'Not really, but I thought it would be a good place to meet people.'
'Definitely is. Most of the town is here, plus a heap from Adelaide and other towns by the looks. I guess these concerts are pretty big these days. People from the city seem to enjoy a country fix.'
'That they do.' Ben's eyes moved to look over her shoulder and Gemma felt a nudge.
'Hi,' Jess said around Gemma's shoulder. 'Who are you?'
Ben looked quizzically at Gemma, who just smiled blandly.
'Uh, I'm Ben.' He looked a little taken aback. 'Who are you?'
'I'm Jess Rawlings, Gemma's best friend, party partner and confidante. Nice to meet you.'
'Ah, I've heard about you. I met Brad at the pub a few nights ago. He managed to rope me into playing footy tomorrow.'
'That's wonderful, they need some people with talent – I hope you have some. They're the most dismal team I've ever seen. I don't think they've won a game this season. Can you kick goals?'
Gemma watched Jess with amusement. It was no wonder that she drew people to her; she had such an open and friendly manner.
Jess grabbed Gemma's arm. 'I've just had the best idea. Since we three know each other and Gem hasn't met Brad yet, let's all go out to dinner tomorrow night. We could check out the new bistro down on the seafront. Someone told me they serve the best pasta, and I haven't had a chance to try it yet. Apparently it's really hip.'
'Something is really "hip" in Pirie? I'd like to see that!' said Ben, laughing at Jess's enthusiasm.
Gemma smiled and said, 'Me too!'
'Right! That's settled. Tomorrow night it is. What?' asked Jess when she saw Ben shaking his head.
'I have plans tomorrow night. How about next weekend?'
'Sounds brilliant. Now I really have to drag Gem to the bar or I'll die of thirst and I won't make it to the footy tomor row, let alone next weekend. Enjoy the rest of the evening, Ben.'
'I'll talk to you during the week, Gemma, if I don't see you at the game tomorrow,' Ben said as he waved and moved into the crowd.
With light footsteps Gemma and Jess headed for the bar, Jess bombarding Gemma with questions. 'Who is he? Where's he from? How come I haven't heard about him? Man, he's a dream boat!'
Gemma let her friend rattle on, her gaze raking over the crowds of people, hoping to catch another glimpse of Ben – who had looked rather gorgeous in his moleskins, R.M. Williams boots, blue shirt and dark leather jacket – but he seemed to have disappeared into the smoke of the camp fires. Her gaze rested on two people and, before glancing away, she recognised them as Ned and Paige. Ned stood in the shadow cast by a tree. She couldn't see the look on his face, but Paige looked angry. Gemma watched them for a minute longer, wondering how Ned and Paige knew each other. Then she shrugged. It was a small town. Turning to Jess she told her that if she wanted to know about Ben then it was time to shut up and listen!
The rest of the weekend passed in a blur of fun and laughter. Eating out felt like a new experience to Gemma, it had been so long since she last had. The footy on Saturday brought back memories too. The cars were all parked around the oval, and Gemma found herself remembering things she'd long forgotten, like how everyone beeped their horns whenever someone kicked a goal, or how the teenage girls got so dressed up and hung over the rails of the oval waiting for the guys to notice them. The friendliness of the people who were there also startled Gemma. There were farmers and a lot of townspeople who remembered her and asked how she was, but no one pried or asked if she was going to sell her land.
She met the famous Brad, who was everything Jess had said he was. 'Brad, this is my very best friend, Gemma Sinclair. Gem, this is Brad – the best man in my life at the moment!'
'I've heard a lot about you, Brad – it's great to finally meet you.'
'The same goes, Gemma.' Brad shook her hand, smiling. 'I hear you're doing an amazing job out on Billbinya. I've been meaning to call in and say g'day, but there isn't a lot of call for an agro out your way. So we're off out to tea next Saturday? It'll be great to get to know you a bit better.'
On Sunday afternoon, Gemma went to the bus station to pick up Patrick. He alighted looking rather cramped up. 'Small seats for a big fella like me, sis,' he groaned in greeting, and gave her a hug.
