Return to Moondilla

by Tony Parsons

  Baxter steeled himself. ‘Where do I come into the picture?’

  ‘There’s things you don’t know but should,’ Latham said. ‘Harry Carpenter was contacted by certain persons because of his good jetty and those sheds behind your house. Harry, as you may have judged, is a man of the old school, very honest and upright, and he wouldn’t have a bar of their proposition. He confided in the only person he reckoned he could trust—’

  ‘Jul—Dr Rankin.’

  ‘Yes. Harry had known her dad, been treated by him for years. A true blue bloke.’

  ‘Why didn’t Harry trust the police?’

  ‘There’s a sergeant here he couldn’t stomach—Cross, Ron Cross. He booked Harry for some minor problem when he could have given him a caution. After that, the old bloke wouldn’t go near the police.’ Latham leaned closer and his voice lowered. ‘Between you and me, and as much as it pains me to tell you, we have a strong suspicion that Cross is on the take.’

  This tallied with what Julie had said. Baxter reckoned he’d continue to play dumb and extract the maximum amount of information. ‘You mean he’s bent?’

  ‘Yes, exactly. We think he’s passing information about our movements to the drug distributors. He thinks he’s pretty clever, but—’ Latham smiled wryly ‘—he doesn’t know that I’m an undercover cop. He also doesn’t know we’re on to him.’

  ‘So why did you tell me? I could spill the beans.’

  ‘Dr Rankin said I could trust you.’

  ‘How come you’re so close to her?’ Baxter asked, not quite managing to keep the proprietary note out of his voice.

  Latham grinned. ‘In the first place, Dr Rankin is the medical examiner and does most of the autopsies in this area. She’s a very smart cookie, is our Doc.’

  Baxter wondered what Julie would have made of that description.

  ‘Secondly,’ Latham continued, ‘I had a bad bout of diarrhoea from eating rough food while I was on a surveillance job, and I had to go to her. I asked if any of her patients were addicts, and she said yes, but of course she wouldn’t breach their confidentiality. But now she’s breached it for you—she’s concerned about you being out here. She asked me to warn you that you might receive some unwelcome visitors.’

  ‘So you reckon those same fellows will contact me.’

  Latham nodded. ‘You’ve got the best jetty—best all-weather jetty—from here to the mouth of the river. They could unload the rotten stuff here, store it in your sheds, then pick it up and drive to the big smoke—and there’s no close neighbours to watch them. No matter what, they need somewhere to land that’s not in the public eye.’

  It sounded straightforward enough, but something still didn’t make sense. Baxter frowned. ‘Wouldn’t a yacht appear a bit conspicuous if it came chugging to my jetty?’

  ‘They’d trans-ship at sea, maybe to a fishing trawler, or a smaller yacht or launch. You’ve probably seen quite a few launches go past your jetty. Any one of those could belong to the drug mob. They aren’t short of a quid.’

  Baxter had certainly noticed launches on the river. He was gradually identifying the locals, but there’d been many strangers too. Some headed for the river’s upper-reaches to fish for bass. He hadn’t thought anything of it; now it turned his stomach.

  There was another thing he needed to confirm. ‘This young woman that’s just been fished out of the water. I read about her in the local paper. How did she die?’

  ‘Dr Rankin did the autopsy: a massive heroin overdose. But I didn’t tell you that, so keep it to yourself.’

  ‘The paper said her identity was unknown.’

  Latham looked away and sipped his coffee, appearing to consider what to reveal—then he shrugged. ‘I’ve told you about Cross, so I may as well let you in on the truth about this too. That’s not the way it is. The murdered woman was an extremely courageous member of the drug squad. She volunteered to go all the way as a prostitute in order to give us a closer handle on the drug business.’

  It took a few seconds for Baxter to take that in. And he’d thought he was sickened before. ‘How on earth did she manage it?’

  ‘She’d lost her sister to drugs a few months before, so she was prepared to risk her own life to get the info we needed.’ Latham’s voice had roughened. ‘They must have tumbled to her. She wouldn’t have had a good end. She’d had a beating, and the big boss of this operation is into kinky sex. Nice fellow.’ Latham cleared his throat. ‘One day, when we’ve locked up all the scum, she’ll receive a posthumous decoration.’

