”

  “He says he saw one of the flower pots – his term for the monks – in the National Park not far from where it backs onto his piece of land. I doubt it was really one of the monks he saw, probably glimpsed a tourist in a yellow dress or something. A few days later, he saw Ram going into the police station here in town. Just a couple of days after that, the drug squad swooped on his pot plantation. So of course the idiot jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

  “Ram didn’t go into the police station to report the marijuana?”

  “Nah. He just had some minor document he needed to get officially witnessed. The tip-off re the marijuana plantation was an anonymous phone call.”

  “Flower pots?” I was curious about Mulligan’s nickname for the monks.

  “Yup. No one else calls them that. Only Mulligan and his cronies. It’s just Moose being malicious; a reference to the colour of their robes which was chosen to match the wild hibiscus that grows in this area. Moose probably thinks he’s being clever because flower and pot are both words sometimes used to refer to marijuana.”

  We paused as an elderly couple, both dressed for the warm weather in shorts and cotton shirts, shuffled past our table. A little unsteady on his feet, the gentleman was aided by a walking stick.

  I picked up an English accent when the woman addressed the man, presumably her husband. “What would you like to have to drink, ducks?”

  Dusty smiled after them. “I’m tempted to go and help them.” Jake and I both started to get up. “But that would be incredibly patronising.” I exchanged a bashful look with Jake as we both sat back down.

  Dusty was right; it would seem condescending given the couple, although undoubtedly octogenarians, possibly older, were not in need of assistance. However, I understood Dusty’s desire to reach out to them. She was probably thinking of her grandmother who had cared for her after her mother disappeared. I was certainly thinking o
f my grandparents back in Castlerea, both of whom were on the twilight side of eighty.

  Dusty returned to our discussion. “Where was Mulligan at the time of the murder?”

  “Claims he was in bed – said he always sleeps late. Sneered at the suggestion he’d be up ‘at the crack of a sparrow’s fart’ as he put it.”

  “So no alibi. I’m guessing you haven’t got him on CCTV near the Sanctuary?”

  Jake’s eyes twinkled. “This is not the big city, Dus. No CCTV on the hill.”

  “Was there any DNA evidence on the body?”

  “Zero.”

  “How would Mulligan have known Ram would be on top of the hill at dawn?”

  “Members of the public are free to come and go as they please at Sunyarta. He could have gone up there, wandered around and asked a few questions to get the information he needed. He might not have even had to do that. Ram’s meditation routine seemed to be fairly well known, partly because the particular platform he used was in such a stunning location.”

  Dusty nodded thoughtfully. “That means anyone in Port Douglas could have known where to find Ram at dawn.”

  “True. But Moose is the only person I know of who had a motive to harm him.”

  Jake’s phone beeped. He grinned apologetically as he checked the caller ID.

  “A message from my sergeant. I’ve left the team in charge of a case in Cairns while I’m here. ’Scuse me a sec.” Jake read the text and typed out a quick response. “Sorry.” He placed the phone on the table. “Hopefully we won’t be interrupted again.”

  Dusty waved away his apology.

  “By the way,” added Jake. “I’ve asked Rocky, the cafe owner I mentioned earlier, to give you any help he can – local knowledge, that sort of thing.”

  Dusty frowned. “Somehow I can’t picture someone called Rocky as a cafe owner. I can’t shake this image of a tough bikie with overdeveloped muscles and knuckle dusters.”

  Jake threw back his head and laughed. “Rocky’s got a good physique but no knuckle dusters and he doesn’t look a bit like a bikie. Actually, he’s a bit of a softie. You know what he does? He has this exchange thing where customers can put money in a jar for an extra cup of coffee. The money pays for a free cappuccino for a homeless person or anyone who can’t afford to buy a coffee.”

  “Interesting. Maybe he’s been homeless himself at some stage. It seems to happen to almost everyone these days.”

  “True.” Jake reached out and, grinning mischievously, tapped Dusty lightly on the scalp. “Touch wood, it doesn’t happen to any of us.”

  Dusty gave him a mock scowl. Jake was clearly aware of Dusty’s love of superstitions.

  Watching the way they interacted with each other reinforced the decision I’d made earlier. I would make a call as soon as I had a private moment.

  “Anyway, Rocky’s a mate. We were in primary school together but his family moved to Melbourne years before mine did. We lost touch until he came back to Port a couple of years ago.” He took a last sip of his coffee. “There’s just a few more things I wanted to go over with you and, as I mentioned in my email, you’ll be interested in a couple of things which haven’t been released to the public.”

  A shrill telephone ring interrupted us. The screen on Jake’s phone lit up. “Sorry.” He looked at the screen briefly. “It’s my sergeant again. I’d better take the call.”

  He pushed his chair back and stood up. His call finished before he had time to move away from the table. He turned back to us. “Sorry. Gotta go.” Leaning over, he touched Dusty lightly on the arm. That simple act of familiarity carried Jake’s confident assumption about Dusty’s feelings for him. To my mind, it also revealed a level of hubris, something I’d observed in other men in their attitudes toward women. Growing up in a house full of girls had taught me not to take anything for granted where women were concerned.

  As he hurried away, he called over his shoulder. “I’ll call you.”

  Dusty looked after him for a moment. “Let’s take a short walk.” She pointed toward the hill.

