A Tropical Cure

by John Hollenkamp

  “Have you got it yet?” A voice echoed loudly from the mangroves.

  “Bloody hell, Nige. Why don’t you come out here and risk your life? Bloody scary this. Might be crocodiles in here, you know!” Harold snapped.

  The brave lad slowly pulled the brown grime-covered crab trap up a few inches, but he still couldn’t see its contents. After a brief look around, Harold decided that he’d been in the creek long enough. The panic which overwhelmed him suddenly gave him enough adrenaline to yank the trap from its muddy hold. Without looking back, he dragged the wire net trap behind him. The water sucked behind the trap and around his knees, the bow wave from the trap washed over the shallow bank. He reached the bank breathing heavily, let go of the rope and bent over resting his hands on his knees, panting. His sunnies fell off his face into the mud.

  Nigel called out from behind the scrub, “Well? Are we having Scylla Serrata for tea?” he said theatrically and laughed.

  The slimy, muck-covered trap sat resting on the edge of the mud – Harold’s eyes grew the size of golf balls, with mouth agape he brought up his hand. Although he didn’t want to look at it again, his eyes were drawn back to the wire contraption. Glued. Horrified.

  “Did you find any Scylla Serrata?” Nigel was absolutely tickled pink about the scientific name of the mud-crab, consequently, couldn’t shut up saying it. “Hey Harry, should it be “Skillah” or “Cillah”? What do you think?” And the red-headed Nigel broke out in laughter, sounding like a choking seal.

  The pasty-faced student with deep ginger locks finally stopped the guttural laugh and asked, “Well, is it a crab?”

  “No. It’s more like … Homo Sapiens,” Harold replied soberly.

  A severed foot with the remains of a big toe stuck in the wire mesh lightly floated as if waving to the onlooker.

  Harold, the freckle-faced student from England, heaved and threw up.

  CHAPTER 19

  COMEDIAN

  “We must be very special, sending us to check out another corpse,” Joel remarked as the speedo needle nudged past the one-ten mark. The Christmas lights were on, and the siren was blasting a path through thick traffic as the police car barrelled along the Bruce Highway.

  Gibbs cast a glance at the speedometer. A single hand was casually guiding the steering wheel of the speeding police car. “Going a bit fast, aren’t we? Whoever’s in that creek isn’t going anywhere.”

  Joel Shallowater was a hoon. And any excuse to drive fast was a happy moment in his day. He backed off the accelerator, and let the car cruise back to just under a hundred kilometres an hour. Glancing to his left, he saw Gibbs start to say something, then she reached over and switched off the siren.

  “Five minutes won’t make any difference,” Fiona said.

  “You’re the boss.”

  “And don’t you forget that. I’m the bitch rulin’ your world at the moment.”

  “Ha. You and all the others.”

  “What others? I’m the only one you need to worry about, buster. By the way, this is our road.” She pointed ahead.

  Joel slowed the Commodore to make a right-hand turn. He wondered how easy it was going to be, finding the location. And how come they drew the lucky straw? Third body in as many weeks. Location, location. They seemed to be at the right place, at the wrong time. But the upside was, it broke the monotony of the day and kept them away from pulling over some poor punter whose blinkers weren’t working – there were occasions when he’d happily want to throttle his ‘ticket-happy’ senior sergeant. The downside: the amount of paperwork and the Spanish Inquisition that went hand in hand with the discovery of a dead person.

  “We meeting the four-be crew?” Joel asked.

  “They should be there by now,” she answered. “Up ahead. See that rural gate? That’s them in the wagon.”

  Joel pushed the Commodore a little to shorten the last half a kilometre.

  “Can’t help yourself, can you?” She rolled her eyes.

  “I’m a hoonen Aboriginal,” he hollered in a drawl. “Yippie ka-yea!”

  Fiona shook her head, then looked the other way, but couldn’t contain the smirk on her hidden face. “God help me, I’m stuck with the token comedian as well.” She had a giggle.

