by J. M. Green
I was lost for words. We embraced. There were tears.
Phuong got up and walked to the window. ‘Homicide is investigating a body found in the Murray-Sunset National Park. He’d been tortured before being killed. And the word is that the deceased is a match for Velvet Stone’s murderer. You were right about the Navara showing up on CCTV footage.’
She glanced over at me, scrutinising my reaction. I shrugged. It was old news. I knew Brash had murdered Slade. And Slade had admitted to me that he’d killed Velvet Stone.
‘They don’t have an ID yet, but they’re working on it.’
‘It’s Colin Slade. British national. He worked for BlackTack, a private intelligence agency. He was on assignment for a syndicate — his contact was a client who called himself Paul.’
‘Are you serious? There’s a private Blu-tack?’
‘BlackTack.’ I told her about my encounter with Slade: the accident with the mob of kangaroos outside Sea Lake, the fire, and his confession that he’d killed Velvet Stone, but that he didn’t know who killed Joe Phelan.
She stared at me with her mouth open. ‘Go back to the beginning.’
So I told her about Joe Phelan’s death, and my meeting with Pugh and his bogus prison inspection team. I said some things about Mrs Phelan and the awful Brash and his threats, but I left out what he had over me. I told her how I’d found Joe’s phone, and that I’d met with Velvet Stone. How Velvet had drugged me, and how Loretta, who was pregnant by Ben and staying with me, had done the phone switcheroo on Colin Slade. The phone, I said, contained a recording of Marcus Pugh, talking about his daughter and losing out on a bull at auction. And then I told her that the bull, Van Go Daddy, had since been stolen. I gave her my theory about the cattle tags and BS12 and Allyson Coleman.
‘They claim to be developing their own version of the new GPS-based cattle tracking system called iDrover, but in reality, I think Enrique Nunzio, their agricultural tech expert is working on hacking into that system. That is what the syndicate is planning: stealing cattle by hacking.’
‘But the logistics of something like that are impossible. How can they pull it off?’
‘Another member of the syndicate is this bloke “Paul”, who I think is actually Mark Lacy, the contract manager for Corrections Victoria. BS12 provides a diverse range of industrial solutions, including transport services. Lacy signs off on contracts for cattle haulage, all on the Corrections budget. BS12 makes a profit on the haulage, and BS12 company management don’t ask questions.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Phuong said. ‘Isn’t there some oversight? In the government or in the company?’
I told her what Father Baig had said — that BS12 had a history of corruption. And their contracts were lightly managed. There was minimal oversight.
‘The cost of mounting this heist,’ I said, ‘has been paid for by the Victorian taxpayer.’
She considered that last remark for a moment, then frowned. I got the impression she found it credible. ‘So, the syndicate is comprised of some rogue BS12 people, plus the minister and a Corrections Victoria loose cannon, and this Allyson Coleman. Do I have that right?’
‘I think so, there may be more.’
‘So who is Allyson Coleman?’
‘She’s been described as a disastrously unsuccessful nut farmer.’
Phuong looked askance. ‘That’s not a crime.’
‘She’s a scam artist who recently bought a couple of properties in the Northern Territory. Plenty of space for stolen cattle to roam around on until they’re herded onto ships.’
‘And they’ve all joined forces to steal cattle and export it?’
‘If they can get them out of the country quickly enough, they stand to make millions. Like, over fifty million.’
‘And why did the syndicate, or whoever, want to kill Joe Phelan?’
I stood up and paced around, telling her what Ben had told me yesterday. All about how Joe Phelan and some unnamed accomplice had found out about the planned hack at Athol Goldwater. And about his cack-handed attempts to blackmail Pugh.
Phuong frowned again in concentration. ‘So, Joe Phelan had a recording of Pugh talking about the scheme — not in relation to the larger plot to make millions on the theft of thousands of cattle, but regarding a smaller and, it would seem, quite stupid plot to steal a single bull for his precious little girl because she’d set her heart on it at an auction and missed out?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pugh. The Victorian minister for justice?’
