by J. M. Green
Tyler had his arm around Kylie and was telling Ted a yarn about the livestock auction he’d been to. Apparently, the old blokes reckoned they hadn’t seen the like: prices up, good rain, pastures in great nick. Tyler was set to make a killing. I felt sorry for him.
The twins spent the evening bombing each other in the pool. Delia insisted Loretta stay off her legs. She piled a plate with meat and salad, and forced it on her, saying something about eating for two, and her future grandchild needing good Australian red meat, with a nod over her shoulder at me. I shrugged it off. It was Skye Redbridge who was on my mind.
Skye missed out on Vincent. Pugh had said, I’ll talk to Al. What could Al do to get Vincent back for Skye, if the bull had already been sold at auction? Make an offer? Make a threat? The small pieces of the picture hinted at influence, unethical use of power perhaps. Hence the fear of exposure. But was that enough motive to have Joe Phelan killed? I disliked Pugh, but I couldn’t conceive of him as the type to order a hit. It was possible Pugh didn’t know the recording existed. Perhaps it was Al, whoever he or she was, rather than Pugh, who feared exposure. Nunzio knew Al. Or an Al. I tried to think of a ploy to ring Nunzio and fool him into revealing Al’s identity. But the margaritas were strong, and I couldn’t think straight.
By the end of the evening, I was quite unsteady. I left the Mazda at Delia’s and squeezed in with Kylie and Tyler, the boys, and Loretta. The Woolburn pub was on their way.
Kylie told me to call her in the morning, something about driving me back to Mum’s for my car, and something about ducks in a row. I gave her a thumbs up, went into the pub through the door marked Accommodation, and climbed the old staircase.
My room had been updated in the seventies. A two-by-ten-metre cell, with a grubby casement window with a torn blind looking onto the main street. Blue-patterned nylon carpet, orange candlewick bedspread over a single bed on sagging bedsprings. The small laminate bedside table with one draw contained no bible. One star.
I lay on the bed exhausted, drunk, sad, confused. Waves of loneliness crashing over me. Brophy had not yet returned my call. There was no point trying him again. He’d be working at the market now. Was it me, or was he distant lately? The permanent cold, the vagueness, the excuses, the missing accounts of his day. I didn’t like to think about what it might mean. There was one possible, but unthinkable, explanation. I’d pushed it away time and again. A series of moments replayed in my mind. The time he’d borrowed money because his ATM card had been taken. Never paid me back. He was always either sick or tired or broke. I could remember so many times he’d been one or another of those.
A return to his former drug use was a deal-breaker. If Brophy was using again, we were through. I’d told him that early on. Surely, he wouldn’t risk our relationship for that. At least, I didn’t think he would. I refused to entertain the thought.
Instead, I put my arms behind my head and listened to the distant hum of trucks on the highway. Sheep, cattle, wheat — back and forth. Pasture to market to processing to plate. The world turned, the wind rattled the window. I turned, and the springs groaned and sagged under me. Downstairs, the cash register in the bar tolled a series of ka-chings, signalling last drinks.
22
THE SOLE guest in the Woolburn pub’s dining room, I contemplated the cornflakes. They were the only cereal option. A girl came bursting through the swinging kitchen doors and topped up the milk jug.
‘Sorry, not much choice,’ she said. ‘We found weevils in the Weet-Bix this morning. What about some eggs after?’
She took my order and left. After close inspection, the cornflakes seemed okay. I took the bowl to a table and checked to see if my phone worked. It was unlike Brophy to take so long to respond. It appeared to be working. I ate some cereal speculating about when Brash would show up. It was a good five-hour drive, and I figured he’d be along in the afternoon. I needed to have something solid to give him.
I pulled out Joe Phelan’s phone to listen to the recording one more time. A sudden loud noise startled me, and I fumbled the phone and dropped it. As I bent to pick it up, my bag fell and spilled its contents, including the taser, on the floor. I quickly threw it in my bag and answered my still-ringing phone.
Phuong. ‘That car you said the man drove? It’s registered to a Shanelle Dawe, Ballarat address.’
I pushed my cornflakes away. ‘Stolen?’
‘Not reported as such. But I trusted your judgement and contacted Ms Dawe. She was very cooperative. Gave me a complete rundown of the car’s movement’s that night. She was with friends on Union Road, parked the car near your building, and walked down.’
‘No, she’s lying.’
‘Or maybe you were mistaken. It was dark; you were looking from a third-floor window.’
‘I saw him. Anyway, her story doesn’t make sense.’
‘It’s about a hundred metres from your place to the corner. That’s nothing. You’re wrong and you can’t admit it. It’s not his car.’
‘Okay, maybe the car isn’t in his name, but he drove it. He’s using it.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘You should take it in, compare the tyre tread, get fingerprints.’
‘Stella.’ A loud exhale. ‘Tell me what you know.’
I thought for a moment. ‘The hospital said he was tasered. Innocent people don’t get tasered by random strangers. He must have a history, a past. He’s probably dodgy.’
‘How you could know that unless you’re involved? Stella, I’m worried you’re in danger.’
