Shoot Through

by J. M. Green

  The town was shrouded in drizzle in the morning. We ate cold toast in the motel room. After we packed up and checked the room for phone chargers, we filed into the van once more.

  Brophy sat behind the wheel. I looked out at the grazing cattle on the green hills. Marigold put her earphones in. Brophy tried calling her name, and when she didn’t answer, he looked at me. ‘We need to talk,’ he said in a whisper. ‘When we get back to Melbourne.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Good.’

  I then spent the next hour and a half wondering what Brophy was planning to say. Maybe he planned to drop me pre-emptively. ‘You’re dropped.’ Did people say that anymore? All this angst was exhausting. My ears were ringing from the endless roar of the motor. When we stopped at a service station for a toilet break, I went into the cubicle and cried my heart out. I couldn’t say why, exactly. Everything, everything, everything, everything.

  Then it was back in the van. So what if the syndicate had hired another BlackTack operative to wait outside my building, I had bigger fish to fry. I spent the rest of the journey wondering if Brophy and I could work this out. If not, life would go on. Autumn would turn to winter, fog and frost and cold wind. I’d go to work, as usual, and come home in the dark. The pain would subside, winter would turn to spring.

  Two hours later, a bit after midday, Brophy pulled up outside my flat. He and I looked at each other.

  ‘Meet me later this arvo?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. This arvo would be good.’

  He gave me directions to a new café/bar in Footscray. I said I’d let him know when I finished my meeting with Verity Savage.

  Marigold took her head phones off and shouted after me. ‘Bye, Stella!’

  ‘Bye!’ I waved back. That girl would leave a gaping hole in my life, too, if it came to that.

  Once they’d left, I made a careful sweep of my street looking for replacement BlackTack operatives. I probably wouldn’t know one if I saw one, but it made me feel in control. Once upstairs, I searched my flat and found it operative-free. Being vigilant was exhausting. I had a therapeutic fifteen-minute shower and dressed in preparation for my meeting with Verity Savage.

  The reading matter for customers in Jar Jar Drinks was a mix of light-weight and impenetrable. I picked up a magazine and glanced at an article on how the handbags-that-resemble-fruit trend was stupid. Handbags that resembled vegetables, however, were bang on trend. I left the magazines, picked up a copy of Australian Financial Chronicle, and took it to a booth at the back of the café.

  A woman entered the café in a rush. Early fifties, tall, slim, with grey hair in a ponytail. She wore a tan trench over a print dress, and slung over her shoulder was a large bag the shape and colour of a watermelon. She scanned the room, settled her gaze on me. I waved and she waved back.

  ‘Verity Savage.’ She hung her watermelon handbag over the seat and took off her coat.

  ‘Stella Hardy.’

  She beckoned the waiter and asked for chai.

  ‘Two,’ I said.

  ‘So, Allyson Coleman, what’s your interest in her?’

  ‘Call it a hobby,’ I said. ‘An obsessive hobby.’

  Verity nodded and gave me a gentle, non-threatening smile. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘You’ve profiled her various previous business ventures, what’s up with this cattle-grazing project?’

  ‘Well, all I can say is, she’s done it again,’ Verity said, appearing baffled. ‘It takes a lot of front to convince new investors, but she’s got some Asian backers to buy into her Taurus Beef Trust. From what I’ve read of the deal, they provide the money, and she holds the titles, despite making no investment herself. The investors get a huge slice of Australia while fooling the Foreign Investment Review Board.’

  ‘Why does she need to fool them?’

  ‘There’s limits on foreign ownership of Australian agricultural land.’

  I nodded, like I understood. ‘Why would these investors do business with her, given her reputation as a scam artist?’

  Verity frowned. ‘The news of her past doesn’t seem to have travelled. She trades on the appearance of wealth and her family name. It sucks them in, but it’s all a sham. The Karmann Ghia is a rental.’

  ‘The family name — it implies old money and a solid business?’

