The caller was outdoors. Everett could hear the wind fanning across the phone’s mic at the other end.
‘It’s Charlie Lawson, site manager at the Big River Logging Company.’
Everett frowned. ‘How did you get this number?’
There was a chuckle. ‘It’s a small town, Detective. Georgie Emery, the publican, gave it to me this morning. I called her about one of my men who was at the pub last night. John Sampson.’
Everett had given Georgie his details when he got the wi-fi password from her, but he hadn’t thought she would be sharing his number with the rest of the town. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Sampson didn’t show up for his shift this morning and one of my truck drivers found his Harley in a roadside ditch on the way to the sawmill.’
‘Did you check the surrounding area? He could be hurt. Maybe he’s just broken down.’
‘We searched fifty metres or so all around. No sign.’
‘Did you try calling him?’
‘Of course I did.’ Lawson sounded pissed off. ‘It goes to his voicemail. I’ve left a message for him to call me.’
‘What about his next of kin, the local hospital … doctors?’
Lawson laughed. ‘Sampson listed his dog as his next of kin on his employment form. As for medical treatment, it’s all out of town since Doc Thornton retired and moved up north. The ferry is the only way off the Reach nowadays. I phoned Carl Wiggins, the ferryman. That university professor was the last to leave yesterday afternoon, but he hadn’t seen Sampson. Carl stopped running the ferry around four pm because of the high w-t-r …’ A wind gust distorted Lawson’s voice, then Everett heard ‘… the r-v-r is up, running fast, but the levee is holding.’
The fact that the ferry had stopped running worried Everett, and he knew the winds might jeopardise flying the specialist team in by chopper. Worse still, the crime scene was at risk of flooding. He felt the nerves at the nape of his neck bristle – he didn’t need a missing person case on top of preparing the scene for SCC. ‘I’m sorry, but I think it’s a local issue, Mr Lawson, and the police won’t consider it a missing person case for twenty-four hours. I’m strictly here for the murder case.’
‘Right now, you are our local police, Detective. And, besides, there’s something not right about the bike. The fuel tank is bone dry, and that alone is out of character. Sampson’s bike is his pride and joy. Always kept immaculate, not a scratch. He had a saying: “If you value your life as much as I value my bike, you won’t touch it.” But there’s something carved into its fuel tank, and it’s too deliberate to be damage from the accident.’
Everett’s belly tightened, his gaze jerking to the photograph of the symbol taped to his evidence wall. ‘Mr Lawson,’ he said, ‘it wouldn’t happen to look like a capital A would it?’
There was a pause, and a shuffling sound on the other end. ‘Depends what angle you look at it from, but … yeah, it could be a funny kinda A.’
‘Don’t touch anything, Mr Lawson. I’m on my way.’
*
Taylor stood at the attic window, the curtains tied back so he could see the view better. The river was up, and only the jetty’s hand railing was visible, snaring debris from upriver: sticks, leaves, and a fruit box caught spiralling in a whirlpool. A red plastic bag was caught on the last pier, its colour stark against the dark water, like blood on marble. He sipped his coffee, lost in the body of water, suddenly aware of a weight in the air around him. The partially submerged she-oaks beyond the levee swayed in the torrent, the smaller saplings bowing against the river’s force. Whatever had happened here … it wasn’t over. There was something about those bodies that heralded a beginning, not an end. He wondered how the dig site was faring upriver, his thoughts turning to the high watermark outside the pub.
The landline phone rang. ‘Did you enjoy your breakfast, Mr Bridges?’ It was Heather Starling, her tone lively, the weariness she had displayed at the end of her long day at the café buried beneath her newfound fervour.
‘You’re spoiling me,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘I have Detective Ryan Everett on the line for you. I’ll put him through.’
‘Thanks, Heather.’ He waited through a series of clicks.
‘Taylor?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We’ve got a situation. A local guy has gone missing; it might be connected to the bodies in the dig.’
… a beginning, not an end … ‘What’s the connection?’
‘His motorcycle was found abandoned this morning. It had that same symbol from the crime scene scratched into the tank.’
Taylor recalled the logger who’d left on a Harley the night before. ‘This man’s name wouldn’t happen to be Sampson, would it?’
