Clear to the Horizon

by Dave Warner

  ‘No!’

  The denial was a bit too shrill.

  ‘You didn’t hit this man?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘You didn’t see him there?’

  Coldwell’s Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘No.’

  Clement did not for an instant believe him. ‘He was knocked out not far from your car.’

  Coldwell continued to shake his head. ‘I never saw anyone, I never hit anyone.’

  ‘You heard nothing? He said he was calling your name.’

  Coldwell shrugged: search me. Jared Taylor arrived with a cup of hot soup for him.

  ‘Jared here found the guy, knocked out, didn’t you, Jared?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The whites of Coldwell’s eyes were expanding. Clement offered him the cup.

  ‘You hungry? Would you like some soup?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No, you look like you’re going to keel over.’

  This time Coldwell took the cup. It was too hot to sip immediately. Clement wanted it for himself. He was still famished. While the soup cooled he changed subject.

  ‘You’re a singer.’

  Coldwell said he was, took a tentative sip.

  ‘I wish I had that talent. You know Doctor John?’

  Coldwell did not. Clement was hardly surprised. He did not make this observation public, however. Now was empathy time.

  ‘It’s amazing out here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Coldwell sipped more hungrily, more relaxed now.

  ‘I’m sorry if it seems like we’re coming on a bit strong but bad things happen out here sometimes. We found the body of a young woman in the desert.’

  Coldwell looked down into the soup, sipped more quickly.

  You know something, Max, Clement thought.

  ‘We’re pretty sure she died around the time you guys left Hedland, so, no offence, but you see why we’re curious when Ingrid isn’t here.’

  Coldwell looked him in the eye, more resilient again. ‘She’s on her way to Derby. She might be there now.’

  I hadn’t felt tension like this since the last quarters of the 2005 and 2006 grand finals between the Eagles and Swans. Grace and I watched them together. She was six or seven. It was yesterday. I cooked. Okay, I heated up: party pies and sausage rolls. Her whole life she’d been indoctrinated that the only team that mattered was East Fremantle but that train had been hijacked by Victorians and a few carpetbaggers who purported to have WA footy’s best interests at heart. I and a handful of other chumps were left on the platform holding our valises, laden with personal history, while full carriages rolled by crammed with those who believed in the Promised Land of AFL and national domination by the super team the West would inevitably assemble. It was my fatherly duty to set Grace free of her heritage and I duly obliged but she never really felt any real affiliation to Eagles, Dockers or anybody else. The sausage rolls had given way to tapas. I bet if those bars in Barcelona put up a party pie or two they’d be a sensation. I could have done with a few of them right now. This wasn’t my station house, not my squad room, and my only real ally, Clement, was hours away. I felt isolated, incidental, and didn’t like it. I paced, I stretched, I thought of Skype and Tash and dismissed it, thought of calling Dee Vee and dismissed that too, because sure as I did, something would break here. The other cops mostly ignored me. Scott Risely checked on me early on and then cloistered himself in his office. Mal Gross updated me as Clement’s convoy drew near the Feister vehicle. I tried to assemble my thoughts coherently, it was impossible. I kept telling myself I’d know soon enough, why waste energy on ‘if’ and ‘but’. Gross entered, chewing something.

  ‘Five minutes away,’ he said. I’d peed not twenty minutes before but went for another slash. What did that waste, two minutes? I couldn’t take it, my blood pressure was too high and I felt light-headed. I needed air. I slipped back towards the front desk manned by the night roster, a young uniform male with curly black hair and a nose that suggested the Colosseum and togas. He was bent over a book studying something. My phone went. Dee Verleuwin. I was half a mind not to answer. The other half won. I figured my clients had a right to know we’d found the vehicle.

  ‘Hi, Dee we’re about to …’

  ‘She’s fine. Safe and sound in Derby. She rang her father twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘Ingrid did?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It’s appalling to admit, but in that instant I felt deflated. I should have been euphoric. It was like I’d been hoping Coldwell and Ingrid Feister were murdered so it would fit my half-arsed theory. Dee Vee was talking on, and the back of mind caught the gist the way the mesh catches rubbish on a pipe outlet. A jumble, a few shiny objects: Ingrid and Max had split up earlier, she didn’t feel well, he wanted to stay, she didn’t want to wreck his trip. She’d hitched a ride to Derby.

