Tropic of Death

by Robert Sims

  ‘There’d be nothing cold about it.’

  ‘Taking out a national icon? You’d never live it down.’

  ‘You’re no icon. You’re a headline away from public disgrace.

  Now back off!’

  He seemed to decide she had the edge, as well as the determination. ‘Okay.’

  With a lugubrious shrug, he eased himself sideways to the tool bench, his hand resting among the nail guns.

  ‘I’ve heard you’re a bit of a vixen with a gun in your hand,’

  he said. ‘But stick around long enough and I’ll get a chance to tame you.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I’ll put you on a leash with my German shepherds.’

  ‘The same old fantasy. Ever think about your screwed-up childhood these days?’

  ‘Ever wonder what it’s like to be screwed for real in doggy fashion?’

  Rita shook her head. ‘Don’t bother with threats. You’re going down in flames and you know it.’

  Billy thumped the bench with his fist, making the tools rattle.

  ‘What sort of crazy bitch are you, gate-crashing Barrano’s wedding? And I’ve still got a bone to pick with you over what you said to the reporter.’

  ‘Guess what, Bowers. It wasn’t me.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Think what you like. But which one of us here is the pathological liar?’

  Billy breathed heavily through his nose, then conceded the point with a grunt. ‘So what the fuck are you up to? I come up here to deal with pissed-off builders and council morons only to find you snooping around. What do you think you’re looking for?’

  ‘A few tell-tale signs of murder.’

  ‘Here? Is there something I should know?’

  ‘You already do.’

  ‘Sometimes, Van Hassel, I think you’re a dangerous cop on a mission, then I realise you’re just another dingbat with a badge.

  What fucking murder?!’ He seemed genuinely baffled. Or was he trying to outmanoeuvre her again? She couldn’t tell. Billy was too manipulative to be read at face value. ‘If you’re trying to fit me with a frame my lawyers will eat you for breakfast.’

  ‘I’m just following the evidence. I don’t make false allegations and I don’t leak case material to the media.’

  ‘If I accept that, do you want to lower the gun?’

  ‘No. I’m comfortable with it aimed at your ribcage.’

  ‘Whatever. But if you didn’t grass me to the newspaper, that leaves one candidate, and it explains everything. Only he could’ve fed the reporter both angles. Thanks, Van Hassel, you’ve fingered the bastard.’

  ‘Don’t thank me - ever! What are you talking about?’

  ‘A process of elimination, if you get my drift.’ He grinned maliciously. ‘Only one person was present both times - when I had my stand-off with the protest bitch and when anecdotes about Melbourne were being told. He’s a dead man walking, thanks to you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You’ll catch it on the news.’ Billy turned to go. ‘See you around. Next time I’ll make sure I’m packing too.’

  With that he strode out of the basement.

  Once he’d disappeared up the ramp, Rita blew out a sigh and lowered the gun. When she’d holstered it and calmed her nerves she squatted down again to look for any indication of the crime she was sure had happened close by. Nothing was obvious and the lighting was too dim.

  She stood up and pulled out her mobile - no signal - so she made her way from the basement and around to the central courtyard. A couple of hundred metres ahead of her, down by the entrance, Billy was gesturing at the council inspectors as he stormed through the gates. He was wasting his anger, of course.

  Short of a seismic reversal of fortune, his money was gone, the green lobby had won and the rainforest would reclaim the massive skeleton of his resort, smothering it at birth. A good result all around. It seemed like natural justice.

  As soon as a signal registered Rita phoned Sutcliffe.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘A potential crime scene,’ she answered. ‘If you can get some of your detectives to the Ridgeway site with their science kit, I’ll tell you where they should look.’

  ‘Let me guess - you think you’ve found where the man in the mud bit the dust.’

  ‘If my guess is right, yes. And cement dust at that.’

  Rita had just rejoined the Bruce Highway above the outskirts of the town when she got a panicked call from Freddy. He was yabbering incoherently.

  ‘Hang on a minute!’ she shouted into the mobile. Then, when she’d pulled over onto the verge, she said, ‘Okay, take a breath, and say that again, slowly.’

  ‘You promised to protect my back!’ he yelled. ‘Well, I’m calling in your promise. Now!’

