by Helene Young
‘No, no, I’ll be fine.’ Stirling tried to sit up, but his body didn’t want to work. ‘I swallowed something. Got stuck.’ He waved at his throat, his raspy voice lending some credibility to that.
‘A glass of water?’
He pushed again and managed to sit up this time. The iPad glowed on the table and even with his vision still fluctuating he could see the ‘Suspected Gangland Hit’. He knew Conor Stein and Conor Stein had a great big score to settle. This wasn’t going to end well.
‘Here you go, Mr Fletcher.’ Cathy held out the glass for him. ‘You look a bit better, but you’re still very red.’
‘I’m fine, fine.’ He mustered a smile. ‘I’ll miss my flight if I’m not careful. Silly of me. Must learn to chew my food.’
Her smile was hesitant. ‘If you’re sure. Nothing else I can get you?’
‘Nope, I’ll be right.’ He raised the glass of water to her and then drank. It eased his throat but burned all the way down. He’d need antacid before he had a full-blown attack. ‘You’ve been great. Thanks.’
He managed to stand up and adjust his shirt, straighten his belt, as Cathy continued to hover. He ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it into place. ‘No, really. I’m fine.’ He patted her shoulder. As soon as she walked away Stirling opened the article and bookmarked it, then turned his iPad off. The flight wouldn’t leave without him, but he didn’t like to make a fuss by being late.
He talked as he walked. ‘G’day, mate. It’s Stirlo. I need a favour. This is what I need you to do.’
Half an hour later, sitting in the front row of the lower deck, his iPad stowed with the magazines, he looked out the window as they taxied down to the south for take off. First Class comfort to Brisbane was a luxury since the 747s didn’t normally operate this service. He appreciated the privacy so he could think.
He wasn’t going to lose everything he’d spent a lifetime accumulating because of one high school student who got cocky and took too much of the supplement. How the hell was he supposed to know that Grant would go psychotic? It would have been easier if Darcy had died too, then there would have been a plausible reason for his overpowering grief. Instead he had to wear a stiff upper lip, make a fuss of his daughter who wouldn’t talk to him, and clean up the mess before anyone could find out the truth.
He’d been planning to leave Beverley, but he’d expected to do it later, once Darcy left home. But after the accident he couldn’t bear to be in Banksia Cove, constantly reminded of what he’d lost. When Beverley told him she thought Grant had tried to rape Darcy, he’d almost thrown up on the spot. Playing sport was nowhere near as gut-wrenching as raising a daughter. He had no idea if Beverley was right. His defiant daughter refused to speak to him, right up until the day he packed his bags.
‘I hate you for what you’ve done, for what you’re doing to Mum,’ Darcy had screamed at him, his bags stacked in the front hallway. ‘I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.’ The house had echoed with the slam of her door. It had taken three years before she’d talked to him. They’d never spoken about that day, not even in passing. Surely if she knew the reason for Grant’s behavior, she’d have said something, given some indication before now, Stirling thought.
When the seatbelt sign went off he read through the article. He remembered the shooting all too clearly because Conor Stein had moved in the same social circles. He was an ex-AFL player who’d moved from Melbourne to Sydney after a knee injury sidelined him. He was a young man with great connections, so Stirling had cultivated the friendship. He even enjoyed his company.
They’d ended up in a pub one night, pissed as ticks. It was after the funeral of a footy mate who’d died from a drug overdose. Tragic but not unexpected. The guy’s form had slumped. Stirling knew he’d been using supplements before ASADA ramped up the drug testing. God knows why he’d started using heroin.
Stirling was on his seventh Scotch, swapping stories with Conor of the things they’d done to help their clubs. He’d realised in the middle of a rambling story about a pharmaceutical company supplying tailor-made supplements that Conor Stein was not as drunk as he was and was watching him with a calculating smile. Stirling made an excuse and went home, with the conversation replaying in his head as he tried to remember what he’d said.