  I got back on even keel. ‘You want me to check her out?’

  ‘No, she assures her father she’s fine.’

  ‘It’s definitely her?’

  ‘I think her father recognises his daughter’s voice.’

  It was a good old-fashioned chide at my expense. She ran through details. My service was terminated but I would be paid till the end of the week. Mr Feister thanked me for my assiduous work. She told me to file the last leg of my expenses when convenient. As for the physical trauma she understood I had endured, while the client accepted no responsibility, Mr Feister was pleased to offer a five hundred dollar bonus. Her language was distancing me already. I wondered if she was annoyed I’d kept her so much out of the loop or if one of her employers was listening in but it wasn’t our usual cosy repartee. The phone was inert in my hand when Mal Gross entered to say they had located Max Coldwell at the vehicle but not the girl.

  ‘She’s in Derby,’ I said.

  The carpark was full but I jagged a space close to the front door. A bunch of young men stood nearby smoking. No doubt about it, sExcitation could pull a crowd. Where else was I going to go to celebrate and drown my sorrows in equal measure? The answer appeared to be ‘Not here’ because there was a hastily handwritten FULL HOUSE on the door. I thought my senior years might cut me some slack.

  ‘No way, José,’ said the doorman putting three fingers on my chest. I couldn’t fault his originality, he possessed none. His arms were fire hoses when the water’s pumping. I was about to turn away.

  ‘He’s with us.’

  The voice came from my right. The diminutive Alex finished the stump of a cigarette and ground it under her high heel. She still favoured the mini.

  ‘I thought you weren’t going to show, Snow.’

  I didn’t recall giving her my name. She saved me brain effort.

  ‘Your name was familiar. I looked you up online. You solved the Mr Gruesome case.’

  ‘It seems a long time ago.’

  She moved towards the door and the big man stepped back to allow us both through.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ she quipped. ‘I was three.’

  The place was jammed, broad backs in singlets and body-shirts obscured the stage.

  ‘Not bad for a Monday night,’ I observed.

  ‘That’s why I love these tours. They want entertainment and they are prepared to pay.’ She somehow found her way through to a clear space. I could see the stage now. ‘Last break,’ she confided. ‘Like a drink?’

  I offered to get her one.

  ‘Don’t bother. We’re on the house.’

  I said a beer would be fine. She caught the eye of the distant bartender besieged by thirsty patrons. There were few women present. She yelled for a beer and bourbon and Coke. The backing tapes were half volume. She ran her scanner over me.

  ‘You look depressed.’

  Nailed me in one.

  ‘I finished my job tonight.’ Cryptic as a losing footy coach in the post-match.

  ‘So you’re at a loose end,’ she winked.

  ‘I’m married and too old for you.’
/>   ‘Now you’re flattering me. There’s still more buff than puff about you, Snow.’ The barman reached through the crowd. Good-natured blokes passed our drinks across. ‘But I respect the marriage rights. Lord knows somebody has to. My ex left a lot of ground for somebody to make up. We can still talk, right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  But I was already thinking of Shane Crossland and where he might be this very second. Mal Gross had made inroads on his background but he wasn’t sharing until Clement was back, likely around 1.00 am. With hindsight it was flimsy stuff that had led me to suspect Crossland had done Feister and Coldwell. Clement’s instinct about the vehicle had been right. I sipped my beer: cold, heaven in a glass.

  The music suddenly powered in, the lights went starburst. Sierra took the stage, high kicks, a cartwheel without hands, a superb bum in tiny shorts. The audience loved it, especially when the shorts ripped away to reveal a thong. The girls did solos first, worked duo and trio routines before coming together for a full flush. No stripping, that wasn’t allowed these days, but the wowsers hadn’t yet found a way to ban suggestive dancing and acrobatics. As it was, it paled in comparison to some of the video clips Grace watches. Alex groaned at the new girl, rolled her eyes at me. I thought she was harsh. The girl wasn’t as slick as her teammates but she’d get there and her red hair found favour with the crowd. I found myself looking around for Crossland. Okay, I’ll be honest, that’s the main reason I came here. If he was in the area maybe he couldn’t resist. After all he’d taken snaps at the Hedland show. I divided my time between the girls and the audience. Like they’d said, lots of cameras.