  As we left the cafe, I noticed the elderly couple had chosen a table on the edge of the dining area where they could both face the beach. ‘Ducks’ was enjoying a large cold drink, possibly ginger beer. His wife, with a slightly unsteady hand, was pouring hot tea from a teapot into a bright blue cup with a matching saucer.

  Chapter 6

  Dusty’s short walk turned out to be a steep climb to the top of the hill where the Sanctuary was situated. Thankfully, the ascent was made easier by a cemented surface. Fitted handrails and had the added bonus of views of the Coral Sea. However, the quality of the trail deteriorated into a rough bush track about a third of the way up. Dusty seemed in her element and charged ahead passing several other walkers and leaving me trailing behind.

  “No one would have seen the killer creeping up here before dawn that morning.” She had paused at the halfway point to allow me to catch up. “By the way, before you surfaced this morning I was gathering information from the lady on the desk.”

  I knew from the gleam in Dusty’s eye she’d been waiting for the right moment to share the intelligence she’d gleaned. I arranged my face in my best listening expression. Dusty cast a furtive glance around, beckoning me closer before continuing in a low voice.

  “She told me another monk from Sunyarta died in mysterious circumstances. According to her, it was an accident which might not have been an accident.” Dusty nodded with satisfaction when she saw she’d roused my curiosity. “I don’t think the police looked into it for a possible connection to Ram’s death.”

  On the other hand, I thought, the police might have dismissed it as local gossip and malicious muckraking. Sunyarta, being a community of people who did things differently from the norm, would be a prime target for fanciful speculation by bored locals looking for an injection of excitement in their lives.

  “Was it recent enough to be connected to Ram’s murder?”

  Dusty shrugged. “A few years ago. Could be a connection though. You know me, Sean; leave no stone unturned.”

  Dusty gazed out at the ocean, clearly enjoying the ambience of our rest area. I took the opportunity to ask about her mother’s case. She had lived most of her life wondering what had happened to her beloved mother who had disappeared without a trace. Just last year, there’d been a breakthrough when a police informant identified the place where Anna Kent was buried. It’d come as a shock to Dusty at first. She’d finally had to let go of the hope her mother might one day return. Dusty’s friend, Senior Sergeant Ken Nagle, now had a team of detectives working on it.

  “Thanks for asking, Sean. I’ll fill you in later.” She turned to give me one of her brilliant smiles. “Over a G & T.”

  The rest of the walk took us through more dense bushland and tall trees. At the top we passed through the un-gated entrance to Sunyarta and approached the Sanctuary along a neat stone pathway. Both sides of the path were lined with colourful plants growing in tangled harmony and spilling over the edges of rocks. The path widened as we continued downhill towards a cluster of timber buildings elevated from the ground by floor stumps to encourage natural air conditioning through the circulation of cool air from the ground.

  Dusty looked back towards the top of the hill. “A monk could have easily made it up to Ram’s meditation spot from these grounds without being seen. Even though the bush here is not as dense as at the top, it’s thick enough to provide good cover. A monk intent on murder could have used the trees for concealment and not even had to go on the path.”

  “A monk in yellow robes?”

  Dusty gave me a scornful look. “Don’t you think a monk with murder on his mind might have found a way to procure some dark clothing to wear?”

  “Right. Just what I was thinking.”

  She returned my grin with one of her own then pointed to the right. “Talking of yellow.”

  Creating a striking border around a pond were trees whose large, heart-shaped leaves co
mplemented vivid yellow flowers with deep red centres, their heads dipping toward the water.

  “Reminds me of the story of Narcissus; the colour of the flowers and the way they way they seem to be looking at their own reflections in the pond.”

  “Long ago when the people of this land lived in nature…” The soft male voice startled us.

  We spun round to see a man of advanced years with a shaven head dressed in a robe matching the colours of the flowers on the tree. Brown skin, wrinkled with age, silver hair and wisps of grey beard in the centre of his chin combined with his Asian features to suggest he might have been one of Sunyarta Sanctuary’s original Burmese monks. He was not much taller than Dusty so that I felt I was towering over both of them.

  The monk continued speaking calmly without acknowledging us or our surprise. “There was a beautiful dark-eyed princess who loved the flowers of the hibiscus trees growing along the river where her people lived. Each day in the late afternoon she swam in the river.”

  Dusty and I both gasped in horror. A tourist brochure at Four Mile Resort where we were staying warned visitors that the river, assuming he meant the Daintree River, was home to hundreds of crocodiles. On our recent trip to Darwin, we’d been educated by Australia’s leading crocodile authority on the dangers of crocs lurking in the water. Surely people whose ancestors had lived on the land for thousands of years understood the risk.

  Unperturbed, the monk continued the story. “When she emerged from the water, the princess liked to pick fresh flowers to wear in her hair. One day she did not return from her swim. The men of her tribe searched the river. Alas, no trace of the girl was ever found. From that day, the yellow hibiscus flowers began to darken every afternoon. At four o’clock, the time the princess used to go to swim, the flowers dropped from the trees like carmine tears. To this day, the yellow blooms fall from the wild hibiscus trees at the same time each afternoon.”

  “Serious?” Dusty’s tone expressed her awe. “The flowers all drop from the trees at four o’clock every day?”