  ‘Probably. She sold it to them as a win-win, but the investors are exposed to take the hit, while she’s in complete control. The properties are in her name. But that’s how she operates: on a grand scale. Coleman says this deal makes her Australia’s biggest cattle baroness.’

  ‘She has the cattle station, but where are the cattle?’

  ‘I don’t know about the cattle,’ she said.

  Two glass jars of chai arrived. Verity stirred honey into hers. ‘Your email implied you think she has found a potential market,’ she said, as we both wrapped our serviettes around the jars in order to grip them.

  ‘If by “market” you mean a conspiracy to steal millions of dollars’ worth of Australian cattle for immediate live export, then yes, she has.’

  Verity nodded, not convinced, not surprised, not outright derisive. She took a spiral-bound notebook and a pen from the watermelon. She placed them on the table with manicured hands, a silver ring with large stone on the left index finger.

  ‘Do you believe me?’ I asked.

  ‘As a journalist, I couldn’t say without more evidence. But with my PAWPAC hat on …’

  I brought the jar of steaming hot tea to my lips. ‘PAWPAC, the animal rights outfit?’

  ‘Yes. From that point of view, I believe it is possible because it’s happened before.’

  My jar of chai hovered in mid-air. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That’s right. Everyone will tell you — the industry, the various governments — that there are checks, and that accountability is built into all steps along the export chain, but standards are not enforced. We know that the bureaucrats are in cahoots with the exporters. The ships are appalling, and vets are complicit. There’s so much profit to be made that everyone lets bad practices slide.’

  ‘What about tags? They say they keep track from paddock to plate.’

  She gave an audible snort. ‘You can game the system quite easily. There was a famous case of a bloke who — this was discovered quite late in the process — had fitted false National Livestock Identification System devices to the cattle, made false declarations on waybills, and transported the cattle for sale. That’s deliberate deception, but there’s also the sheer incompetence side of things. On one ship, over fifty per cent of the cattle tags were lost. No accountability, no traceability.’

  She sipped her chai. I put mine down. This was a stunning disclosure to me, but she seemed so matter-of-fact.

  ‘Some big cattle stations are using extra tags,’ I said, ‘more like bulky collars. Satellite GPS tracking technology. The collars force the cattle to move in certain directions using audio signals.’

  ‘That’s new.’ She clicked the pen and started writing in the notebook.

  ‘It’s all public information. But I believe that someone inside the BS12 organisation, who is also someone involved with Coleman’s group and who is familiar with the technology, has found a way to hack it.’

  ‘Whiz-bang system turns out to be vulnerable to hacking,’ she muttered as she wrote. ‘Who would have thought? Got a name?’

  ‘No. Well, it might be an employee at the Athol Goldwater prison.’

  ‘Who else? You said it was a conspiracy.’

  I paused, not sure how she would react. Laugh in my face and walk out? ‘Marcus Pugh.’

  She noted the name. ‘Go on,’ she said without looking up.

  ‘A man in Pugh’s department who handles prison contracts, Mark Lacy.’

  She looked up. ‘A senior public servant?’

  ‘Yes. Where I wo
rk, if you accept a bag of lemons, that’s corruption, but awarding contracts and ordering services without oversight …’

  She jotted down the name, while issuing a world-weary sigh. ‘What’s the smoking gun?’

  ‘I have a metric fuck-ton of smoking guns.’

  She leaned back in her chair and clicked the pen back into itself. ‘Like what?’

  ‘A recording of Pugh talking about getting Allyson to help him “acquire” someone else’s bull for his daughter.’

  She frowned. ‘Can I hear it?’

  ‘Actually, I gave it to someone. But I’ve heard it. It’s legit.’

  ‘Who made it? How did you get it?

  ‘A prisoner at Athol Goldwater had it, he tried to blackmail Pugh. That prisoner later died in a freak nail-gun accident at the prison. BS12 cronies have been trying to get hold of it ever since.’

  Two hands undid and redid the ponytail, pulled it tight. ‘Good Lord.’

  ‘A cop in Queensland reckons large numbers of cattle are unaccounted for across multiple Queensland cattle stations.’