There was a pause. ‘Yeah, it is.’
‘I saw him leave the Royal last night,’ Taylor said. ‘The kind of guy who’s hard to forget. Big and loud; wouldn’t be easy to subdue.’
‘Can you meet me out at the bike? It’s on the same road that runs past the dig site. Just keep driving north until you find the place. I’m leaving now.’
‘Sure. See you there.’
Everett hung up.
Taylor put the phone down and drank the last mouthful of coffee, thinking about loggers and Hoodoos. Jaimie would need to get involved, help him with the lay of the land, he decided. He took his car keys and left, the wind slapping his face with a frigid hand as he opened the door.
*
Everett drove by the dig site and noticed Constable Fisher sitting on the hood of her car. She was reading her book, her wrinkled shirt and rumpled hair testimony to the uneasy night she must have endured. He tapped the car horn as he passed and noted Fisher’s half-hearted wave in response. Like it or not, the kid was stuck here for now, with no change of clothes and no relief. Everett’s old-fashioned side didn’t like seeing her out here alone, but the modern side of him knew better than to say anything. And he didn’t want to think of Fisher as helpless, knowing she wouldn’t be here now if she hadn’t done the same gruelling training he had at the Goulburn Police Academy. Later in the day, he could arrange regular meals and better accommodation for her, if only a tent and sleeping bag, until they moved the bodies. Fisher couldn’t sleep in the car and shit in the bushes forever.
The wind buffeted Everett’s Commodore, reminding him again of how the elements were limiting his resources – no river crossing, no flights in or out. He tried to ignore the sense of isolation engendered by the expanse of forest he found himself in, instead focusing on the road ahead where clusters of native grey gums had given way to the ordered ranks of plantation pines. As dust swept across the naked road in feathery waves, Everett was concerned that any evidence around the abandoned motorcycle would be brushed away with it. He pushed the speedometer a little, ever vigilant of any logging trucks that hogged the roads out there, but suddenly realised that he hadn’t passed one all morning.
Cresting the next rise, he saw a group of vehicles parked ahead of him: a grey Ford Bronco and a dusty Kenworth truck, minus its trailer. On approach he saw the bike, jet black and lying on its side in the drain channel.
A square-jawed man – fifty-something, perhaps – in cargo pants and a faded blue-ombre shirt was talking to a wiry man in an open hi-vis vest. Both were leaning against the Kenworth’s bullbar. Then the big guy walked straight and confident towards the approaching Commodore, rolling up his unbuttoned shirt sleeves. His grizzled flattop had plenty of colour, but the deep wrinkles at his eyes were like a desert road map, all leading to the liquid pools of his teal eyes. This had to be Charlie Lawson, his chiselled features full of authority, the kind of guy who looked like he would have no problem controlling a bunch of cowboy loggers in a place like this. The detective sighed. Let’s not make this a pissing contest, Lawson.
He parked beside the Bronco, giving the motorcycle a wide berth. He stepped out as the logging boss arrived. ‘Mr Lawson?’ Everett asked, overdoing the confidence he was sadly lacking wit
hin.
‘Yeah, hi,’ Lawson replied, slipping his hands into his pockets. Everett wondered whether he was avoiding the mandatory handshake. He noted the tattoo of a sword covering the length of his right forearm, To Thine Own Self be True, written down the blade. It wasn’t a new tattoo, the edges having blurred into his russet skin. But Everett recognised the phrase: from Hamlet, and on the Alcoholics Anonymous chips. He didn’t figure Lawson as a theatre devotee, so could only conclude that this man had his own demons to battle.
‘Thanks for the call.’ The detective gestured to the motorcycle. ‘No sign of Sampson since we spoke?’ He began walking across the road with cautious steps, recognising the deterioration of the crime scene already – established tyre tracks crushed by new ones and an array of boot prints that had ploughed through the soil around the bike. There were even fresh finger smears across the dust that covered the fuel tank. The loggers had devastated the scene. A dry lump formed in his throat. Then he saw the familiar symbol scratched into the paint. ‘We need to keep everyone away from the area from now on,’ he told Lawson, trying to keep the frustration from his voice.
‘We thought it was just a bike accident,’ said Lawson. ‘I was looking for Sampson; thought he might be hurt.’