  ‘What’s happening, Freddy?’

  ‘I’m being chased by gangsters - from both sides of the law -

  and it’s a toss-up who’s gonna kill or maim me first!’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In a shed.’

  ‘That’s a great help. Tell me somewhere we can meet up.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I’ll park in the street behind Mangrove Joe’s. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes. What are you driving?’

  ‘A Land Rover Discovery.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Silver,’ said Freddy. ‘And rust.’

  ‘Stay put. I’ll be there in five minutes.’

  Rita accelerated back into the highway traffic.

  True to her word, she pulled up behind Freddy’s car a few minutes later at the rear of the arcade bar. His description of the vehicle’s colour scheme was accurate. The silver bodywork bore the scars of misuse, with dents and scrapes etched in rust. He was clearly a punishing driver.

  She parked the Falcon, got out and looked around for suspicious characters, gangsters or otherwise. All she saw was a quiet backstreet with a couple of elderly shoppers strolling lazily in the sun. As she walked towards the Land Rover she could see Freddy watching her approach in his wing mirror. She opened the kerbside door, climbed in and sat in the passenger seat beside him.

  ‘Right,’ said Rita. ‘You’ve got my undivided attention.’

  ‘I need more than that,’ said Freddy. ‘Have you got a gun?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Because you’re not much of a bodyguard without one.’

  ‘I’m taking on the role of your private minder, am I?’

  ‘Bloody oath, yeah.’ His hands were on the wheel as he scanned the surroundings nervously. ‘Until I get clear of Whitley.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘A place just up the coast. A safe haven.’

  ‘Why do you need me?’

  ‘Because Billy Bowers has got his bouncers prowling the roads out of town on the lookout for me. They’re in red Porsche Turbos, so if you spot one, tell me.’

  ‘They’re on Freddy patrol, huh?’

  ‘This isn’t funny! Billy thinks I stuffed him with the cops.

  He’ll fucking kill me!’

  ‘Were you there when he threatened Rachel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you’re not his Most Wanted. Someone else is.’

  ‘That hardly cheers me up. Anyway, I’ve just been grabbed by that American psycho again - dragged into the back of a van, debagged and damn near deballed!’

  ‘Kurt Demchak?’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘An official at the base.’

  ‘Official, my arse! Kurt’s the sort of military hood who blows people away. He makes Billy’s goons look like cowboys.’

  ‘I’m yet to meet him.’

  ‘I wish I could say the same. He makes you realise we’ve got our own brand of state-sponsored terror.’ Freddy froze, his eyes locked on the rear-vision mirror. ‘Oh, fuck!’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Don’t turn around. A red Porsche is coming through the crossroads behind us, slowi
ng down.’ There was a screech of tyres.

  ‘Shit! They’re onto us!’

  As the Porsche jerked into reverse, Freddy hit the ignition, the engine growling into life. With Billy’s men turning for pursuit, Freddy revved up the power. He held back a moment, timing it, then stamped on the accelerator. He swung the big car wildly into the middle of the road as the Porsche roared up, forcing it to swerve aside violently and go thumping over the opposite gutter, its engine stalling.

  Freddy, with Rita frowning beside him, was away, the Land Rover’s wheels kicking up a shriek of rubber.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she shouted.

  ‘What’s it look like? Making a run for it!’

  Rita glanced over her shoulder at the Porsche, swinging back onto the road for the chase.

  ‘You’re not going to outrun a Porsche in this tank,’ she said.

  ‘If we make it to the cane fields, we can.’

  He took a hand off the wheel to scrabble around on the dash, then popped a pill.

  ‘Are you on speed?’ she asked.

  ‘Mild uppers. To grease the reflexes.’ With Freddy gunning the engine, the Land Rover roared along a link road, his pursuers gaining ground. ‘I knew this would happen. They’ve been creeping around after me all day.’

  He narrowly missed colliding with a sheep lorry as he cut across its path onto the highway, horn blaring. The trailing Porsche had to slam on its brakes to avoid a side-on crash.

  ‘Come on, come on, come on!’ urged Freddy, picking up speed.

  ‘A couple of k and we’ll shake them.’

