Croc Country

by Kerry McGinnis

  Luke was of the same opinion. ‘Nah, you’re dreaming, mate!’

  ‘You think?’ Matt retorted. ‘What do we know about the bloke anyway, eh? He rocks up here, acts like he’s entitled to be housed and fed, and snoops around the place at his leisure. I caught him in my workshop one day. Lookin’ to borrow some pliers, he said. Only he weren’t nowhere near the toolbox at the time.’

  ‘He’d just have been interested,’ Sophie said. ‘Sheds, you know – tools and junk. Men love poking around in them. But getting back to what I was saying – you reckon you could do that, Till?’

  ‘What? Oh, the recipes . . . Yes, no problem. Simple, foolproof, easy to follow. Right you are.’ She grinned at her table mates. ‘Dinner for dummies then. I’ll make a list and write up the page numbers. You’ll all be chefs by the end of the season.’

  ‘Or dead from food poisoning,’ Luke said dolefully.

  Only Matt failed to join in the laughter.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tilly had almost reflexively dismissed Matt’s accusation about Connor, but later that evening, as she sat up in her bed brushing her hair and ruminating idly over the day’s events, she recalled his words and felt the growth of a faint uneasiness. It was no good telling herself that Matt had imagined somebody getting into his gear; Binboona’s mechanic lived in a world of facts, not fancy. He wasn’t the imaginative sort. It made him predictable, and yes, boring, even if his inability to invent was his main strength. What was, was, with Matt. Like the game that he was so enamoured of, she reflected. Chess rules were immutable. There might be a million moves to be made about the board, but when the king was checkmated, that was it. So if he said his belongings had been rifled through, then somebody must have done it, and Connor was the only candidate.

  Was simple curiosity reason enough? But why should he have the slightest interest in Matt? The two men were as good as strangers, having barely, to Tilly’s knowledge, spoken more than politeness demanded. Matt had ignored Connor, apart from the occasional comment to Tilly, prompted by apparent jealousy of a wrongly percieved understanding between them. Totally wrong, Tilly reiterated to herself. Still, Connor had been curious. All those questions he’d asked her about herself and the others – their backgrounds, their tasks at Binboona. Surely it was just a natural interest in one’s chance companions – but you couldn’t say the same thing about searching through those same companions’ belongings. If he had, she reminded herself.

  Something else Matt had said echoed in her head: What do we know about the bloke anyway, eh? It was a fair question, and in all honesty, the answer was very little. Connor had identified himself through a message he himself had left on the phone. She must check with Sophie, Tilly thought, but she was pretty sure that her cousin hadn’t actually spoken to anyone at the university about the field trip he was supposedly undertaking. Which meant that no third party had vouched for him. He had represented himself as being who he was. And of course she believed him. She did. Only some faint tinge of suspicion she wished to banish lingered in her mind. The simplest way to do it, she thought resolutely, would be to ring the uni and ask for the whereabouts of Connor Doyle, botanist.

  Momentarily pausing the brush, Tilly wondered whether she should take this step. Doing so, even contemplating it, gave body to the nebulous disquiet she felt, but it was more than that. Her hand moved again but the bristles, meeting the hair wrong, got caught and she winced, carefully disentangling the strands, brow creasing in a little frown. Checking up on him implied that Connor mattered to her, and she wasn’t yet sure that she wanted this to be so. She would have to think carefully about it. It was too late tonight anyway, and there would be no chance in the morning with the others around. Which shouldn’t matter, Tilly told herself severely, but somehow it did.

  A spurt of exasperation made her grimace. Indecisiveness seemed to be becoming a habit. It was a simple matter, for God’s sake! Either Connor was nosy to the point of transgressing the rules of hospitality, or he was hiding something. Her reaction should be as clear cut as the problem – check it out, or forget it. Laying the brush aside, Tilly wriggled lower in the bed and pulled the covers up, then lay for a long time staring at the ceiling before reaching over to switch off the bedside light.

  The following day and the one after that, Tilly worked with Luke on the cliff path. The second evening was a slide night and they ate their warmed-over dinner – a surprisingly good tuna bake of Sophie’s making – at the camp.