‘Crime scenes are usually tainted by good intentions, Mr Lawson,’ Everett said, his attention squarely on the motorcycle now. He stopped about three metres away from the bike, scanned the immediate area, then looked the length of the road in either direction. ‘Can we stop the logging traffic until I can assess the location?’
Lawson chuckled. ‘Consider it done,’ he said. ‘There’ll be no company assets this end of the road until the ferry is running again; just raw logs from the forest to the mill at the other end. Even then, we can only stockpile so much in the yard.’ He scratched his brow. ‘We used to have an alternative route out of here – long way around through Windsor – but that’s not possible since the Spencer Pass bridge was washed away two years back.’
An explosion boomed from the high country and echoed off the escarpments. Everett flinched as the ground trembled slightly. ‘What the …?’ He looked at Lawson, his expression quizzical.
A smirk at Everett’s jumpiness formed on Lawson’s face. ‘Relax. I’ve got a crew blowing stumps in the felled ground.’
‘Hmm.’ The detective noticed a plume of grey smoke breach the skyline, watched as the wind made it march across the ridge, then turned his focus back to the bike. With the beginnings of a smile, he recognised the Harley’s pedigree. His father had a similar motorcycle – cherry red with bone trim – now under a tarp in Everett’s shed. ‘A sixty-four Harley-Davidson Panhead,’ he said. ‘Pretty rare.’
Lawson raised his eyebrows. ‘You know your bikes.’
‘I know this one.’ Everett took out his phone and began to take photographs. Wide shots, close-ups of the bike, the A symbol, and the band of wind-blown tracks and boot prints that surrounded it. Then he made a note of the bike’s position, on its side but with the side stand deployed. He frowned, stepped a little closer and considered the tyre track leading from the back wheel.
‘Does that wheel rut look to you like the bike skidded to a halt?’ Everett asked.
Lawson stepped closer. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The track looks a little distorted from the wind, but I can still make out some of the tread pattern all the way to the back wheel. My guess is that it rolled to a stop.’
‘I agree.’ Everett pointed to the extended side stand. ‘I think Sampson stopped here of his own free will, extended the jiffy stand, and left the bike upright when he dismounted.’ He looked ahead, wondering what it was that Sampson had stopped for, then remembered Lawson telling him that the tank was empty, which sounded out of character. ‘I think the stand just sank into the soft earth from the bike’s own weight and toppled during the night.’ He squatted by the Harley and rested his hand on the classic panhead engine. ‘Stone cold,’ he said.
‘Probably where he ran out of fuel,’ Lawson replied.
Everett glanced over his shoulder, back the way he had driven in. ‘But wouldn’t you say Devlins Reach is closer than the logging camp from here, Mr Lawson?’
‘I guess … Yeah.’
‘So, why didn’t Sampson walk back to town or phone for help?’ He checked the signal strength on his phone. Three bars. ‘Plenty of signal.’ Surprising, considering where they were.
Lawson shrugged. ‘Maybe that symbol scratched into the paint is the answer.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re right.’ Everett leaned over the tank, and took another close-up of the A, noting that the force applied to it had been heavy enough to scratch the paint but not dent the metal. Something didn’t add up. ‘Would you say Sampson is a big fellow?’
‘Oh, he’s a fair unit, all right,’ said Lawson.
‘And yet, a person who could barely scratch this symbol into the paint was strong enough to overcome him.’
‘What are you saying?’
Everett stood up straight and crossed his arms. He focused on the A figure. ‘Right now, it is what it is, Mr Lawson. An abandoned motorcycle with a familiar calling card attached.’
He saw Lawson frown, puzzled at the calling card comment. But that was information best kept under wraps for now.
The sound of an approaching vehicle caught Everett’s attention. He turned, recognising the Parks and Wildlife Land Rover and the two faces behind the windscreen.
*
Taylor pointed out Everett standing on the road ahead and waving them down. Jaimie dropped the Rover, which had rattled with every rut and pothole along the logging road, down a gear and slowed to a stop. She yawned, squinting against the sheets of dust as she reached for the map between the seats. Everett opened the car door for her, and she and Taylor stepped out.
‘I thought Jaimie could help,’ Taylor said. ‘She knows the park better than any of us.’