  I asked Alex to tip me on the final number, told her I wanted to beat the crowd out but would wait for her. She did, and I was able to set up in prime position. They started coming out five minutes later in a knot, followed by a short rush and then a steady trickle. Car engines caught and rumbled, spirits seemed high, no fights. It was twenty minutes before the staff ushered out the barnacles. I had not seen Crossland. Alex appeared at the door.

  ‘You got wheels? Follow us to the motel. I’ll be about ten.’

  It was more like fifteen. Fifty percent more time to brood. Risely would have to notify the task force now. He couldn’t keep Crossland off their radar. Maybe we had twenty-four hours but that was probably stretching. I checked my forehead in the rear-vision mirror. Still a little untidy. A perky horn sounded. Alex was at the wheel of a Tarago, the girls sequestered behind. I pumped my lights and followed through dozing Broome. Monday night and everybody who was up must have been at the Cleo. The town was a crypt.

  We were greeted by four other vehicles snoozing in the Boab carpark. Our doors echoed. I complimented the girls on their show. Some of them were going to swim. Their eyes laughed at Alex and me as we walked to her apartment. They assumed we were going to get it on. Alex made her trademark drink of bourbon and Coke. I accepted a tumbler. She’d left the door open and the breeze hummed around us. I took a lounge chair, she went the sofa, slipped off her shoes.

  ‘Long day,’ she said and rubbed her feet.

  I toasted her. The bourbon proved to be a fist in a velvet glove. She examined me over the rim of hers.

  ‘Walk into a door?’

  I realised she hadn’t been there when I’d told the girls about my war wound.

  ‘My client’s boyfriend; hit me with a branch.’

  ‘The ones you were looking for?’

  ‘Yeah. I wasn’t sure until now it was them.’

  ‘With clients like that …’

  ‘Exactly.’

  I asked her how she wound up in the business. She’d qualified as a bookkeeper she informed me.

  ‘But the only place I could get a job was Woop Woop mining camps, books and paymaster. The money was good but there was nothing for the guys there to do. First chance they got they’d head to the races, or the brothels, or catch a plane to Perth and burn money.’

  She had sensed a business opportunity but everybody said girly shows in pubs couldn’t work now that stripping was banned. ‘I always thought it was more about what guys wanted to see, than what they got to see.’ She put the show together, refined it, and it had been running five years. ‘The trouble is keeping the girls. It’s high turnover. Sometimes they don’t even tell you they’re going. A few of them are on drugs: E and coke mainly. I warn them. They don’t listen. Eventually they get slack. Or they meet some fellow, he splashes around a wad of cash. Three weeks later they’re begging for the job back. But once bitten …’

  She let it trail off. After a little time she said, ‘Tell me about the Gruesome case.’

  She knew of it, sketchy bits. I ran her through a censored version over the course of the bourbon.

  ‘Another?’

  ‘Thank you but I’m completely bushed, though I am grateful for the hospitality.’

  There had been a few shrill calls from outside as the girls had initially hit the water but even these had faded. She walked me to the door. It was like one of those school-day dates, pleasant. She stood on her toes and pecked me on the lips.

  ‘You have a card?’ she asked.

  I fumbled around, came up empty. She handed me hers instead.

  ‘If you’re ever at a loose end in an outback town, have a look around, we’re probably there.’

  The pool was deserted by the time I climbed into my car. I wondered where Crossland was this minute. I was angry. This could have been avoided if the right moves had been made twenty years ago. I pulled out and drove the dark road. There were no streetlights and the moon was mean with what it offered. My phone rang. Clement.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Thought you might still be up. Just lobbed in Derby.’ It was 12.51 by my phone.

  I told him I was heading back to the Mimosa.

  ‘Or you could turn around and crash at my place in Derby.’