  ‘You can do the intro this evening,’ Luke said. ‘I’ve been taping birdcalls so we’ll make it a bit different tonight. Show the slide, then play the call. Then, if enough people turn up, we might try a quiz at the end. Play the calls again and see how many they can recognise. What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tilly said dubiously. ‘I’ve never done any public speaking. What do I say?’

  ‘Whatever you can think of. Birds are great, birds are wonderful, great variety, they come in all sizes – you know, that sort of stuff. I meant, is the quiz a good idea? I don’t want to bore them.’

  ‘It can’t hurt. And nobody makes them turn up, so they must be interested.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he said, visibly cheered.

  Tilly made a discovery. ‘You’re nervous, Luke! Remind me – how many times have you done this?’

  He pulled a face. ‘The slides and the talk are fine. I just wondered about the quiz thing, that’s all. I always hated it at school, you know. Being singled out and put on the spot by the teacher.’

  ‘Yes, well, you are the teacher now. There’ll be kids – ask them first. They love attention.’

  ‘Okay. And if nobody else answers, you can. Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ Tilly agreed, collecting their dinner dishes. ‘It must be about time to get over there and set up.’

  The evening went well with plenty of interaction from their audience, at least half of whom lingered on to talk afterwards. Tilly, packing the slides carefully into their boxes, jumped when Connor spoke at her shoulder. She hadn’t known he was present; it was too dark to see beyond the single cone of light angled away from the screen, by which they’d operated.

  ‘Evening, Tilly. I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  ‘Oh.’ She was flustered, suspicion warring with her liking for him, making her words sound offhand. ‘No big mystery there. You know I’ve changed jobs. I’m a trainee now and keeping the tourists busy is all part of it.’ Why, she wondered wildly, had she said ‘mystery’? She might as well have told him to his face that she suspected . . . She was being ridiculous. Abruptly she asked, ‘So, what have you been up to?’ The words came out like an accusation.

  He shrugged. ‘Just the usual stuff, collating, photographing, collecting. Someday I hope to publish a book on the trees and shrubs of the Top End, which means trips like this are useful for research as well as work. So how are you liking your new job?’

  ‘It’s different,’ she said shortly, fitting the projector into its battered box. ‘More physical, and there’s plenty to learn. Some of it I already know, but Luke’s knowledge of the country just amazes me. Seems I’ve lots of catching up to do.’

  ‘There’s always more to any job than the outsider thinks,’ he agreed, and yawned. ‘Time for my bed. I enjoyed the show, by the way, if you’d tell Luke?’

  ‘I will. Goodnight.’ She wondered if her curtness had driven him away, but she wasn’t able to pretend the ease she had previously felt in his company. And if he had been spying on them all, then she had no wish to spend time with him anyway.

  ‘Was that Connor?’ Luke asked. ‘Nice of him to come. I didn’t know he was interested in birds.’

  ‘Mmm. He told me he enjoyed it. Luke,’ Tilly said suddenly, ‘do you think Matt meant it, about Connor going through his stuff?’

  ‘Huh?’ The young ranger looked up from the tricky task of collapsing the screen. ‘Nah. Give me a single reason why he’d want to. Between you and me, I sometimes think old Matt
lives in his head too much. All that chess. It’s like he’s always expecting a pawn or one of those horse thingies to sneak up on him.’

  ‘Knights,’ said Tilly. ‘They’re called knights.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Well, maybe he ought to get out more. Can you grab the legs and fold ’em in for me? There’s a clip at the bottom holds them closed. That’s it. Damn thing weighs a ton.’

  Irritated by his easy dismissal of her problem, Tilly picked up the slide box, tucked the cassette recorder under one arm and aimed the torch ahead of their feet. ‘Got everything?’ she said brusquely. ‘Let’s go then.’ It was not that she wanted to be convinced of Connor’s villainy, she told herself, but surely the question deserved more than two seconds’ thought! Of course, Luke’s entire being was probably consumed with thoughts of his Jane. She huffed out an exasperated breath. Men had no curiosity. The sky could fall, and they’d just pick up the bits and never think to wonder what brought them down.