  ‘You think Coleman plans to stock her properties with stolen cattle?’

  ‘She’ll claim they’re hers and take them directly to port. Use her Taurus Beef Trust ID on the fake tags.’

  ‘Makes sense, I suppose,’ Verity said. ‘Once sold to the live trade, it’s all profit. She gives the investors a tiny cut, claiming massive overheads, and keeps the rest.’ She picked up her jar of chai and drank the rest in one go.

  ‘Seems like a lot of trouble to get the cattle on a ship,’ I said. ‘Even if the system is easy to game. Why not just slaughter the cattle and sell them as meat?’

  She sighed, like she was sick of arguing the obvious. ‘Live exports get a much higher price than packaged and frozen meat. The industry is worth over a billion dollars. That’s why no government has the guts to shut it down. Public opinion is clearly against it.’

  That said, she stared into the distance for a moment.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Just thinking about what I’ll say if I have to front another Senate inquiry.’

  She shook herself and gathered her coat and watermelon. ‘Metric fuck-ton of smoking guns.’ She almost laughed. ‘You had me there for a while, Stella Hardy. You’re entirely in the dark, aren’t you?’

  I neither confirmed nor denied. ‘What would convince people?’

  ‘Find the cattle, obviously. And also, if you can present the tags and any signs of tampering or changing them. If you can provide the GPS collars. That’s a smoking gun. Payments for the stolen cattle, bank accounts, money laundering through off-shore accounts. That’s a smoking gun.’

  ‘Find the cattle. No worries.’

  She shrugged. ‘If they catch Allyson Coleman with a stolen cow in the boot of her Karmann Ghia, let me know.’

  ‘Where is Allyson now?’

  ‘Somewhere in Asia, I think,’ Verity said, getting out her wallet. ‘I’ll get this, shall I? You’re probably broke as well.’

  I finished my chai. I wasn’t short of a quid, but I was kind of broke.

  35

  I WAS starving hungry as I walked down Barkly Street, Footscray, looking for the place Brophy had chosen for us to meet. It was a café by day and bar by night called, appropriately enough, the Bad Love Club. It served cocktails until late on a Sunday night. When I walked in, Brophy was sipping something in a long glass with lots of ice. When he saw me, he raised the glass without smiling. My heart sank. I ordered a mango daiquiri at the bar and brought it over to join him.

  We danced around the topic with small talk for a while. I finished my drink and went to buy another. Brophy said he was content with water.

  I returned to find him looking resolute. He took a breath and plunged in. ‘It started with some painkillers,’ he said.

  I tipped some daiquiri down my throat. I had no inclination to hear the details. I wanted no account of the times he’d scored when I’d assumed he was working or painting.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘You’re using again. Sometimes it takes a few attempts to kick an addiction before it sticks.’

  ‘You’re not angry?’

  Anger was in there, yes. But it wasn’t helpful to go into that right now. I gave a noncommittal shrug.

  ‘But you said it was a deal-breaker.’

  ‘It is … and it isn’t. I mean. I understand addiction, it’s a community worker’s fate to see its impact on a family. But this is complicated.’ I put my hand across the table, and he grabbed it with both of his. ‘Because I love you,’ I said.

  ‘I love you, too.’

  I swallowed a huge gulp of daiquiri. ‘You can kick it again!’ I declared.

  He nodded and stared into his drink. ‘I have to. For Marigold’s sake as well as for ours.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Exactly! For lots of people.’ I was tired and emotional. Just like always. But the alcohol had hit my empty stomach, and I was getting over-excited.

  ‘There’s a monkey on your back, as they say. But what if — hear me out — what if you rip the monkey away?’

  He looked up at me, a searching hope in his eyes.

  I felt warm and slightly feverish. ‘Yes. Tell that monkey to fuck off! Get it off you and get back in control. Instead of the monkey on you, you get on the monkey!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get a monkey saddle and get on the monkey’s back. Get back in charge, and get on the monkey’s back … and conquer this thing.’

