Scorpio's Lot

by Ray Smithies

  ‘And where was the meeting?’

  ‘Middleton this afternoon.’

  ‘Name of horse and race number?’

  ‘Golden Galaxy in the fourth.’

  ‘And the odds?’

  ‘Twenty-five to one, I think.’

  The arrogant stranger had answered without hesitation, almost to the point of anticipating the line of questioning. His contemptuous smirk irritated the detective, giving the impression that he intended to hold the trump card whatever Marsh could muster up.

  ‘So what’s the crime, officer?’ he taunted.

  ‘There’s been no offence committed, but I suggest you exercise a bit more caution when next carrying such a vast and thick amount of money around with you.’

  ‘Oh, are you suggesting higher denominational notes and less paperwork, or maybe a cheque when next we accumulate our winnings?’ mocked the stranger.

  ‘You get the general idea, so don’t play smart with me,’ warned Marsh. ‘I’ll have your names please.’

  ‘Come now, officer, we haven’t broken the law.’

  ‘Just for the record, in case something does happen to the money.’

  ‘Very well. My name is Henry Lloyd and my friend here is Gavin Jackson. Satisfied?’

  ‘That wasn’t too difficult, was it?’ Marsh was amused with his bit of payback. ‘And the name of the other security person?’

  ‘Angelo Caresso, sir,’ replied Tweedledee with a degree of respect.

  ‘Do you have any ID on you, Mr Lloyd?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ he declared aggressively.

  The stranger was becoming agitated with all this cross-examination and decided he wanted to put an end to all this nonsense. ‘So, officer, if you have no further need of me I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘You’re free to go,’ concluded Marsh, who wanted to rejoin Piochsa for that long-awaited rendezvous at the coffee lounge.

  The arrogant stranger then quickly left the premises, ignoring the farewell gestures coming from Gavin Jackson.

  Contemptuous little prick, thought Marsh.

  It was now officially closing time and the two security guards ushered out the remaining patrons. Piochsa suggested meeting at the La Pette Coffee Lounge in five.

  When Marsh arrived he saw Piochsa seated in a far corner beside a log fire. She gestured with a handkerchief to attract his attention. Paul grinned, thinking he would have to be one of the three blind mice if her location was to become something of a challenge.

  ‘My god, you waste no time. Did you arrive by Porsche, by any chance?’ he asked, enjoying the light-hearted moment.

  ‘Don’t be silly. La Pette’s only around the corner from the Esplanade, so it was quicker to walk,’ she responded with a cordial smile.

  ‘You have an unfair advantage, being a local and knowing all the shortcuts.’

  ‘Did you sort out your problem with security? I noticed it became a bit heated at one stage.’

  ‘Yes, but it backfired in my face, so to speak. I suspected some drug deal was being exchanged but it turned out to be an envelope full of money from some win on the horses,’ replied Marsh, still annoyed at the stranger’s insolence. ‘The short arrogant one called himself Henry Lloyd. Ever seen him before?’

  ‘I’ve seen him come into the Esplanade from time to time, always near closing time and only with the intention of talking to security. Odd person, to say the least and often rude and inhospitable. I’ve heard him referred to as Brad before, but never Henry.’

  ‘So what will it be, Piochsa?’ asked Marsh upon the waiter’s arrival.

  ‘Short black and Sambuca, thank you, Paul.’

  ‘Make that two, please,’ he instructed the waiter.

  Conversation flowed beautifully, but oddly in reverse with respect to Piochsa’s journey through life. Unintentionally it started in Pedley and had worked its way back to her days in Budapest. Her family had faced hardships due to the continual struggles that are generally accompanied with unemployment. Well educated within Hungary and with the will to assist her family financially, she had decided to explore her opportunities offshore in search of higher rewards.

  ‘So you send money back home?’

  ‘Yes, generally on a monthly basis and what I can afford at the time. By day I’m a pathologist at the Pedley hospital, and together with my earnings from the Esplanade I try to transfer at least a thousand dollars monthly.’

  ‘Wow, that’s a big slice out of any pay packet.’

  ‘I still live comfortably, and besides, the pathology salary here is double what one would earn in Hungary,’ claimed Piochsa with an air of modestly.

  ‘You must be a saint in the eyes of your family.’

  ‘Paul, that’s enough about me. What about your trials and tribulations in life?’

  ‘I’m your thirty-four year old humble servant of the law, based in the city and down here in Pedley to assist in solving these recent murders.’

  ‘Yes, nasty business, all that crime at the moment, particularly with what happened on that boat some days back,’ said Piochsa gravely. ‘But Paul, it’s your personal life rather than the professional aspect I’m interested in.’

  Paul told his life story, covering his backpacking days throughout Europe, his loves and losses, in addition to his sporting achievements and philosophy ideals. His audience appeared totally engrossed.