‘Yes. Marcus Pugh is involved in this massive cattle duffing racket. He owns a horse with Allyson Coleman. Presumably he smooths the way for Lacy. It was all going swimmingly, but Pugh’s privilege got the better of him, and he had a careless conversation that implied he had a way to obtain a bull that was no longer for sale. It was enough for a prisoner to blackmail him.’
‘So they brought in some British contractor to murder anyone who found out about it?’
‘Yes, but Colin Slade said he did not kill Joe. I believe him. My problem is, I don’t know who did, and Brash is getting impatient.’
‘And your brother fears he might be next, and that’s why he absconded.’
‘No, well, yes. I don’t know if he was in any danger, but Loretta convinced him to escape. She and the grandfather have taken Ben to some off-the-grid place. I’m not sure what she’s up to. Something is up — she’s a schemer. Claimed she’d been sleeping rough, but who knows where she’s been and what she’s been doing. I think, possibly, she wants to take over the farm.’
‘Your family farm?’
‘The Hardy family farm. Yes.’
I sat down on the bed. That was it. I’d told her everything.
Phuong frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Stella. I can’t quite believe it.’
Before I could respond, there was a knock at the door. Phuong stood by the door, ready to do some sort of karate chop, I assumed, and I cautiously opened it. It was Freya returning with her Tardis pencil case. She unzipped it and pulled out Joe Phelan’s phone. I thanked her and waited until she left.
‘Exhibit A,’ I said and played the recording. ‘Skye is Skye Redbridge, Pugh’s daughter. Al is Allyson Coleman. Vincent is the bull called Van Go Daddy.’
Her eyes narrowed as she listened. I played it a couple more times.
‘It’s Pugh,’ she said, incredulously.
‘That is what they were looking for in here. He’s desperate to prevent it from becoming public. Slade believes they’ve hired another BlackTack operative to find it.’
‘Why not go public?’
‘I can’t yet. I need to find Joe’s killer.’
‘My God, Stella. You’re not serious.’
‘Believe me. I have no choice.’
She shook her head. ‘Let me help you.’
She had a mountain to climb, death to defy, gravity to disrespect. I had to work things out with Brophy.
‘Yes, please. But not today. Go do your thing, climb the rock, I’ve got stuff to do here.’
‘It’s not safe for you here.’
‘I know. I’m getting out of Woolburn. After that, I’m not sure.’ I handed Phuong the phone. ‘You take it,’ I said to her. ‘Keep it safe.’
Phuong put the phone in her back pocket. ‘Call me.’
We embraced again. Phuong was a complicated person. Maybe I was, too — probably not as much as her. Over the years we had let each other down, and also supported each other fiercely. Each time, in each case, we understood each other a little better. And it was true that some things were worth so much more than money or status. This mad loyalty was one of them.
33
BACK IN the front bar, I’d started to ring Kylie to arrange a visit to the farm, but Brophy took the phone out of my hand and placed it on the pool table.
‘I didn’t drive all thi
s way to have cake with your sister. I came to see you.’
It was one of the nicest things he’d ever said to me. Warmth radiated from my chest. Hope survived, love would triumph. We would be okay. I put the phone in my bag and beamed.
‘Besides,’ he said, ‘families are weird. I don’t understand the compulsion to meet them.’ He had a point, but it was blunt. And only two weeks ago he’d been saying himself he wanted to meet Delia.
‘So, what’s the plan? I have to get out of Woolburn, so maybe we could drive somewhere, find a nice bed and breakfast, tell Marigold to take a long walk.’
‘Can’t stay in Woolburn, eh? You’re on one of your missions, aren’t you?’
‘I … Wow, how did you guess?’
‘I can tell. Your energy levels go up, you’re focussed. You’re happier.’
He knew me well. This person was a sensitive, empathic human being, capable of deep insight. What if, instead of separation, there was a chance for restoration?