  They were silent for a moment. Baxter realised his coffee had gone cold.

  ‘This sounds like a fair-sized operation,’ he said.

  ‘It is. Apart from our state drug squad, there’s the federal police and customs. Certain people are within close call. Don’t let the appearance of my van deceive you.’

  ‘So what have you got in mind for me?’ Baxter asked. He wanted to help however he could, but he hated the thought of going anywhere near the drug scene.

  ‘You’ve got two choices if they approach you,’ Latham said, with a rather grim sort of smile. ‘You could tell them to get stuffed—or you could go along with them and then report to me.’

  ‘Nix to the latter,’ Baxter said vehemently, and Chief gave a low growl. ‘I could be accused of being part of their chain. They could even blackmail me later on. No thanks. I’d tell them to piss off and leave me alone.’

  ‘That’s what I thought you’d say. I wouldn’t think that a fellow in your mould would agree to drugs being landed here, and I can’t make you co-operate.’

  Baxter held up a hand. ‘Whoa, hang fire, Geronimo. I didn’t say I wouldn’t co-operate. I’ll let you know if those creeps contact me.’

  ‘That would be a help,’ Latham said, sounding relieved, ‘and if they do contact, it might suggest that the next cargo isn’t far away, which is in line with our thinking.’

  Hell’s bells, Baxter thought. He’d wanted to write about Sydney’s drug-related hijinks in peace, and now he found himself in a danger zone. With a wry grin, he said, ‘I couldn’t understand why this property was such a bargain. It seemed too good to be true—and when that happens, there’s usually a fly in the ointment.’

  Latham chuckled. ‘Too right.’

  ‘So how do I get in touch with you?’

  He took out a notepad and pen, and wrote down a phone number. ‘This is a special number for re-routing calls. You needn’t give your name. Simply tell them: “Southern delivery for L”.’

  ‘Southern delivery for L,’ Baxter repeated.

  ‘Either me or someone else from the team will call you back, or be here to see you not long after you make that call. And if they come calling, you won’t touch them, will you?’

  ‘What makes you think I’d do that?’

  Latham smiled thinly. ‘I understand from Dr Rankin that you’re one of the best exponents of martial arts in Australia—maybe even the world. Black belts galore. I don’t doubt that you could handle a couple of crims.’

  ‘Well now, Detective Sergeant, I won’t make any promises. If they don’t touch me, I won’t touch them.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I wouldn’t blame you for defending yourself.’ Latham paused. ‘There’s something else I should tell you.’

  ‘I knew I hadn’t heard it all.’

  ‘There’s a fellow living in these parts who we think might be Mr Big. His name’s Franco Campanelli. He’s got a finger in a lot of pies, and he owns two fishing trawlers and a very swish yacht. You might have noticed him around town. He drives a blue Mercedes and is seldom seen without the company of his two goons.’

  ‘I see. I don’t know him, but I don’t know many of the locals. I only go to town for my tucker and Chief’s meat.’ Baxter realised he had another question. ‘I was warned about someone, though. Do you know anything about Jack Drew?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Latham’s expression turned contemptuous. ‘Drew is of no account. He knocks his wife about w
hen he gets on the piss, but she won’t dob him in. No, the drug boys wouldn’t involve a yobbo like Drew. He’d be too unreliable.’

  Baxter nodded. ‘Figures. I just wondered if there was more to him than that.’

  ‘Not unless he’s a bloody marvellous actor.’ Setting his empty mug on the coffee table, Latham got to his feet. ‘Well, I’d best head off. Urgent beachscapes to paint.’

  ‘No worries.’ Baxter stood up too, and they shook hands.

  Just as he was going out the door, Latham turned to Baxter and said, ‘Off the record, do you own any firearms?’

  ‘Only my father’s old shotgun. Why?’

  ‘Hide it, but put it where you can get your hands on it if you need to. Remember that even a martial arts champion can’t beat a bullet.’

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ Baxter said.