  ‘I would never have picked you for being such a deep person, Paul. Your ideals have merit but I don’t necessarily agree with them all. Nevertheless there’s a fairly high degree of intellect hidden behind that macho image you project.’ Piochsa laughed as she saw Paul’s eyebrows elevate with surprise.

  ‘Was that a compliment or a criticism?’

  ‘You choose. It makes it more interesting then, don’t you think?’ Piochsa was clearly enjoying their rendezvous by the log fire, which staff had just topped up with red gum. ‘By the way, I’ll need to leave very soon so as not to disturb George.’

  ‘Who’s George?’ asked Marsh.

  ‘George is an IT specialist who has a business in Pedley. He’s also the person I share the house with. Sometimes George comes in late and without exception he’s always quiet, but he also expects the same in return.’

  ‘Are you two together, so to speak?’ Paul was a little taken back with this sudden mention of someone called George.

  ‘No, we’re just good friends,’ laughed Piochsa, seemingly amused at the suggestion. ‘Socially we seldom mix as we each have our own group of people, and besides, George can be out to some ungodly hour, which I can’t handle. He’s the night owl, not me. Thanks, Paul, for a wonderful evening, but I must be on my way now.’

  ‘Pleasure. I’ve enjoyed tonight.’

  ~ * ~

  L

  ife at the park had taken on a somewhat sombre mood following the Molly Bloom tragedy and kidnapping of Brigit. Tenant numbers were down as a result of Ruth Evans’ murder, and Kurt Muller appeared to be in his element with the absence of police snooping around. Within reason, the park now seemed to be his domain to do whatever he sought fit with it. In his world, life was indeed back to normal.

  From a positive aspect, Emily had been inundated with the constant flow of friends who had lent their support following my ordeal and the apparent repercussions at the caravan park. Martha Kellett continued to provide an endless supply of homemade cooking and at the same time had arranged for her handyman, Sam, to attend the gardening and give the park a much-needed facelift. Marge Samson had called one day, as had Jill Wallace and Sally Jones on their twice-weekly visits.

  I didn’t begrudge Emily her social calls, believing the company would be beneficial and perhaps a bit like a recovery therapy in light of all the drama over the past week. But why only Em? I thought. With her exception, where was my shoulder to lean on? I smiled inwardly, thinking funny how life directs its humanity element in one direction. After all, I was the one who had witnessed the Molly Bloom murders, Brigit’s kidnapping and who bore the
brunt of Forbes’ gruelling session. I detested self-pity and was not one to draw attention to such matters, but nonetheless I was still amused by these irregularities in human behaviour. Perhaps it was a female thing after all?

  My contemplation was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a pounding ring coming from the reception counter bell. Was it Kurt again on his usual mission of impossible demands? Or was it a further enquiry regarding accommodation for the forthcoming carnival weekend? I turned the living room corner to reception and the beaming smile of Arthur Simpson greeted me.

  ‘Why, Arthur, you old scoundrel, what a nice surprise.’

  ‘I couldn’t wait any longer for that drink you promised me,’ Arthur announced, recalling my comment when we last spoke in the plumbing shop.

  ‘Beer?’

  ‘Yes. But seriously, Tom, how are things with you and Emily after what you’ve both been through?’

  ‘Em’s at her friend’s place today and feeling much better, thanks. As for me, I’m fine now. Just suffered a bit of shock following the Molly Bloom incident, but nothing a good rest won’t cure.’

  ‘Terrible situation, that, and to think what all those people went through.’

  ‘The part that cuts deep has been the insinuation made by Forbes.’

  ‘Oh?’ prompted Arthur.

  ‘The guy blatantly accused me of trying to kidnap Brigit for financial gain. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Bloody ridiculous. The man’s obviously a grandiloquent and an ignoramus.’

  I let out a laugh at Arthur’s choice of words, for he was never the one to miss an opportunity to add some colourful language. ‘It’s ironic, all right, and to think I was always there to protect Brigit from these thugs.’

  ‘These city cops arrive here at Pedley and begin to think it’s their god-given right to humiliate and accuse us town folk,’ griped the old man.

  ‘Despite these accusations, my real concern in all this sordid matter is for Brigit’s safe return.’

  ‘Any news on her?’

  ‘Nothing. My gut feel tells me she’s still in or near Pedley but in reality it’s only wishful thinking,’ I replied. ‘To be truthful, Arthur, I don’t really know who to turn to or where to start for that matter.’

  ‘Well, why not start with me,’ he prompted.

  ‘I appreciate your concern, but I think this case is a bit out of your league.’

  ‘Nonsense. My knowledge of the area is far greater than most,’ insisted Arthur. ‘So why their interest in Brigit?’

  ‘It all stems back to Jake Reynolds witnessing a murder in the botanical gardens. The popular opinion is that Jake met with foul play as a result of what he overheard and not so much what he witnessed. It’s highly probable he was privy to some classified information, possibly the location of the syndicate’s operations or storage facility. While all this may be speculation, it’s reasonable to assume that whatever Jake heard, the stakes were high enough to jeopardise their southern operation. Realising their survival was dependant upon his elimination they took immediate steps to carry out their evil deed. Jake was dead a short time later.’