When the same pharmaceutical company suddenly hit the headlines accused of supplying illegal performance-enhancing drugs to sports clubs, he’d known instantly where the information had come from. Rod Reeves was mentioned as a person of interest. Stirling probably shouldn’t have then gone out of his way to catch up with Rod and let Conor Stein’s name drop in conversation. But he and Rod had too much shared history and digging into Rod’s past might upset the apple cart. Could Stirling prove that Rod Reeves was behind the execution of Stein’s family? No, but he was sure they were killed because Stein was the whistleblower. Conor Stein had dropped out of sight after that and now here he was again, apparently a witness in this match-fixing court case against Rod Reeves. He couldn’t be allowed to testify. Darcy had to understand that.
He turned his phone on as soon as they touched down in Brisbane. It chimed with incoming messages. One from an unknown number, one from Beverley.
They’ve taken Amelia. What have you done Stirling?
‘Shit.’ He couldn’t stifle his groan. Holding his breath, he fumbled to open the other message.
Amelia was in an unfamiliar car seat, eyes wide and tape over her mouth. ‘You can have her back when we get Conor Stein.’
21
Noah hit the lights and siren as Darcy, Conor and Reggie’s distinctive Holden disappeared behind him. Fog had turned the advertising signs on the side of the road to shadowy ghosts. Difficult to pull off here and dangerous to erect a roadblock in these conditions, but he didn’t have any options. The car Darcy thought was on her tail must have turned right. Only a matter of time before they realised they’d lucked out. Then they’d be speeding in this direction, regardless of the reduced visibility. He did a U-turn and parked the police car with two wheels on the bitumen. At least he’d be able to take off after them if they got through.
Waves of exhaustion rolled over him. God only knew when he was going to collapse into bed. He shook his head. There’d be time once Conor Stein was back in protective custody and away from Darcy. He left the lights on and opened the boot. The striped plastic barricades wouldn’t stop anyone intent on getting through, but they might slow them down a bit. He slipped on his safety vest and called base.
‘All-stations alert. There’s a herd of cows on the road to the south of the Agnes Water turn-off. I’ve erected a roadblock while I try and clear them.’
‘Roger that, south of Agnes Water.’
‘Affirm. Call you when it’s clear.’
He touched the Taser on his utility belt. In fifteen years of policing he’d never fired his gun in anger nor used his Taser. Would today be a first? He felt isolated in a way he never had before. He’d always been a team player and known very clearly which team he was on.
Team Moreton had been a powerful family unit. It still was. His quiet mother had supported her children every way she could. Tough love to her was insisting their chores were done before they were allowed to play. His reliable father could cook a roast for twenty as easily as muck out his dairy. Laconic, straight-backed, slow of speech but quick with humour, Brett Moreton loved his land as much as his family. It was going to hurt him like hell the day he had to walk off that farm. Noah knew his guilt was unwarranted, but he always felt an ache when he contemplated why he’d elected to become a policeman rather than a dairy farmer. He missed seeing the steam rise off the cows’ rumps as they followed nose to tail to the holding yards, the early sun sending a shaft of gold down through the trees and into the valley. He missed feeling his heart pump in rhythm to the suck and hiss of the machinery as a row of milkers chewed their cud and waited patiently for their udders to empty. Daisy Hill used to run three hundred head. It was down to one hundred and fifty head now.<
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He’d swapped the rolling hills of Daisy Hill for Team Queensland Police, had become part of an elite SERT unit and then had to watch it be torn apart by distrust and bureaucratic bungling. Now he was questioning the loyalty of his team, the strength of the bond between policemen. Corruption was a reality. All the safeguards in the world couldn’t protect against it. And he knew how easy it was to be corrupted, to turn a blind eye, to pretend it wasn’t happening and then find yourself compromised. Hadn’t he done that with Grant and Stirling?
Noah heard the roar of a fast-moving car and ducked into his patrol car to hit the siren. He strode out to the white line in the centre of the road.
The black car skidded to a stop. The number plate 158 SOL was like a strobe light to his tired brain.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ The passenger door flew open and Noah found himself chest to chest with a man who towered above his six-foot-two frame.
Noah levelled his gaze at the other man, his demeanour polite, relaxed. The man’s build and bearing spoke of a military pedigree. Was he capable of the kind of driving that would cause a fatal road accident?