  But the Porsche was soon closing the gap again, matching Freddy’s lane changes as he weaved in and out, overtaking everything in his path.

  ‘This is crazy!’ said Rita. ‘You can’t play dodgems on the damn highway!’

  ‘Oh, no,’ he groaned, as they bore down on a queue of vehicles halted by red lights at a busy intersection on the edge of town.

  ‘This is no time to stop.’

  Without indicating, he swung across traffic to the squeal of tyres and a chorus of horn blasts, and zoomed off along a side road. It wasn’t long before the Porsche was following.

  ‘Buckle up, Van Hassel!’ he said, a manic note in his voice.

  ‘We’re taking some shortcuts!’

  Rita heeded his advice, grappling with the seatbelt and locking it as the four-wheel drive lurched around a bend in a spray of pebbles. Freddy veered off at a junction with a gravel service road, spewing out a cloud of dust in his wake as the car juddered over humps and potholes.

  ‘They’ll have to slow down,’ he cried out above the noise, ‘or bugger their suspension.’

  Rita turned to look through the rear window. Sure enough the Porsche was easing back. It fell further behind and out of sight as they skirted the raised banks of a reservoir and raced on past a quarry and a rubbish tip, Freddy wrenching the wheel just in time to avoid smacking into a dumpster.

  ‘Outta the way, arsehole!’ he yelped, swinging the car onto the roadside bank and accelerating past.

  Rita shuddered at the near miss but saw the benefit of Freddy’s dose of amphetamine.

  When they reached a T-junction, he took a hard right. They were travelling on a sealed surface again.

  ‘Do you know where you’re going?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re on Golf Links Road,’ he answered. ‘And we’re heading in the right direction.’

  With no sign of the Porsche on the stretch of road behind, Freddy kept up the pace along a broad curve of avenue lined with flowering wattle trees, then around a brick-walled corner of Whitley cemetery, only to find he was hurtling towards the slow procession of a funeral with not enough room to stop.

  He whipped the wheel sideways - ‘Hang on!’ - and cannoned past the cortege like a sacrilegious joyrider, startling the driver of the hearse, which slipped into a ditch, dislodging its wreaths.

  Rita voiced her disapproval. ‘Not nice, Freddy.’

  ‘It was that or ram them.’

  ‘You’ve just earned a thousand years in purgatory.’

  ‘Better than Billy giving me hell.’

  Before the words were out of his mouth he was jamming on the brakes as they rounded a freight depot and skidded to a halt just short of a coal train rattling through a rail crossing.

  ‘Shit,’ he said.

  ‘Why don’t we just stop here and let me deal with the bouncers?’

  Rita suggested.

  ‘You’ve gotta be kidding. Those fuckers are tooled up with shotguns.’

  ‘Shotguns?’ Rita thought about it as the train cleared the crossing. ‘Then what are you waiting for? Shift it!’

  He flattened the accelerator pedal and they thumped over the rail lines as the Porsche raced into view behind. It was cutting the distance rapidly. Up ahead was a long straight sweep of open road.

  ‘Time to improvise,’ said Freddy.

  He hauled the car into a sliding turn that took them through the entrance of the Whitley golf course.

  ‘Where does this lead?’

  ‘To the clubhouse,’ he said, ‘but don’t let it bother you.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  With the white weatherboard building looming ahead, Freddy only increased the speed.

  ‘Brace yourself !’ he warned. ‘We’re going off-road!’

  Aiming directly at the clubhouse garden of ornamental shrubbery, the Land Rover smashed through it with a thud, the wheels chewing and spitting out a crush of myrtle bushes before bursting through hedges on the far side, to the astonishment of members wheeling their golf bags. There was no way of avoiding the number one tee, and the car tore through it, forcing players to scatter.

  ‘That’s some divot you left behind,’ said Rita, looking over her shoulder to see the Porsche emerge from the trail of mangled shrubs. ‘Billy’s boys don’t give up easily, do they?’

  ‘Me neither.’