  Latham nodded. ‘Thanks for the great coffee and for lending me some of your time. And good luck with your writing. If you see or hear anything suspicious, get in touch quick and lively.’

  Baxter put his hand over his heart and grinned. ‘I promise.’

  With a heavy heart, he watched Latham’s van go down the track. It was obscene that Moondilla’s tranquillity was being undermined by a drug ring. He just hoped that Latham and Company would clean them up before long—and he was totally confident that in the meantime he could handle any drug emissary.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Soon after Latham headed off, Baxter changed his clothes. Wearing only a pair of white shorts and his gym shoes, he went out to the biggest of the two sheds behind the house. One corner had been cleared of everything Harry Carpenter had left behind, and the floor laid with a large tarpaulin.

  Here, for an hour every day, Baxter went through his martial arts and gymnastic routines. Chief lay against one wall and half-slept, with an eye always on his master.

  Today Baxter was only halfway through when the shepherd growled and then gave two warning barks. This usually meant there was a vehicle at the gate. Baxter went to a small crack in the wall of the shed and applied one eye to it.

  The car was white, and when its driver got out to close the gate, he was pretty sure it was Julie Rankin.

  ‘Stiffen and starve the beetles, this place is getting like Pitt Street,’ Baxter muttered. ‘Go and meet her, Chief—she’s friendly.’

  The dog trotted outside and Baxter went back to his exercises. Presently he saw that Julie, escorted by Chief, had entered the shed. He walked across to her and she gave him a half-smile. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Julie,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Is that the way you rest your arm?’ she asked by way of greeting.

  He glanced down, realising he’d forgotten all about it. ‘I’ve been careful. I’m not hitting anything.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She ran her eyes over him. ‘I must say you still look terrific. You haven’t put on any weight.’

  There was nothing sexual about it, Baxter told himself—she’d always been in awe of his physique and prowess.

  ‘Nor, I observe, have you,’ he countered. He thought she looked very trim today in a tan shirt and cream blouse. She was wearing low-heeled shoes that matched her shirt, and from what he could see of her legs they were in good shape.

  ‘Liar,’ she said, laughing. ‘I have, Greg. I don’t get the chance to exercise like I should. Being a doctor uses up most of my time.’

  Greg towelled himself off and pulled on a loose old T-shirt. ‘Not too busy to take me up on my invitation, I see.’

  ‘Well, knowing you, I thought I’d better come out here and look at your arm. And I was right!’

  They walked together out of the shed and towards the house, Chief following close at Baxter’s heels.

  ‘By the way,’ Julie said, much more hesitant than usual, ‘I asked a detective by the name of Ian Latham to call on you.’

  ‘He’s been. He came this morning.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking him to drop by. Did he explain everything?’

  Baxter nodded, and Julie’s brow furrowed.

  ‘I had no idea it was you who had bought this place. Harry simply said that he’d sold it to a Sydney fellow.’

  ‘It’s okay, Julie. Latham put me in the picture. If those fellows call on me, I’ll tell them to get lost and that will be that. I’d have bought the place no matter what. It was too good a buy to ignore.’ He gestured to the beautiful old house and its overgrown garden as they reached the verandah. ‘Now I know why.’

  •

  When Baxter had made a pot of tea, they sat down together in the living room. Julie poured the steaming liquid while he struggled to think of what to say.

  The words finally came to him. ‘You know, if I hadn’t been so keen to get started on my book, I would’ve made some enquiries about your whereabouts. It was in the back of my mind—I’ve always wondered where you’d end up.’

  She half-smiled and looked down at her tea. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ he said. ‘Putting aside my feelings for you at the time, you were my most interesting student. You had a lot of aggro in you, and a lot of ambition too.’

  ‘Well, you did me a lot of good, Greg. Calmed me down. But I thought you were completely devoted to martial arts—I had no idea you wanted to write.’

  ‘You knew I was a journalist.’

  ‘Yes, but I thought it was just a job. Not that we talked a great deal about our aspirations.’ She looked around at the comfortably furnished room. ‘You never seemed to care very much about making money, and I understand there was a fair bit on this place, even though it was a good deal. It didn’t seem the kind of thing you’d do.’