‘Just a precautionary roadblock. Cows on the road. Driving a bit fast for the poor conditions, sir. It would be prudent to take things a little easier. May I see your driver’s licence, please?’
‘We’re New South Wales coppers. Up here to collect a witness protection candidate. We had a tip off he’d been seen out at that abandoned fish factory.’ The man presented an ID badge in the name of Sergeant Phillips. It looked real but Noah was certain it was a fake. No self-respecting cop would barge in on another State’s patch without the relevant paperwork.
‘Is that right, Sergeant Phillips? I didn’t hear anything about a witness protection candidate up here.’
The other man tapped the side of his beaky nose. ‘All hush-hush. That all-stations alert that’s out?’
Noah nodded, wondering how the guy was going to spin it.
‘The guy’s armed and dangerous, but he’s also vital to a court case coming up soon in Sydney.’
‘Right, right.’ Noah continued nodding amiably. ‘So he’s armed and dangerous, but also a nice guy on the run from the crims?’ The driver was out now and Noah bent into his car to turn off the siren. The silence was eerie, as if the blanket of fog had sucked the sound out of the air.
‘Smart lad, you’ll go far.’ The sarcasm wasn’t even veiled. ‘So Constable . . .’ There was the faintest sneer.
‘Constable White.’ He picked the first name that popped into his head, and held out his hand. ‘Sergeant Moreton would be the man to see. He’s at Banksia Cove. Bit of bother up the road last night. Huge truck crash so he might be sleeping it off.’
‘So how long has this roadblock been up?’
‘About half an hour. Just one car went by a little while ago.’
‘What did it look like?’
‘A white ute, old Blakey the plumber on a call-out. Pissed off he had to be driving around in this.’
‘I bet. So nothing else?’ The driver spoke for the first time. Rounded vowels, a neutral accent that smacked of an education in England. Wasn’t that where all the wealthy Russians sent their offspring?
‘Nah. The farmer should be here soon to get the cows. Or if you two don’t mind holding the fort, I could go and do that myself.’
A glance shot between the two men. ‘We’re a bit lost in the fog. Which way to Banksia Cove and Sergeant Moreton’s place?’
‘Do a U-turn and head back a couple of k’s. You’ll see the sign for the turn-off. Just take it easy, the fog spooks some animals. Roos might be out as well.’
‘Thanks, Constable, you’ve been more than helpful.’
The radio squawked in the silence. ‘Noah, you got those cows cleared yet?’
The passenger did a double take at Noah as the radio broke the silence again. ‘Sergeant Moreton, Noah. There’s an upturned tinny floating down the river. Can you investigate?’
Noah straightened up as the big man cursed and swung on him. ‘Sergeant Moreton? Really? What the fuck are you playing at?’
‘I could ask you the same thing. Even if you are actually police, you have no jurisdiction here so fuck off. And,’ Noah went for the kill, armed with the knowledge from last night’s crash. ‘I’ve already got your details from the rental car company. Interesting stuff, Mr Orlov.’
The man’s smile was pure evil. ‘You have no fucking idea what a dangerous game you and your little girlfriend are playing. This isn’t the fucking boy scouts. You’re out of your league.’ He moved to shove Noah against the car, but Noah sidestepped and landed a jab to the man’s solar plexus. He grunted in pain, his fists clenching.
‘Get back in your car and turn around,’ Noah growled, ready for a fight. The other man was standing with the driver’s door half open. Did he have a gun? Was he rash enough to use it?
‘That was a fucking mistake. You’ll be hearing from us. Come on. Let’s go,’ the driver called.
The first man was still on the balls of his feet, fists clenched, but Noah stayed out of range. The radio cut through again and Noah spoke over it. ‘Just fuck off out of here now. Head back to where you came from and I’ll forget all about this conversation.’
‘You’ll be hearing from us.’
Noah’s heart pounded as the man swung away. The doors slammed and the engine revved. For an instant Noah thought they would run him down, then they did a squealing U-turn and disappeared. He walked to the car and picked up the radio. ‘Base, this is Noah. The cows are all clear. I’ll go check on this tinnie then I’m off duty. I’ve been up for more than twenty-four hours.’