  Down the fairway Freddy charged, horn honking to alert the golfers. An alarmed pair on a buggy wobbled erratically into the rough as the Land Rover flashed past. The end of the fairway was hemmed in by strands of banksia and water obstacles, so the only option, with the Porsche slicing through the grass on their tail, was to head straight for the green. Four players were casually lining up putts until they witnessed the mayhem descending on them like a hoon rally. They flung their clubs and bolted out of the way, one of them jumping into a sand trap, another toppling into a pond. With the way clear, Freddy ploughed straight across the green, flattening the flag and burying the cup, before dropping with a thud over the bunker on the far side.

  ‘Hole in one!’ he laughed.

  ‘And a double bogey for Billy’s bouncers,’ added Rita, watching the Porsche grind to a halt on the lip of the bunker, unable to risk the drop.

  ‘Yay!’ shouted Freddy, with glee. ‘We’re winning!’

  By the time they emerged from the back gates of the course their pursuers were more than a fairway length behind. A maintenance road led directly to a wide expanse of cane fields. With the crushing season underway, Freddy took his time picking a way through the crop to avoid the cane cutters. When he found a deep rutted track he turned onto it. The Land Rover was half a kilometre along it before the Porsche appeared. Instead of following, it stopped.

  After a moment, it sped off along the road.

  ‘I told you we’d do it,’ said Freddy, with a note of triumph in his voice.

  ‘Where does this lead?’ asked Rita.

  ‘Just one way - to the coast road.’

  ‘And do the bouncers know that?’

  ‘Oh, shit. They’ll try to cut us off.’

  He gripped the wheel with renewed determination as the car sped along the track through hectare after hectare of tall green cane, affording the occasional glimpse of sugar mills and chopper harvesters in the distance. The fields ended at a bend of the coast road that was empty of traffic. Freddy pulled onto it and headed north. The road climbed over a bluff with a rocky poin
t below, where waves frothed over reefs and a clutch of islets dotted a bay.

  They were nearing the bottom of a dip when the Porsche streaked over the crest behind, closing rapidly. To Rita’s surprise, Freddy turned off the road onto what looked like an old cobbled path sloping down an incline to the beach. Seconds later, the Porsche did the same. With less than fifty metres between the vehicles Freddy accelerated towards the water. He was aiming at where the path disappeared under the waves in what looked like a slipway.

  ‘Are you nuts?’ cried Rita.

  She grabbed hold of the arm rest as the Land Rover hit the water with a splash and, amazingly, surged forward unhindered, the wheels gripping solidly without losing momentum.

  ‘What is this?’ she asked.

  ‘A tidal causeway,’ he answered.

  She spun around in time to see the Porsche hit the water and slew sideways, engine-deep, wallowing in the waves, unable to go any further. The bouncers were clambering out, waterlogged and defeated.

  ‘Good timing,’ said Rita. ‘So where does this causeway lead?’

  ‘That little island, dead ahead.’

  Driving steadily now, Freddy guided the car towards an isolated rise of land that lay like a hump in the middle of the bay. Rita could make out a cluster of buildings, and as they got closer she saw they were made of stone with slate roofs and arched windows.

  The look was old and weathered, the style Victorian Gothic. On the slopes around them were what appeared to be vegetable gardens and orchards of mango and banana trees. She could even see pigs and sheep wandering around.

  The car rose, dripping, from the causeway beside a jetty with a boat tied to it, bobbing on the waves. Freddy followed a cobbled lane to a courtyard and parked next to a kombi van with an image of the Virgin and Child painted on its door.

  ‘What is this place?’ asked Rita, baffled.

  ‘St Cedd’s Monastery,’ answered Freddy, switching off the engine. ‘Welcome to my safe haven.’

  43

  Of all Rita’s encounters since arriving in Whitley, this struck her as the most bizarre. She and Freddy were sitting on canvas chairs in the middle of cloisters, the rays of the afternoon sun casting a mellow light on the stone of the surrounding colonnade. There was a fishpond with lilies and a small fountain tinkling above the flagstones, and grapevines clung to some of the columns. Brother Ignatius was serving food and drink, with bread, cheese and olives already spread on a wooden table to which he added an unlabelled bottle of red wine and goblets. The soothing tone of voices singing psalms rose from the Blessed Sacrament Chapel nearby, drifting like a mood of calm through the fabric of the monastery. Ignatius poured the wine, pulled up a chair and joined them.