Gemma looked up at his six-and-a-half-foot frame and the floppy blond hair he was always brushing out of his blue eyes. 'I always said you were too tall.'
'I always said you were too short.' He grinned in anticipation of the next line of their childhood game.
'I'm not short,' Gemma said huffily. 'I'm medium!' They laughed and hugged again.
Driving through the green-tinged hills of the Flinders Ranges, Gemma and Patrick talked about Pat's work breaking in horses in Queensland. They fell silent as Gemma turned down Rochden Road and they approached Hayelle, where Patrick would stay for the next few nights. Patrick smiled as he glimpsed the front gate. 'Home sweet home,' he murmured. As Gemma turned into the driveway, the old homestead came into view with the front dam and hills behind it. The gentle sloping hills were often brown and dry but, with this season's good rains, now glowed a bright green, with purple Salvation Jane flowers blooming and the occasional red of the hops weed.
They pulled up next to the small stone building that held the garage and laundry. The winding path to the house went past the laundry and across a rambling lawn to the sunroom built off the kitchen.
Patrick threw his bag on the floor of the kitchen and opened the fridge. Gemma smiled. That had been Pat's routine from the minute he'd been old enough to walk. The fridge was always full of Sarah's homemade goodies and Patrick had an appetite to match. He quickly moved from the fridge to the cupboard to the cake tin on top of the bench.
'So what's the go?' asked Patrick after establishing there wasn't much to eat. 'What can I do to help?'
'Well, I guess if you could just keep a bit of an eye on every thing here it means I can concentrate on what's going on at home.'
'No worries. Hows about we go for a drive now and you can tell me what's going on with everything?'
'Yep, righto. How long can you stay for, Pat?'
'Well, I'm my own boss, so I can basically have as much time as I need. But I won't be getting any money in either. Guess we'll just see how it goes, okay? We'll see what happens with Dad, make some more decisions then. I'm not staying forever, though, sis.' He gave her a long look.
Gemma nodded her understanding.
'Great. Okay, let's have a look around.'
* * *
It had been a while since she'd gone on a farm tour with her dad, and Gemma could see that things had gone downhill in the last few months. Fences weren't as tidy as usual, calves not marked when they should be, and it seemed that there was some work to do on the catchments of the dams. It was important to keep catchments up to scratch so any little rain that fell ran into dams to keep the precious water supplies up. Cattle drank a lot more than sheep. Gemma was lucky not to have water problems on Billbinya as she had underground water. Her main problem in dry times was feed for the animals.
It was quite strange to see Hayelle a bit rundown. Jake was a perfectionist, especially when it came to his stud bulls, and Gemma knew there was definitely something wrong when she came to the young bull paddock and saw there weren't any tags in their ears. There wasn't anything to say who the sire or dams of the young bulls were, and no identification numbers.
'This is a bit weird, Pat,' remarked Gemma. 'Dad is usually a bit more on top of things than this.'
'Yeah,' agreed Pat. 'I wasn't expecting this. There's a fair bit of work to do here.'
'Well, let's go back to the house and have a cuppa, and make a plan.'
Gemma drove back to Billbinya wondering what fresh horrors she might find waiting for her. But there weren't any messages on the answering machine, no new emails and no notes from Bulla or Garry to say that anything had gone wrong. Gemma sighed with relief, made herself some toast for tea and went to bed.
&nbs
p; What a wonderful weekend, she reflected. No pressure, no back-breaking work. She wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to be able to farm a smaller place without any debt and pressure.
She also wondered why Hayelle was as far behind in the stock work. Couldn't her dad manage anymore? Was he sicker than she had been told? It was all a bit strange. The other strange thing was that the police had never returned her call. It looked like the whole problem was going to go away.
Chapter 11
At the Port Pirie police station, Ian Paver and Geoff Hay had just returned from Adelaide, where they had picked up Dave Burrows and Craig Buchanan from the Western Australia stock squad. They talked all the three hours back to Pirie and continued the conversation when they arrived at the police station, discussing what had happened with the wethers, the rumours that had come to the attention of Ian and Geoff when they had undertaken their initial investigation, and the anonymous phone call that had been made to Pav shortly after the investigation had started.