‘Roger that. ’
He loaded the barricades into the car and then gunned the engine. The fog was starting to lift. Still too low for aircraft, but at least he could see where he was going.
‘If it’s Rosie . . .’ He wished he hadn’t voiced that thought. She was far too special and valuable to the community.
He reached the turn-off and headed down the road. No point in phoning Darcy just yet. He’d give her enough time to get to Daisy Hill first. He turned his thoughts back to Rosie as he pushed the car to its limits. Any time he had a juvenile in court, Rosie would be the first to appear. She always insisted in heaving herself up the front stairs of Bundaberg Courthouse by hanging onto the railing, ignoring the ramp access. That was for old people. She’d push through the double doors and head straight for the duty solicitor’s crowded office. Sometimes she sat and held the kids’ hands, other times they cried like babies as she rubbed their backs and pulled them close. She was the inspiration behind the re-establishment of the PCYC and the beating heart of the community.
The security gates of the whaling station were open when he got there. Noah drove through, desperately searching for signs of Rosie. He parked his car and headed for the cottage. The door to the caretaker’s cottage was open and he pushed it wide. ‘Rosie? Rosie are you here?’ he called.
White cockatoos in the tall gums on the perimeter screamed at each other. A rustle of leaves followed an eddy of breeze. Noah spun around. ‘Rosie? Rosie!’
His boots crunched with each step over the new gravel paths. He skirted around the flensing deck and could see the marks on the ramp where a boat had come ashore earlier. He spotted the hull of a boat a few hundred metres away on the other side of the inlet. It would take a good half an hour to drive back, over the bridge and around the cove to it.
He turned to head back to the police car for his binoculars. ‘Rosie? Rosie?’ he called. A glimpse of something fluttering made his head whip around to his right. In the long grass by the fence was what looked like a pile of old bedding. ‘Rosie?’ His heart hammered along with his footsteps as he charged across to her. ‘Rosie!’
The movement he’d seen had been her hand waving erratically. He knelt beside her, barely able to recognise her face through the swollen flesh and the caked blood. He felt like howling as he held her hand, checking her
pulse. Her words were too ragged, too breathless to understand. From the bruises around her throat he could tell that the bastards had tried to strangle her, crushing her windpipe and stealing her words. Fat tears squeezed out between her damaged lids.
‘Rosie, I have to call an ambulance. I’ll be back.’ Reluctantly he placed her hand gently on her chest, then sprinted to the car.
‘Base, this is Noah. I need an ambulance at the old whaling station. Critically injured. Medevac most probably required. Call me back on my mobile.’
He grabbed the first-aid kit knowing there wasn’t much he could do until they knew the full extent of her injuries.
‘Rosie, squeeze my hand if you can hear me.’ There was a slight pressure on his hand. It looked like they’d kicked her in the face. ‘Is your spine or your neck hurting? I’d rather have you on your side, but I don’t want to do more damage.’
Her lips moved. He bent closer, smelling fear, urine, sweat. ‘Turn, turn me,’ she managed to croak out. He knelt down next to her and folded her arms across her chest, seeing her damaged hands and ripped nails. Defensive wounds. Anger was making his lungs heave and he had to force himself to let it go for now. Dried blood caked the front of her jumper and skirt. She’d been bleeding for some time. He hoped it was from her face and hands not some deeper injury or a gunshot wound.
As he eased her right leg over her left, and rolled her towards him, she shrieked in pain. Blood and snot dribbled from her nose, her breathing laboured as she sobbed. He stripped his jacket off and folded it beneath her head, smoothed her hair back from her face. The flaming red colour of her hair seemed too bright and optimistic for this moment. He ripped open a dressing from the kit, soaked the pad in bottled water, cleaned the blood from her face as gently as he could. Her chest rose and fell with each gasp for air. All the while he was making small talk, telling her it would be okay. That he’d find her tinnie and rebuild her house. With each word his anger piled up, brick by brick. It would keep for later when he needed it.