  Joel couldn’t keep a straight face. “C’mon, boss, you gotta have a bit a fun.” And he poked his tongue out at her. She reciprocated with a punch to his upper arm.

  “That hurt,” he complained.

  “Good. Now smarten up!”

  The occupants in the Nissan Patrol turned their heads simultaneously as the Commodore ground to a halt next to them with a short skid. Sporting matching dark wrap-around sunnies the two police officers looked more like the Blues Brothers, and more so, since they appeared to be moving in sync. Trained to anticipate and react, these guys were from Tactical and Rescue, tuned to deal with the extreme, and definitely not tolerant of frivolity. The remote location of the reported body triggered enlisting the special force cops to transport Gibbs and Shallowater safely to the site. The Coroner and Forensics would follow.

  The briefing by the officious Patrol squad was superfluous and patronising.

  After thanking them for the induction, Fiona turned her back to them, rolled her eyes, with a curled upper lip doing her best to mimic a toddler eating a Brussel sprout. Joel spun around and pretended he’d lost something, feverishly looking around for something on the ground. He found it difficult to stop sniggering.

  “You guys ready?” the driver and his front seat navigator in the Patrol asked in chorus.

  “Yep. We’re ready. Be right with you,” Fiona responded with her back still to them.

  Joel recovered and jumped into the back seat of the four-wheel drive. Fiona proceeded around the other side and got into the wagon, keeping her head low, and cap down.

  “You guys okay? You seem to be giggling a lot.”

  “All good boys. Been a long morning,” Joel said in his best Indigenous accent.

  The driver engaged the diff-lock and drove through the gate opening.

  “Might get a little bumpy. Make use of the handles, above you over the door.”

  Ahead, the track was under water, a thirty metre stretch of muddy water. The driver slowed the four-wheel drive to snail’s pace. He slipped the other gear stick, from High range to Low range.

  He eased the big wagon into the giant puddle, after finding ground he gunned it, maintaining a steady, rapid crawl forward. The occupants in the back seat swayed from side to side. Towards the end, he gave it extra and the big machine’s front end came down with a thud, the back end rose abruptly hurling both Fiona and Joel off the seat. Fiona landed on top of Joel.

  “Oh, did I tell you? … Best put your seatbelts on.” His turn to have a snigger.

  “Surrounded by fucking comedians,” Fiona grumbled.

  After another forty-five minutes of negotiating deep puddles and washed out sections they arrived at their destination.

  Neither of the students rushed to meet the police vehicle. Joel got out first and made his way over to meet the only one now standing. The boy with the long ginger hair pointed to the creek. His face was red, sunburnt and anxious.

  “Just there. In the basket.”

  Fiona stood behind Joel as he nodded.

  “A bloody crab trap. What body’s going to fit in that?”

  “A very small one,” Fiona replied, not looking forward to what they might find.

  Joel walked over to the creek edge. He put his hand to his mouth.

  “It’s not a baby, is it?” Fiona had stayed back.

  “No. But it ain’t pretty.”

  In the background, Fiona could hear the police radio, with a lot of animated chatter. She looked back to the Patrol. The navigator was sitting sideways on the passenger seat, microphone in his hand, shaking his head.

  He looked up, “We’ve got to rescue the Forensics guys, Coroner’s with them. They’re stuck in that big mudhole we went through.”

  “Terr
ific,” Fiona mumbled.

  “I guess we’ll just wait here,” she shouted.

  ***

  Much later that the afternoon.

  The drive back from the crime scene took longer than the way in. The T & R boys had decided on another way out. The Coroner and Forensics turned back after being winched out of the mudhole. There was no body, only a body part, in a rusted-out crab trap. Wrap some plastic around it and bring it with you.

  Terrific.

  The bush-track snaked through dense scrub and, in parts, was deeply rutted and muddy. In the dark, the track was difficult to follow and the holes looked deeper than in daylight. Although grateful for the skills provided by the driver, the ride in the back seat was nothing short of rough, or exhilarating, depending on your outlook. Both, Joel and Fiona were equally grateful for the safety of the seatbelt restraints. Relieved, Joel spotted the squad car as the Patrol’s spotlights danced over the reflective decals on the Commodore.