‘I could use all the help I can get,’ Everett said, then nodded to Lawson. ‘This is Sampson’s manager – Charlie Lawson.’
‘Hi.’ Lawson was strictly business.
Taylor pointed to the bike in the ditch. ‘Sampson’s?’
Everett nodded. ‘Uh-huh.’
Taylor followed him to the Harley, but Jaimie kept her distance, saying she wanted to stay out of the way. ‘No sign of him?’ he asked.
‘Not that we can see,’ Everett answered, ‘although I haven’t been here long myself. I’ll run a check on his mobile calls when I get back, see who he’s been talking to and when the calls stopped.’
‘Mind if I take a look around?’
‘Please.’ Everett stepped aside, motioned to the scene.
Taylor took a moment to consider the area before getting too close. As he’d said to Everett, this wasn’t his first rodeo, and he knew to take in the big picture before narrowing the field. He circled around to the area between the road’s verge and the forest; he examined the ground’s disturbed signature, the elements already distorting the contours. Taylor slowly veered towards the tree line, and could feel the vastness of the park expanding around him, making the crime scene feel that much smaller, shrinking to a pinpoint on a map. He needed perspective – glancing at Jaimie, he waved her over. ‘I need the map,’ he called.
Jaimie followed Taylor’s path around the motorcycle.
‘What do you make of this patch between the bike and the tree cover?’ Taylor’s question was directed both to Jaimie and Everett.
‘Except for a trail of Lawson’s fresh boot prints across the centre, it looks relatively clear,’ said Everett.
‘Too clear,’ offered Jaimie.
‘You’re right. I think the corridor here has been swept clean,’ Taylor replied. ‘Look beneath the trees over there; the pine needles are matted and compressed, but here, the same litter has been disturbed. I can just make out the brushstrokes, probably made by a tree branch.’ He pointed in a curved action to demonstrate. ‘The overnight winds would have finished the job.’<
br />
Jaimie fought the wind to unfurl the map and refold it smaller, with the area they were located in uppermost. She stepped closer and tapped on their location. ‘We’re here,’ she said.
‘Interesting.’ Taylor turned to peer into the forest.
‘What is it?’ asked Everett.
The ranger took the map from Jaimie and pointed to the dotted lines that ran parallel to the dirt road they were on now. ‘Those broken lines are older unserviced trails – probably the original logging routes.’
‘They’re criss-crossed all over the park,’ Jaimie said. ‘Some aren’t even on the map.’
Taylor stepped through the border of sapling pines, Jaimie a pace behind. Everett followed until they broke onto an antiquated trail fifty metres in. The wind moaned through the canopy of trees above. Taylor circled the area, eyes fixed on the ground. ‘There,’ he said, pointing at the base of a tall pine.
A patch of congealed blood was evident on a cluster of exposed rocks; a minor splatter pattern at the bottom of the broad trunk.
‘Not enough blood to prove fatal,’ Everett noted. He kneeled beside the pattern and looked up at Taylor. ‘Down this low, it could be his Achilles tendon – just like the others.’
Taylor scanned the old wheel ruts barely visible on the disused trail. ‘There’s been a vehicle through here recently,’ he said. ‘Heading north.’ He fingered the broken head of a sapling growing in the centre of the track, bent towards the north. He then kneeled at the tyre tracks pressed into the bed of pine needles. ‘Look at the depth,’ he said. ‘My guess is, it’s a heavy off-road vehicle. SUV; four-wheel drive, no doubt.’ He brushed his fingers over a clump of grass, which left oil residue on his fingertips. ‘Older model, perhaps; not in great condition by the dark colour of the oil.’
‘And my guess is that Sampson was on board at the time,’ Everett added.
‘Alive?’ asked Jaimie.
‘This is too familiar to be a coincidence,’ Everett said with a sigh. ‘The bodies in the boat … The symbol left on the door and then on Sampson’s Harley.’ He glanced at his working watch. ‘It’s been ten hours since he was last seen at the pub. If Sampson’s abductor wanted him dead, he had every opportunity to do it right here.’ He focused again on the blood splatter. ‘No, Sampson was wanted alive, just like those other victims.’
The Reach Page 7