'I think we have an organised stock-stealing ring happening here, fellas,' said Geoff. 'We have unconfirmed reports of stock missing over the past two years, all in the same area. The disappearances seem to follow a similar pattern. One night when the owners aren't home someone goes in with a truck and pinches the stock. Mainly sheep but there have been reports of cattle. Has to be premeditated and researched – the use of a truck confirms that. I can't see anyone taking a truck into a property that wasn't theirs without prior knowledge of the farm's stock and knowing for sure the owners weren't going to be there.'
'Absolutely. I couldn't agree more,' Dave Burrows said. 'You mentioned that you have a suspect. Have you got a profile on him?'
Geoff passed over a red folder. 'Yeah, although we've got a bit of a problem. The guy we had in mind is dead – but it's too big an operation to be the work of one man. Adam Sinclair – or Sinny as he was known to his friends – crashed his plane on the twentieth of January this year.' He referred back to his notes. 'His wife, Gemma Sinclair, is still running the family station, and we're not yet sure if she is involved or not. When we made some initial inquiries, we went to Billbinya – the Sinclairs' station – and she seemed to be genuinely shocked when we questioned her. Since then, we have interviewed a few other neighbours and found that they believe they have had stock go missing but hadn't reported it because they weren't a hundred per cent certain that they just hadn't mustered a paddock properly or something like that.
'Gemma Sinclair rang us on Thursday of last week. She didn't state what she required; just that she wanted to talk to us. We haven't followed up on that phone call for three reasons. One,' he ticked the reasons off on his fingers, 'before she rang we had an anonymous phone call. We're pretty sure it was a male voice, but it was muffled. Now this guy must have intimate knowledge of what goes on because he suggested that Adam was involved in getting the information of stock movements and passing it on to someone else. Number two, you blokes were due over within a couple of days and we didn't know which way you wanted to play it with Gemma. After this tip-off phone call, she has to be classed as some sort of suspect. Number three is the principal reason we didn't call her back. It is obvious these sheep have been stolen. They've been taken from the yards, so there can't be any thought of miscounting or not mustering properly. Adam Sinclair is dead, so who's doing it?'
Dave crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, thinking. 'Good point. We need to focus on who is now doing the stock rustling and then we'll be able to fit Adam into it, if he was involved. Well, I guess we need to get a feel for the area, people and such. Where is stock mainly sold here?'
'The livestock sales are at Dublin, about threequarters of an hour out of Adelaide, and the abattoirs are in Lobethal, Murray Bridge and here in Port Pirie. Then there are a lot of butchers that kill small amounts of livestock, just to fill their shops and niche markets. There are a couple of big feedlots in the Spalding and Murray Bridge area. They buy in and feed cattle. I haven't been able to track down any lamb feedlots that buy in sheep. They all breed their own.' 'Okay, is there any more info?' Dave asked.
'No,' replied Ian.
'Craig'll keep a low profile. I'll get him to monitorhe live market sales and maybe do the rounds ofsome abs. I'll stay here and get a feel for the lay of theland and talk to some of the graziers who have beenaffected,' Dave said.
'Why are you keeping Craig out of sight?' asked Ian.
'Just in case we need him to get in with the locals.
Since he's the younger of us and a bit of a magnet togirls with those biceps of his, he can usually infiltratethe pub scene pretty well. Get the trust of the youngguys around the place,' Dave explained.
'I'm just the nice guy who gets to have fun withthe natives!' Craig smiled, showing his perfectlywhite teeth, his blue eyes twinkling. Geoff made up
his mind to keep his nineteen-year-old daughter awayfrom the pub for the next few weeks.
On Wednesday night, as Gemma was preparingdinner for herself and Patrick, who was due anytime,the phone rang.
'Hello?'
'Gemma, it's Dave Burrows from the WA stocksquad calling. How are you this evening?'