  ‘Yes, that’s all very well, but where does Brigit fit into the scheme of things?’ Arthur was still waiting for my answer.

  I could sense my friend’s impatience. ‘I’m coming to that, but it’s important to give you some background first. Since it was common knowledge that Jake and Brigit were partners, it prompted the syndicate into believing this classified information would’ve been discussed between the two. Suspecting Brigit to be a major liability, the chase began.’

  ‘Tom, I have two questions, each contradicting the other, but please hear me out. Firstly, why wouldn’t this organisation simply kill Brigit and save themselves the trouble of the chase and eventual kidnapping?’

  ‘That’s a fair question, Arthur. I can only assume her employment with the syndicate may have something to do with it. I tell you this in strict confidence, so please don’t repeat anything.’

  ‘Her employment? Bloody hell, in what capacity?’

  ‘As their street dealer, Brigit targets the young community and therefore has some understanding of the operations. Her knowledge may be limited, but this organisation is possibly unsure as to what extent.’

  ‘Exactly, and this is where my second point comes from. The syndicate had simply too much at stake by killing her. It was mandatory for them to kidnap and interrogate to establish the extent of her knowledge. Had she been murdered, the syndicate would have done themselves a gross injustice by never knowing if any vital information was ever exchanged. As a result they would continue to feel vulnerable, never knowing if their cover was to be eventually blown by persons unknown. Alternatively, someone with unscrupulous motives could see the opportunity for a potential blackmail, wouldn’t you say?’

  Arthur was now beginning to detect that I was taking his advice with a bit more seriousness.

  ‘Yes, that all makes perfect sense,’ I acknowledged.

  ‘What about yourself, Tom? Since Brigit has come under scrutiny for being privy to classified information, surely you must also come under consideration given the recent circumstances.’

  ‘Initially I did but that time has passed.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Due to a visit by the syndicate some nights back. Their intention was threatening, not murderous, which makes me think Brigit has already been interrogated and been cleared of any incriminating proof. Otherwise my fate that night would have been final.’

  ‘In my opinion Brigit is still in the area,’ stated Arthur with a degree of confidence.

  ‘What on earth makes you say that?’ I asked, taken back a little by this sudden announcement.

  ‘Well, think it through. Why would she be taken to a distant location and interviewed by some affiliated operation? My guess is, Brigit’s interrogation would have been carried out by the local connection. In other words, the very people who arrange her deals. At least these people have some intimate knowledge of her, as opposed to some city person she’s never met. Therefore it would be reasonable to assume the local organisation would conduct their interrogation in the local area.’

  ‘That seems logical.’

  ‘What else can you tell me, Tom?’

  ‘Sergeant Burke made reference to some underground operation, but he wouldn’t elaborate with further details. Said he couldn’t discuss these matters with the public.’

  ‘Was there any mention of its possible location?’

  ‘Nothing, except to speculate it’s probably somewhere in this region due to his mention of a drug storage facility and distribution network. Apparently the syndicate’s southern operation has its headquarters in or near Pedley, but as to where is anyone’s guess.’

  ‘I have an idea where it may be,’ declared the excited pensioner.

  I stared at Arthur as if my ears had deceived me. Had the old man finally lost his marbles? ‘What?’

  ‘They’re referred to as the subterranean passageways,’ he stated in a triumphant manner.

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Arthur.’

  ‘I’m deadly serious. And what’s more, they’re directly beneath Pedley.’

  ‘If you’re referring to those so-called tunnels, it’s nothing but a bloody myth. Arthur, you’ve lost the plot.’

  ‘Would you please give me the opportunity of defending my claim. Tom, I’m eighty-five years old and still have all my faculties. What I wish to share with you is some reality and not a myth about this lost world.’ Arthur seemed determined to challenge my scepticism.

  ‘Very well, turn me into a believer,’ I insisted, sensing my blunt remark had unsettled him.

  ‘First we need to go back to a time in excess of two hundred years. These were convict days when large numbers of prisoners were brought to the mainland to relieve the overcrowding of the penal colonies. In doing so a major problem soon became evident and that was where to house these hundreds of convicts. As a result, the gover
nor at the time was under immense pressure to resolve the matter. Society demanded the convicts be somehow relocated out of sight to allow free folk the courtesy of commuting without the presence of these unfortunate souls.

  ‘Reputed for his engineering skills and in keeping with the demands of society, the governor decided to excavate and create an underground network beneath Pedley. The project would be constructed almost entirely by convict labour and take three years to complete. From its inception the governor was ruthless in his demands, sparing no mercy in his quest to build the ultimate penitentiary. Throughout the construction period hundreds of convicts died as a result of long shifts with little food. Target dates were crucial and inclement weather was never a deterrent.