I forced air into my lungs and let it out. Phuong’s friendship was a life-sustaining thing of joy for me. I owed her everything. Not like Brash, a sleazy gangster who’d probably kill me even if I somehow found Joe Phelan’s killer. If I told Phuong everything, she’d have some concerns, legal and moral, but she’d back me. Just like she had when she’d given me a hint about the hair. It was time for the truth … not today necessarily … but pretty soon. Later.
‘No danger at all,’ I said. ‘But who is this Shanelle Dawe? What does she do for a living?’
Phuong sighed. ‘I have to go.’ She ended the call.
I tapped on Joe’s phone and played Pugh’s stupid posh voice to the room.
The girl came out of the kitchen. ‘Bloody yolks broke, both of them.’
I quickly turned the recording off and took the plate. Two fried eggs cooked to a brown crisp sat on toasted white bread, garnished with parsley, on an oval plate.
‘Thanks,’ I said to her. ‘Looks delicious.’
‘What’s that tape you were playing?’ The girl asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘About a bull, isn’t it?’
I looked at her. She turned away. There was something slightly unfamiliar about her neutral expression. Nothing major. And her unusual frankness about weevils. I wondered.
‘Yes. I think he’s talking about a bull,’ I said.
‘Bids over the three hundred, he reckons.’
‘Yep.’
‘That’s a huge price. Probably near the record.’
I scraped some egg on a segment of toast and ate it. ‘Really?’
She started filling the salt shakers. ‘Season’s good. Stock prices are up. But three hundred? That’s the highest I heard of.’
I sipped some tea to wash down the eggs. The pub offered no wi-fi, and Woolburn’s network coverage was hopelessly dodgy. My phone registered a thin mark of connection. Perhaps there wasn’t much competition for coverage on a quiet Friday morning. I tapped in a search for ‘record price’ and ‘bull’ and ‘auction’. The results took a while and I sipped some more tea. And then … there it was. My young friend was right. The record holder of most expensive bull sold at auction was held by a beast with the unlikely name of Van Go Daddy.
Van Go Daddy. Vincent Van Go Daddy, to his friends.
Leonie Kennedy, of Meandarra, is using social media to try to locate her bull. Van Go Daddy, purchased at auction last month by Ms Kennedy for a record three hundred and forty-five thousand dollars, was last seen on last Wednesday morning. The following day the bull was missing from the property. Detective Sergeant Jason Costa of the Stock and Rural Crime Investigation Squad (SARCIS) said it was unusual for such a high-profile bull to be stolen. ‘Probably a prank. He’ll turn up,’ he said. ‘Leonie’s got the Facebook crowd on it.’
‘My post was shared over five hundred times in three states,’ Ms Kennedy said. ‘If you know something, get in touch. No questions asked.’
The roar of a motor shook me out of my bull cogitation. It sounded like a Harley Davidson was revving in the dining room. A woman in a floral dress was thrusting an upright vacuum cleaner over the carpet. It appeared to have been manufactured when my late grandmother was a young woman. She registered my presence and shut the thing down.
‘Sorry, love. She didn’t tell me you were still here.’
‘No problem,’ I said, getting up.
‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘I’ll come back later.’
‘I’m finished.’ I headed for the stairs.
‘She bothering you? Likes to talk, our girl.’
‘Not at all. She’s amazing.’
If it wasn’t for her, I’d never have discovered that Van Go Daddy had been stolen. It was the breakthrough I’d been hoping for.
23
IT WAS a truth universally acknowledged that no one could steal a bull in modern-day Australia and use that bull for breeding. The NLIS tags, the tracking systems, the databases, the scrutiny — the oversight was too thorough to pull it off. This much I learned from a slapdash review of cattle-trade websites. I paced the blue carpet in my hotel room, tallying my speculation and conjecture against my guesswork in deciphering the recording.
Van Go Daddy was the most expensive bull in Australia. But once stolen, all he was good for was as a pet, or food. Maybe the whole thing was a prank.
Unless someone hacked the NLIS system and changed the bull’s identity.
It seemed extraordinary to go to all that trouble for one bull. He was the phenotype buyers were looking for, sure. But there were other bulls, other legal means of getting that phenotype. Bull semen was big business in these parts.
Joe had asked Velvet Stone about hacking cattle-tag technology. And he’d had a recording of Pugh stating that he’d told his daughter, who’d just missed out on a bull at auction, that he would seek the help of ‘Al’ to rectify the situation. And now Vincent Van Go Daddy was missing. The thought that Joe Phelan was murdered over a fancy bull was appalling.
But if the theft was true, it obliquely implicated Pugh. In an election year, if there was proof that this Al hacked Vincent’s tags and stole him for Skye at Pugh’s request, it would be disastrous for him. Maybe Pugh would kill someone to keep his reputation intact.
I believed that Joe had been murdered. And now I was a potential target.
I went to the window and looked out at the main drag of Woolburn: a general store with a sideline in dry-cleaning and train tickets; a combination café, bank, and post office; a petrol station and hardware shop that also supplied paint. Not much foot traffic, or any traffic for that matter. Nor action of any kind — none. There was talk of a festival of some kind to get the town off its knees. No one could agree on what kind. Elvis impersonation was taken. So was watermelon.