'Fine, thanks. How can I help you?'
'Gemma, I'm just doing a ring around of a few graziers in your area to see if we could have a bit of a catch-up meeting sometime in the next couple of days. Just to talk through what happened with the young wethers last week. I'd like to come out and meet you all – put faces to names and just ask a couple more questions.' Dave sounded very laidback.
'Sure, when would suit you?'
'Could I come out sometime tomorrow, or is that too soon?'
'Tomorrow would be fine.'
'How's four o'clock sound?'
'No worries, see you then.' Gemma put the phone down just as the dogs began to bark, alerting her that Pat had arrived. Should I have told Dave about the wethers in our paddock? she wondered. No, she decided. Tomorrow would be soon enough for the problems to surface.
'So, sis, what's happening?' Pat's usual greeting came through the door as he pulled off his boots to come into the house.
'Ah, here you are. How's it going at Mum and Dad's?'
'I'm not talking work until you feed and water me. What's for tea?'
'A hearty beef casserole. Does that suit? And I've also tried out my cooking skills on a cake. I think it's even edible!'
'I'll eat it even if it's not. I'm dying for some cake. All Mum had in the cupboard were some shop-bought biscuits. She's slacking off in her old age.'
Their friendly banter continued throughout dinner. It wasn't until they were doing the dishes that Patrick turned to face Gemma and said, 'I've got a fiancée.'
'What?' Gemma stopped what she was doing and looked at him in shock. 'Who?'
'Kate.'
Gemma gestured impatiently. 'More information.'
'I've known her since boarding school and I've been going out with her since I've been in Queensland. What's that, about eight years? She's a horse breaker too and we're in partnership.'
'Eight years? Eight years and you haven't told us? What is it with you?' Gemma asked, dumbfounded.
'Well, I didn't want to say anything till I was sure.' Pat shrugged casually. 'We reckon we'll get married sometime next year, but we'll see how the old man is. I'd like him to be there, so if we have to bring it forward then we will.'
'Pat, that's wonderful news. I'm so excited for you. I can't wait to meet her – though you need a flogging for keeping her to yourself for so long. Where will you get married?'
'Probably up there; that's where she's from. Anyway, enough about me. What's going on down here?'
Gemma sighed. 'Let's go into the sitting room with a pot of tea and I'll tell you the whole story.'
Chapter 12
Gemma sat on the couch and tucked her feet up under her. 'I haven't told anyone this, Pat, not even Jess. I've got a queer feeling about it.' She stared into her mug of tea then said, 'When Ada
m's plane crashed I was there. He was mustering from the air and I was in the ute on the ground and he was radioing me if I'd missed any cattle or whatever. Then he crashed. No warning or call on the radio, which in itself is strange. Anyway, I got to the plane before he died. I tried and tried to get the door open but I couldn't. I could see that his chest was pushed up against the front controls of the plane and he was bleeding from the mouth. He couldn't breathe properly.' Gemma stopped, and took a breath. 'He said something to me and at first I couldn't hear through the windows, but I managed to bash in the little window near the front with the sledgehammer I had in the back of the ute. Anyway, Adam was gasping and saying that he wasn't going to make it, he was in trouble and they might come after me once he was dead and I was to sell the station. I have searched this place from top to bottom – the house, the sheds and shearing shed – looking for some kind of clue about what sort of trouble he was in, but I can't find anything. Then Ned tells me that Adam had signed a contract for three hundred steers to go to a feedlot. I don't have the steers to fill the agreement, so that's a bit weird. Next thing I know the Kettles, Carters and Smiths have had wether lambs stolen out of their yards, about a thousand of them all up, and I get a visit from the police asking if I've seen a spare thousand floating around. The next morning Bulla tells me he found a thousand wether lambs that weren't ours out in Reimer's paddock. Now I'm beginning to wonder what on earth Adam was involved in. In the meantime, I've got the stock squad coming out here tomorrow to "ask a couple more questions". Doesn't that all sound a bit odd to you?'
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