  “No one’s knocked it off.” A tired comment from the back seat.

  “A cop car?” Fiona responded with a frown.

  “First time for everything.”

  ***

  Both, Fiona and Joel thanked the T & R crew for the lift and returned to their squad car. Pleased the day was nearly over, they settled into their seats; Joel started the car and in a rare display of maturity drove the vehicle in a sedate and restrained manner.

  “I guess that’s the missing cab driver sorted,” Joel commented.

  “That is speculation.”

  “The only missing person unaccounted for in recent times,” Joel countered.

  “That’s crap, it might be the only missing person we know of. Hundreds of people go missing all the time,” Fiona said. “Besides how could you tell if it was even a man or woman? Let alone an Indian cab-driver. It’s just a foot, or what’s left of it.”

  “Pakistani. He was from Pakistan,” Joel corrected her.

  “India. Pakistan. All the same to me.”

  “Apparently they don’t think so.”

  CHAPTER 20

  OLD FRIENDS

  Barely in Townsville for six months, Darren felt like he’d been here for years. A sunny afternoon for once, he checked his watch while waiting at the gate. She said she’d be ten minutes away.

  Fifteen already.

  He walked back to the shade of the house, of course, she would come then. After standing in the blistering sun for fifteen. He turned around, went back to the gate.

  A small, shiny black Hatch came to an abrupt halt in front of his driveway. Sunshine Real Estate, said the magnetic sign stuck to the passenger door. The dark tint concealed the driver’s face, but not the busy goings-on behind the wheel. Darren observed the ritual from behind his sunglasses. Leaning towards the rear-view mirror, the mystery woman in the car patted her hair, then she quickly brushed a bit back with her fingertips, rubbed the bottom of her lip gently, picked up her fashion sunglasses and looked in the mirror again. She was ready. Darren heard the click of a car door.

  “Hi. I’m terribly sorry. Running a little behind schedule today… Cynthia Strain.”

  Struggling to hold on to her clipboards and paper, she held out her hand quick-pacing from around her car. Her high-heeled shoes were clacking on the bitumen.

  “Hi … thanks for coming,” Darren replied uneasily after a brief hand-shake.

  “Selling so soon?”

  “Moving interstate.” It was a safe answer.

  “How nice. Where to?”

  “South, probably.” Hoping the non-descript reply would stop further questions.

  Darren invited the sales consultant through the gate. Patch ran around both of them wagging his tail. Then he broke away as if to start showing the property.

  “He’s a nice dog. What breed is he?” More small talk.

  “Cattle-dog.”

  They arrived at the stairs, and Cynthia, the real estate agent stopped, “I’d like to take some photos, here.”

  “Sure. Whatever you need to do.” Darren loosened up.

  “I have some paperwork for you to sign, after I finish the pics. The person you spoke with at the office … well, she has left. That’s why I’m here. I’m new with Sunshine.”

  Not unattractive, a tad beefy around the waist and hips, she made her way around the house clicking the ‘shoot’ button without fear. Darren stayed near the steps and watched the young woman do her job. Black skirt, black jacket, black shoes and a black Swift, Darren was amused at the perfectness of the package. Whatever, the package was supposed to mean. As for the rest of her, dark brown hair done up in a perfect bun, perfect diamond dots for earrings and red lipstick. Darren approved, just sell my fucking house in the next two weeks.

  She returned to the stairs and asked to go up and view the interior of the home. Darren led the way. Halfway up the stairs he heard a car horn beep and Patch starting making noise. By the time, Darren turned around to see what all the barking was about, a tall Indigenous bloke with a wide smile stood at the gate.

  “You haven’t got the scary uniform on, I see. Hope those are shorts and not a loin cloth.” Darren had a little laugh.

  Joel returned a laugh and gestured a self-invitation with his hands.