  ‘It’ll be near three before I get there.’

  ‘More like two-thirty. And I’ll make you breakfast in the morning. We have a lot to talk about.’

  He was right about that. I dropped anchor.

  ‘You got a GPS?’ he asked and yawned.

  ‘Yeah.’

  He told me the address. ‘I won’t be up but I’ll leave the door open. You can stay in my daughter’s room. The bed should be long enough. I’ve got a toothbrush and razor if you don’t want to have to drive back to the Mimosa.’

  Twenty minutes extra sleep sold me. I was already on my way to Derby.

  CHAPTER 29

  Something shook me awake. I had no idea where I was. Taylor Swift was looking down on me.

  ‘Wake up, Snow.’

  I tried to focus through gloom, detected Clement. He was real, Taylor was glossy and paper thin. Things began to make sense. I had driven to Derby, found the house, one of those holiday-type places on stilts. I was in his daughter’s room. I couldn’t have been asleep five hours … could I?

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Five-fifteen.’

  I’d hit the sack about three. By 3.01, I was stone.

  Clement was talking, in socks and pants, buttoning a shirt.

  ‘Richie Laidlaw the ranger called me. He saw headlights in the bush a couple of k from the Turner scene. The techs finished up last night. He thought he should let me know.’

  I was sitting up by now in my jocks. My clothes I’d folded neatly on the floor. I pulled them on. I had to aim to get my feet through the leg hole; even then I miscued twice.

  ‘You okay? Clement asked.

  ‘Do I look okay? Where’s the bathroom?’

  He gave me directions, told me to help myself to a new toothbrush. I splashed water on my face. The bathroom reminded me of my own since I’d been batching, neat and passing a man’s threshold for clean but would only have got a ‘participation’ from Tash; mirror smeary, sprayed but not wiped over twice, shaving cream pooled on the washstand. Plenty of new toothbrushes and paste and I noted the pink mug with the kid’s toothbrush and the collection
of mini perfumes. Yeah, I remembered those days. Now Grace had the expensive real stuff. I gave the pegs a polish and was ready. I’d been such a brief time in bed I had no need even to pee. I found a mug of tea in my hand.

  ‘Let’s go. You can drink it in the car.’

  It was still dark. My stiff legs descended the external staircase, my brain floating somewhere behind. There was a sense of a boat under the house but I couldn’t swear on it. I oriented towards the cabin light of the car, which glowed bright yellow.

  ‘How far?’ I managed to ask as I slumped in the seat.

  ‘Half an hour.’

  We were already gliding into the gloom, a submarine leaving port.

  ‘It might be nothing,’ he said. It was pleasantly cool now. I sipped my tea and the world became three-dimensional again.

  ‘So last night was a waste of time.’ At the moment I was a glass-half-empty man.

  Clement ignored the doom in my voice. ‘Not entirely. We established Coldwell and Feister are okay.’

  ‘Which means you have an unidentified corpse.’

  ‘There’s that,’ he conceded. He picked up his radio and put a call through to the Derby station. He told them he needed some support and gave them a grid reference he’d written on his wrist. They only had one car available. He told them to send that. I was still mulling Coldwell.

  ‘What did you make of it all? You buy Ingrid was sick?’

  There was not a car on the road. We turned off down some minor road, thin bitumen, chipped on the borders so every now and again the tyres dipped and thumped dirt.

  ‘Hard to tell without seeing her. I think they had an argument. You know how much cash he had on him? Eighty bucks, maybe not even enough to get back to Derby. He denies hitting you.’

  I made the kind of sound you make when you’ve just heard a politician tell you he’ll make you better off.

  ‘I warned him we would be in touch but I want to see what she has to say first.’

  It was all a secondary concern.

  ‘And Crossland?’

  ‘Shane Shields is an alias. He’s never changed his name. He has a Queensland driver’s licence and address these days. Gold Coast police checked on the address last night. It’s defunct. He moved out three months ago. Manners is running the Chelsea Lipton phone and Crossland’s phone and checking on recently called numbers. We’ll have those by nine. Risely will be in touch with the task force this morning.’