There was the problem of Morrie Swindon’s Holden. We decided I’d drive it back, with Brophy and Marigold following me in the van. My memory was hazy, but by sheer luck, I found the way to the farm where Morrie and Loretta were hiding Ben.
When we came to the gate and grid, Brophy jumped out and opened the gate.
Morrie was sitting outside the house, with Nigel the Alaskan Malamute lying down beside him. He had a cigarette in his mouth, held a steaming mug in one hand, and was gently pulling on one of Nigel’s ears with the other. Near where the dog’s head rested on his knee, he had a long dark object balanced across his lap. As the van drew up near the house, he whistled, and the dog jumped down from the veranda. Morrie moved the object, a double-barrelled shotgun, and rested it against the house, and came down the steps to take the keys from me.
‘What happened to the mirror?’ Ben asked, coming outside with Loretta.
‘Shane-fucking-Farquhar. He broke it off with a crowbar. What’s left is in the glovebox with a couple of fifties. Should cover the repair costs.’
‘Farquhar shoulda paid for it,’ Ben said.
‘You ask him. I never want to ever speak to him again.’
‘But why’d he do it?’
‘To intimidate me. He told me to find those papers you signed. He wanted me to tell Kylie that I support the idea of a cattle partnership with him. To sell it to her as a great idea.’
Morrie lit a cigarette with a plastic lighter, blew smoke, amusement shining in his eyes.
‘What does that mean?’ Ben looked confused. ‘Has Kylie changed her mind again?’
Loretta grabbed Ben by the shoulders. ‘This changes nothing,’ she said to him.
‘What’s all this?’ I asked.
Loretta pointed her finger at me. ‘What did you say to him? To Farquhar?’
‘I … I said no, of course.’
Ben looked at Loretta. She nodded. ‘I have the papers,’ Loretta said. ‘I took them with me when I left your flat that night.’
‘And why would you do that?’ I asked, though I was fairly certain why.
She ran inside the house, and left Ben to weather my glare.
He looked at his feet, coughed. ‘Because … because I’ve changed my mind.’
Loretta returned and held up a wad of papers. She took Morrie’s lighter. ‘Ben’s going to sue Kylie for control of the Hardy family trust. We’ll take control of the farm.’
Even Brophy and Marigold laughed.
‘Ben’s not on a solid legal footing to be suing anyone, being an escaped criminal,’ I said.
‘We’ve had advice from a lawyer. We have a very good case.’
‘We? Loretta, that’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think? You don’t have any claim to the farm.’
Ben put his arm around her. ‘She’s Mrs Hardy now.’
Morrie chuckled and puffed his cigarette.
‘Congratulations,’ said Marigold.
‘It was a beautiful ceremony,’ Ben said. ‘Morrie did the service, since he’s a registered celebrant And Loretta’s dress — wow — you should have seen her.’
I had my doubts about Morrie’s bona fides. Loretta’s, too. ‘Well.’ It was all I could say.
Loretta flicked the lighter and held the flame under the papers, waving the flaming sheets in the wind. Pieces of smoking paper broke off and drifted away. When it was fully alight, she dropped the flaming mass on the dirt.
Morrie dropped his cigarette at his feet and stepped on it.
34
THE NEXT big town south of Woolburn was Warracknabeal. Brophy drove us there in the van, the three of us squashed in together on the front seat. Random items rolled around in the back. The engine roared, everything rattled, vibrations numbed our arses, and mysterious fumes sedated and nauseated us. Marigold wore headphones and bopped her head and sometimes sang a few off-key words. Brophy squinted at the highway for want of speed-dealer sunglasses. I offered him mine, but he wasn’t interested. For my part, I was in the throes of miserable indecision. Was he right for me? Should we continue?
We passed a sign that said: Caution, soft shoulder
We passed a sign that said: Open your eyes
We passed a sign that said: Seek alt route
We had dinner in a crowded pub on the main road, near the creek. People talked and laughed around us, while I studied Brophy for signs of withdrawal — both emotional, and the other kind. All I could say was that he was distracted, and that was a kind of withdrawal. That lapse into hope I had suffered earlier passed. The pendulum swung to despair, and I found myself wondering what items of mine I’d left at his place.