  When the chance came to do her own asking, Tilly found herself reluctant to take it. The homestead was hers for the day, the others dispersed about the property. She fed the animals, loaded the washing machine, swept the floors and, having made herself a cup of tea, sat eyeing the phone. All she had to do was punch in the number on the slip of paper beside her mug, then ask to speak to Connor Doyle. The receptionist – did universities have receptionists? – would apologise for their inability to comply, would say he was away from the uni just now, and that would be that. So why was she hesitating?

  Because it was sneaky to be going behind his back, the little voice in her head observed. Yes? she mentally replied, And searching other peple’s belongings isn’t? But you don’t know that he did, the voice argued. Then why, another voice – the voice of reason – nagged, are you even thinking about it?

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Tilly grabbed the handpiece and stabbed fiercely at the numbers.

  A few minutes later she put the phone down and sat staring at her empty cup. The receptionist had been quite sure. No student, mature age or otherwise, was registered under that name. They had no faculty member or visiting professor called Doyle in the university and no, no research grants were being funded at present – definitely not. Was Ms Hillyer quite sure that she had the details correct?

  ‘Perhaps it was Adelaide he meant, not Darwin, and I got the wrong end of the stick,’ Tilly had mumbled. ‘No, no, that’s fine. Thanks for your trouble, it wasn’t really important.’

  She rose from the table and, tipping her half-drunk tea into the sink, went to the door to stare at the distant waters of the Nutt glinting between the jungle growth of the river bank. Matt had been right. If Connor was a botanist, he certainly wasn’t the one he was pretending to be. What possible reason could he have for lying to them, and what, if anything, should she do about it? Was it even her business? There could be a perfectly innocent explanation after all.

  Like what? the annoying inner voice asked.

  ‘Well, I don’t know, do I?’ she exploded, venting to the empty air. ‘That’s the problem!’ Should she tell Sophie? She was in charge, after all, and it was her trust that had been exploited. Or she could simply confront the man himself and demand an explanation? Yes, she thought, she would do that first. And spill the beans after – if he had no reasonable excuse to offer.

  No sooner had the decision been made than Tilly heard the approach of a vehicle from the camp. It was early for the others to be returning, and the pace of the Toyota made her heart jump in sudden dismay. She ran to the verandah’s edge just as it slowed to a stop before the shed. Luke jumped out, followed more slowly by Sophie, and both hurried into the building to return a moment later, hefting the heavy collapsible ladder between them.

  Tilly jogged over as they struggled to lift it onto the cab of the vehicle. ‘What are you doing, guys? What’s going on?’

  ‘Ask those bastards!’ Luke said furiously. He was balanced on the bullbar, hauling the bulky ladder forward. ‘Tilly, there’s a rope near your foot. Can you chuck the end up to me?’

  She obeyed, shading her eyes. ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘To check the nests, not that there’s likely to be anything left in them. Go round the back, will you, and help Sophie. When I sing out “hang on”, make sure you do.’

  ‘Okay.’ No wiser, Tilly did as she was bidden. She heard Luke yell, ‘Now!’ and the ladder jerked suddenly in the two women’s hands, then Luke was there with a second rope, tying the lowest rung to the ball of the towbar at the rear.

  ‘Right. Secured front and back. We should take the chainsaw too, boss. If there’s a chick left, we won’t reach it. The nests are usually at least a metre down inside the tree.’

  ‘Get it then,’ Sophie replied, then turned to Tilly. ‘There’s been wildlife traffickers working the place. Luke found some vehicle tracks out near Blooms Rock and we followed them. Whoever it is has been trapping black cockatoos and God knows what else. If they had birding nets—’ She was as angry as the young ranger, Tilly saw, her lips compressed and a hard light in her eyes.

  ‘But – cockies?’ Tilly was incredulous. ‘Who would want . . .? Can’t you just buy them? And black ones aren’t even that special.’ There were droves of them in the north. She saw them every day, winging home above the river, their harsh discordant calls a feature of evenings at Binboona.