  Until now, Baxter hadn’t wanted to tell Julie about his mum’s help, but now this seemed foolish. Julie wouldn’t care—she might even find it reassuring.

  ‘I’ve been saving for years,’ he said, ‘but the fact is that Mum gave me a fair lump of what this place cost. She wouldn’t entertain the idea of me taking out a mortgage for it. She likes it here, and she said that the quicker I got the writing out of my system, the quicker I might settle down and give her some grandchildren.’

  Julie laughed. ‘Sounds like my mother.’

  ‘Every mother,’ he said, with a fond laugh. ‘Mum has just about everything but the daughter she always wanted and some grandkids. I’m her only hope, and she won’t allow me to forget it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Julie, sobering. ‘Well, I’m sure that as a drug-pusher magnet, this place isn’t exactly what Frances envisioned. But at least you know the score now.’

  ‘I’m not at all concerned.’ He didn’t want to dwell on it, so he started clearing away the tea things. ‘I’m going to take a shower now, and then eat lunch. Stay and have some with me?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be intruding?’

  ‘Of course not.’ He hoped he didn’t sound too eager. ‘I can offer you something pretty special. I caught what I think is an errant King George whiting, so you can have a fillet of that—or some flathead, if you’d rather. Or both. I’ll throw in a hollandaise sauce and some salad. How does that sound?’

  She beamed. ‘Much tastier than my usual sandwiches. I just hope I don’t get called back in before I’m able to sample your expertise.’

  •

  Julie looked around the renovated kitchen with its new electric and Aga stoves. ‘Old Harry wouldn’t recognise it now,’ she said, leaning against a polished bench.

  ‘Mum’s doing.’ Greg started pulling out the ingredients. ‘She said I couldn’t expect a modern young woman to put up with an old kitchen.’

  He met Julie’s eyes and they both burst out laughing.

  ‘Mum’s always about three moves ahead of everyone else. The fact that I don’t have a girlfriend, modern or otherwise, doesn’t matter to her. The kitchen is ready for when I do have one.’ He put tomatoes and a cucumber on a chopping board and set a knife beside it. ‘Slice these up while I look after the fish?’

  Julie nodded and picked up the knife. Sh
e was a little clumsy with it, as though performing surgery, so he demonstrated his technique before he started on the fish.

  ‘I was feeling a wee bit sorry for you,’ she said wryly, ‘living out here on your own. Not any longer.’

  He tossed the fish in the pan and shot her a grin. ‘I’m not on my own. I have Chief—he’s almost human. And I ought to be able to cook after serving an apprenticeship with the Great Woman. Anyway, cooking doesn’t call for a surgeon’s skill. I’d never be able to come at your caper. The thought of cutting into a person makes my blood run cold. Well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Each to his or her own, and I’ve been close to medicine ever since I was a child.’

  Julie set the kitchen table while Baxter plated the fish. As they sat down opposite each other, he returned Julie’s pleased smile and reflected on how glad he was that Frances had insisted on renovating the kitchen.

  With one bite, Julie declared the meal delicious, and she polished off every bit of it. They were drinking orange juice and, after they’d finished eating, Baxter filled up her glass and suggested they adjourn to his favourite spot on the verandah. There, beside a large purple bougainvillea, they sat in cane chairs and looked out across the river.

  ‘I can understand why a writer would like this place,’ Julie said. ‘Some writers, anyway. I met a few while in the UK—both far out in the country and right in London. I gleaned that some like to live close to the heart of things, while others prefer solitude. But wasn’t it Tolstoy who said that a writer needs to be close to the soil?’

  ‘So the story goes,’ Baxter said. ‘And that’s true for me. Not that I can really describe myself as a writer yet. As you pointed out, being a journalist isn’t quite the same thing. I’ve always wanted to write but never had the time or money. Mum helped me, and now I’m here. She thinks it’s another phase and that I’ll get over it.’ He paused and met Julie’s gaze. ‘I don’t want to get over it.’

  ‘My mother’s said similar things to me. Many times.’