Later, in the motel, the three of us sat on one of the beds and played Uno. When Marigold went to fetch another glass of water, I shifted closer to him and held his hand. He squeezed mine back. I smiled at him; he gave me a sad half-smile.
My phone buzzed, I did a Loretta and took the call in the bathroom.
Bunny: ‘That Mount Isa cop, Jason Costa, he agreed to let me do a story on him. In the middle of our face-to-face interview, he gets a call about missing cattle. He goes, Not another theft. Says he’s been getting calls on a daily basis, a thousand head of cattle vanished from one station, next day, two thousand gone from another station. So far, he reckons he’s upwards of forty thousand missing, from all across western Queensland.’
I was stunned. It confirmed all my suspicions, and yet I couldn’t quite believe it.
‘It’s huge, Stella. One old bloke called it the biggest duff of all time. The cops are pulling over every cattle truck on every highway west of Longreach.’
‘They might like to inspect the cattle stations owned by Allyson Coleman.’ I tried to remember the names. ‘Costa will know them. They’re huge. There’s two near the port at the Gulf of Carpentaria and the third is Fly Hole Station. It’s a finishing property — whatever that means — near Mount Isa.’
‘I suggested that to him. He’s doubtful. The Coleman name is pretty big up here. Need a pretty good reason to go marching up onto her land and demand to check the cattle tags.’
It was extremely frustrating to me that some people were considered above scrutiny.
‘I better go,’ Bunny said. ‘I’ve sent you my story on Costa.’
I heard the ping as Bunny’s video file finished downloading. I clicked on the file, and the video opened on a mob of Brahman cattle. Her voice over the image.
‘I’m speaking to a cop whose beat covers almost a quarter of Queens-land. From the Gulf of Carpentaria to the South Australian border.’
Cut to a man in a Queensland Police uniform walking into a police station.
‘I spoke to Detective Sergeant Jason Costa about his role in the stock squad, dealing with all manner of rural crimes, from trespass on mine sites to the theft of stock.’
Costa: ‘The trouble with investi
gating stock thefts is they’re often not reported until months after they happened.’
Cut to Bunny walking alone in a paddock, cattle grazing behind her. Voice over: ‘The detective sergeant, with over twenty years in the Queensland Police Service, remembers one incident in 2010 in which five hundred head of cattle were stolen.’
Costa: ‘Never found the thief, nor the cattle for that matter.’
I shut the video, turned my phone off, and went to look in on Marigold and Brophy. They were in the middle of another game of Uno. I made a mug of tasteless tea. I took it outside to the landing and thought about all those cattle, snatched even with their ridiculous iDrover collars on. They had to be somewhere.
BS12 managed prison farms all over the country — maybe they were being held on one of those. Amazing how it was going on right under the nose of Ranik at Athol Goldwater. But he was a simpleton, coasting to retirement.
I thought about Marcus Pugh. His prison inspection team was a cover. ‘My office is concerned that some off-the-books enterprise has been going on under the radar,’ he’d said to me that day in the café. What a liar! It wasn’t his office, it was him. And he was being blackmailed. He was using me to find out who was working with Joe. He’d just wanted me to ask Ben. ‘Just ask him if he knows of any prison employee taking extravagant holidays, or turning up with a new car.’
And I did ask Ben. God help me, I was in league with Pugh and his corrupt cronies.
Ben hadn’t known any guards who were living large, but he’d helped me get Joe’s phone. And that was even better for Pugh. I’d set up and delivered. Almost.
It dawned on me then. That phone call Colin Slade had made after Velvet Stone had drugged me, I presumed, was to Pugh. Slade might have killed me that night, but Pugh had wanted to wait.
That was Pugh’s mistake. Phuong had the phone now. And the evidence was mounting. I tipped the dregs of my tea into a dead pot plant and went inside.