  ‘They’re protected, and worth anywhere up to forty thousand dollars a pair overseas on the black market,’ Luke said tersely.

  ‘Forty thousand!’ Tilly blinked. ‘But, I mean, they’re a big strong bird. How—’

  ‘It’s breeding season,’ he said. ‘They’ve chicks in the nest. The smugglers use a ladder and carry a net to cover the hollow. Then they bang on the trunk and the parent bird panics and goes straight up into the net. All they have to do then is hang about until the bird’s mate turns up and catch him too. Then they bugger off and leave the chicks to starve.’

  ‘That’s dreadful! So where are they now – these men?’

  ‘Long gone,’ Sophie said briefly. ‘We can’t spend time chasing them if we’re to have any chance of saving the chicks. And we need to work backwards from the first nest we found – there could be more.’ She pulled the door open as Luke also got in. ‘See you later, Tilly.’

  ‘Right.’ Bemused by the rapid turn of events, her own worries temporarily subsumed in this new concern, Tilly watched them speed off. Sighing, she returned to the house to hang the washing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was late in the afternoon before Sophie and the young ranger returned. Matt, who had spent the day grading the back roads, beat them home by just five minutes, and was hearing about their discovery when Tilly cocked her head to listen. ‘Here they come now.’

  ‘I hear ’em.’ Matt smacked his hat against the one of the posts guarding the vegetable garden; his upper body was coated in dust, for the cab on the old grader was no more than a roof over a worn seat. ‘A bad business,’ he grunted. ‘If the buggers are still about, I hope they ain’t mucking around with my grader. I left ’er sitting out there at the end of the river track.’

  ‘Did you?’ Tilly said vaguely. She turned off the hose, her eyes on the vehicle and those emerging from it. They must have rescued a chick, because Luke was cradling something wrapped in a grubby towel.

  She hurried to his side. ‘What did you find?’ He folded the material back to disclose not one but two ugly little bodies, all beak and eyes, only partially fledged. ‘They’re awfully young, aren’t they? To rear, I mean.’

  ‘Probably. They’re maybe five, six weeks old. I’ll have to try.’ He didn’t sound hopeful and Tilly touched his hand consolingly.

  ‘It won’t be your fault if you can’t. Do you know if they visited other nests?’

  ‘We didn’t find any,’ Sophie said, ‘but we followed the tracks back almost to the river and saw where they’d had birding nets out.’ Noting Tilly’s blank look, she explained tersely, ‘Very fine nylon with a tight wea
ve. For little birds, finches and wrens and such. They can’t see it so they get caught and tangled up in it. Like fish. Only, tiny birds are fragile things – they die easily from shock, or maybe the speed at which they hit it. It’s said that about twenty per cent of those caught that way perish. We found the bodies, so we know the net was there.’

  Tilly felt a flush of anger. ‘That’s wicked!’

  ‘Yes,’ her cousin agreed. ‘I’ll ring the police in Darwin, but there’s not much chance of catching anyone now.’

  Later that evening her prediction was borne out by her brief conversation with the Darwin station.

  ‘What did the cops say?’ Tilly asked as she dished out the meal. ‘Who did you speak to?’

  ‘Some sergeant. Who as good as told me not to hold my breath waiting on a conviction.’ Sophie sighed. ‘Of course, it’s not easy for them. Travellers must outnumber locals in Darwin at this time of year. Then the birds could be transported by road or plane or sea. And the hell of it is, it doesn’t matter to the criminals if they lose half of them – their thinking is there’re plenty more to be trapped. It’s not just birds either. They smuggle terrapins, lizards, snakes . . . Anything that’s protected, which is all our native fauna now.’

  ‘How are the chicks?’ Tilly asked Luke. ‘If they’re so valuable, why didn’t they take them too?’

  ‘Too much trouble feeding them. I’d better stop with ’em tomorrow, boss, see if I can get them to eat. We’ve got ordinary birdseed, which isn’t ideal – they’d be getting ground eucalyptus nuts from their parents, plus whatever enzymes they’d have in their crop. I’m not very hopeful,’ he finished gloomily.