  “Yeah, come through, mate. I’ll be with you shortly. Try and shut that dog up at the same time, there’s a ball on top of the fridge under the house.” Darren opened up the front door and showed Cynthia into the tidy, sparsely decorated house. She removed her sunglasses revealing smallish eyes which were light brown and not quite complimenting of her rounded face. Her eyes lit up, but Darren sensed it wasn’t anything to do with excitement, rather the opposite.

  “Dreary,” Cynthia uttered. “We’ll need to do some styling.”

  “What’s that? Styling.” Darren was reticent.

  “Without wanting to offend you, the place lacks any kind of … hominess, if I can put it that way,” she replied and adjusted her sunnies on her head. Her eyes fluttered. “A few bright paintings, modern, no landscapes with boring mountains. Those curtains, oh, I think they need to go. Your lounge, it has to go. We’ll remove the bottles of liquor from the benchtop. A bit of new colour on that wall …” She pointed to the back wall.

  “And what’s all that going to cost?” Darren was horrified.

  “Less than what it will cost you, if you don’t sell your house,” Cynthia replied.

  Darren’s head reeled, what kind of answer was that? Was she part of the mob wanting their dough? His expression darkened. “Are you threatening me?”

  “What? No … Oh God. I’m so sorry. It’s … oh, I’m embarrassed now. No, please don’t get me wrong. Our training is a bit over the top sometimes. All I meant to say is that it will help you sell your property quicker, costing you less in the long run.”

  “She’s right, brudda.” A voice from out of nowhere, in the doorway. With a big grin on his face he awaited the outcome of his intrusion.

  “Oh, hi there. Are you a neighbour?” Cynthia asked.

  “No. Just old friends,” Joel replied.

  “No, he’s not. Joel here is a policeman, thinking he’s a real estate expert as well as a detective.”

  “Oh, good. Very good.” Appearing to be relieved that the sale wouldn’t be hindered by a sensitive neighbour issue.

  A moment of awkward silence passed.

  Joel wisely retreated to the background. It wasn’t long before Darren caved in to the agent’s suggestions. She made some notes and assured him that a proposal would be forthcoming in the next day.

  Darren parted company with the agent at the gate.

  “Got some gossip for you.”

  Joel had come back down from the house.

  Darren noticed Patch in the shade under the house, his tongue hanging out and panting a hundred breaths a second, ears up, eyes darting from him to Joel and the yellow tennis ball.

  “You must be a good tennis player, by the look of it,” Darren remarked.

  “Runs in the
family. I got a cuzzen called Evonne.”

  “You’re all cousins, aren’t you?” It was hard to tell whether Darren was joking.

  His visitor picked up on the nuance.

  “Depends. There are tribal issues.” Joel’s big friendly eyes were less jocular now.

  “Hmm … anyway, what’s the go? You here on a social call? Or copper’s business?” Darren was less than enthusiastic, despite his earlier generous welcome.

  “Copper’s stuff. But who knows you might get to like me.” With a widening smile.

  “Keep talking,” Darren replied impatiently.

  “Your girlfriend and I had to organise another dead one for collection the other day. Not much to go on as far as who. Hard to identify when all you have is a foot,” Joel said.

  “Girlfriend?” Darren puzzled.

  “Yeah, your mate, Gibbs, the blonde one.”

  “So what’s the foot have to do with me?”

  “I’m guessing it’s your colleague from the cab company. Early indications are that it belonged to a male, possibly Asian. They are doing a DNA search as we speak,” Joel clarified.

  “Tell me, mate, how come you’re telling me all about this? Missing cab drivers aren’t my concern,” Darren responded.

  “Thought you’d be interested. Wasn’t the missing driver a colleague?”

  “Since when does a uniform copper pretend to be a detective?”

  Joel was momentarily stuck for words.

  “Yep, you are correct, and it might seem unlikely to you that a black fella is doing his best to be Dick Tracy. You might recall that a young Indigenous person was found in the boot of a ditched car, not far away from the burnt-out taxi.”