  He frowned. ‘Stella, I don’t think that’s how this works …’

  ‘You’ve done it once. It just takes a couple of goes. Just keep thinking of Marigold.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘If you manage to kick it, then yes.’ I raised my drink. ‘To the monkey saddle.’

  We clinked glasses and drank.

  We went out together and stood on the street, in the middle of a crush of people going about their evening. He put out his arms. I melted into them. We kissed. We were both crying. And all the while, the mad, glorious, no-fucks-to-give life of Footscray went on around us.

  When we stepped apart there was genuine hope in my heart. ‘Get in touch as soon as you’re clean, I’ll be waiting for you.’

  At home, I did my cursory search of the flat, and then dead-locked and chained the door. I drank litres of water, and took another shower. When I came out, there was a text on my phone from Bunny: My interview with MP is on now … I pulled a green can from its plastic packaging in the fridge and turned on the television.

  A picture of Pugh, with his usual smug expression. Bunny’s voice over announced we were in for a treat. ‘With the Victorian state election later this year, both major parties are well into electioneering mode. Tonight, I sit down with Minister for Justice Marcus Pugh to discuss the state’s new law-and-order policies.’

  Cut to Bunny in the studio: black, sheer blouse, pink blazer. She sat at a curved desk facing Pugh. ‘Victoria’s prison system is in crisis. I asked the minister about the use of ankle bracelets for home detention.’

  ‘Minister, are you aware that tracking technology entered the justice system in 1983, when a judge in America read about ankle-bracelet tracking in a Spider-Man comic?’

  Marcus had an amused twinkle in his eye. ‘You make it sound fun,’ he laughed. ‘The delinquents in youth detention will all want one.’

  ‘He ordered it be used to keep tabs on prisoners released on probation, but nowadays it’s a commonplace method of monitoring prisoners without the expense of incarceration.’

  ‘We are always looking for ways to save taxpayer money, Bunny.’

  ‘But the technology has been compromised. Just last year a hacker who goes by the name of Foxy Meow, or Velvet Stone, demonstrated how it could be misused.’

  A tiny flicker of alarm appeared in Pugh
’s eyes. ‘No. The technology is sound.’

  ‘That person, Velvet Stone, was recently murdered. The alleged murderer was a UK national, Colin Slade, who was working for BlackTack, a private intelligence organisation.’

  He glanced away, eye contact terminated. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Slade’s body was found in the Murray-Sunset National Park this week. Police believe he had been beaten to death.’

  A dead bat from Pugh. ‘The matter is being investigated by the police.’

  ‘Moving on, Minister, what do you say to accusations that the privately run prisons in this state are mismanaged and that the company that runs them, BS12, is corrupt?’

  ‘Australia is consistently ranked as one of the least corrupt countries in the world.’

  ‘A whistle-blower in the UK said that BS12 operates in a “vacuum of accountability”. What do you say to that?’

  ‘The oversight of the BS12 contracts are thorough and meticulous. I can assure you, Bunny, they are very much accountable.’

  ‘There is a pattern of indifference to prisoner welfare on the part of BS12, and they have failed to deliver on prisoner safety time and time again.’

  Big sigh. ‘I reject that, Bunny, the oversight is intensive.’

  ‘BS12 donates thousands of dollars to your party.’

  ‘They donate to both parties. It’s not against the law.’

  ‘Western Australia recently cancelled all contracts with BS12 after a series of avoidable deaths in custody in their prisons.’

  ‘That is a matter for Western Australia.’

  ‘Running a prison for profit, some would argue, is a flawed business model that leads to taxpayer dollars going to profits while not improving conditions in jails and prisons or pursuing alternatives to incarceration.’

  ‘You’re overstating the situation, Bunny. The BS12 service is a short-term solution to our current overcrowding, a situation exacerbated by the previous government.’

  ‘So you’re promising to address the root causes of incarceration?’

  Three gentle raps on my door. I checked the peephole. Phuong smiled and waved. I turned the deadlock and pulled back the chain.