A car drove down the empty street, slowly passed my window, indicated, and turned off.
I closed my eyes and exhaled. The hooker’s Christmas card song played on my phone. Phuong.
‘The car was brand new. She paid cash, no finance.’
‘The Navara?’
‘Yes. And something else. Dawe also goes by her married name, Shanelle Tuffnell.’
‘Tuffnell? A Nell Tuffnell works at Athol Goldwater.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Tuffnell paid cash for a new car. Pugh wanted to know who had unaccounted-for money because he was suspicious of a fiddle at Athol Goldwater. The recording was so sensitive, it had me wondering, what if Pugh was being blackmailed? And when he asked me to look into the fiddle, maybe he also wanted to know who had the recording. In fact, it was possible the sole reason he’d sent me into Athol Goldwater was to find the phone. If Tuffnell was involved, how did she fit into all this? Was she part of the Nunzio technology scam? Or was she on her own, operating at a much smaller scale? At the prison, Tuffnell had said they’d already searched Joe’s unit, and when I’d asked what they were looking for she’d become vague and said it was routine. But the more I thought about it, the more I suspected they were looking for the phone. Brash was right, it was absolutely crucial that I did not lose it. I needed a safe place to keep it.
‘Thanks, Phuong, you’re a legend.’
‘You think that’s all I did? Come on. Don’t you know me by now?’
I squealed. ‘What! Tell me!’
‘I contacted Tuffnell. Said police were concerned, wanted to take a look at the Navara.’
I shrieked again. Phuong Nguyen was a magnificent human being. ‘What’d she say?’
‘She was reluctant. Always a good sign, reluctance. Makes me more insistent.’
‘I know.’
A pause. ‘Want to tell me what’s going on?’
I hesitated. ‘Any progress on the case of that woman murdered at Dights Falls?’
‘Witness statements, a pretty good description of the man, his tattoos.’
‘The tattoos will match the ones on the man who was tasered. Navara he was driving will show up on street cameras in the Dights Falls area.’
‘Stella …’
‘I’m telling you things,’ I said. ‘And one day, I’ll tell you everything.’
‘Yes, you will. This weekend. I’m going rock climbing at Mount Arapiles, driving up tomorrow. Then I’ll come across to Woolburn. And I will look you in the eye.’
‘Um, okay. Great.’
She hung up, and I went back to the window. A woman pushed a stroller into the café-post-office, a large red post box out the front beside an old-fashioned phone booth, the kind with the folding glass door. I resumed my pacing. A public phone booth — that might come in handy.
Loud knocking halted me in my tracks. Like a dummy, I’d registered here under my own name. I quickly grabbed Joe’s phone from the bed and hid it in the bedside table drawer.
The place was so old the door had no peephole, but it did have a keyhole. I put my eye to it. Darkness. ‘Yes?’
‘Housekeeping.’
I recognised the voice and opened the door. My friend from breakfast stood in the doorway with a trolley stacked with clean towels and a bucket of sprays and sponges. Behind her was the vacuum cleaner her mother had been using.
‘Come in.’
She pushed the vacuum in front of her, leaving the trolley in the hallway.
‘Hey,’ I said, ‘what’s your name?’
‘Freya.’
‘Freya. Nordic. Very nice.’
‘She has a cat-drawn chariot.’
‘Really? Sounds hard to steer,’ I said.
Freya frowned. ‘No. She’s a goddess, so it’s easy. Her hobbies include flirting and leading the Valkyries.’
‘Awesome. So, Freya, can I ask a favour? Would you mind my phone? I’m scared I’ll lose
it.’
A flicker disturbed the neutral expression. ‘Why?’
I wasn’t clear on what she was questioning. Possibly all of it. I certainly was.
‘Just for a few days. Thing is, I’m forgetful. What if I put it down and forget where?’
‘Yeah. I do that all the time. Okay. I’ll put it in my Tardis pencil case. I don’t use it that much now I finished school.’
I retrieved Joe’s phone from the beside drawer. Freya put it in her back pocket, and then plugged the monster vacuum into a power point. It roared to life and started beating and sweeping the crap out of the nylon.
I went down the stairs and walked onto the street. The wind whipped my hair around my face as I crossed the road to the public phone. I used my mobile to look up the number for Queensland Police. I found the number for the Stock and Rural Crime Investigation Squad, based at Mount Isa. Probably a long way from Western Downs, the district where Van Go Daddy was stolen, but I was pretty sure those cops were used to driving vast distances around the state. I fed coins into the ancient mechanism. A woman answered on the first ring.
‘Mount Isa Police, Constable Faraday speaking. Can I help you?’
‘Yes, good morning. I’m calling from Victoria. Is Detective Sergeant Jason Costa, of the SARCIS, available?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Dorothy Zbornak.’
‘Regarding?’
‘The theft of Van Go Daddy from the Bostock stud in Meandarra.’
A throaty cackle down the line. ‘Muscles made it to Victoria, did he?’
‘No. I mean, I don’t know. Is Jason there?’