On The Job

by Sandi Wallace

  Dark, potholed, ’roos lurking in the scrub near the road.

  ‘Current speed 170.’

  A rattle came from near the tailgate. Barb tensed. At this speed, it wouldn’t take much to flip the truck. Her palms dampened.

  ‘Confirm that. Continue to monitor and update. Note, suspect Audi—Victor, Sierra, Lima, Kilo, one, one—registered to Vincent Silk, South Melbourne.’

  Barb shook her head and stared through the windscreen at the ever-increasing gap between her and the luxury sedan. So, VSLK was an acronym of the owner’s name. That made his faux Euro plates doubly pretentious.

  What brought you from the big smoke to my town, Silk?

  The radio crackled again. ‘Commodore—Sierra, Tango, Yankee, three, three, eight—registered to TR Auto Repairs, also South Melbourne.’

  Barb pondered on the commercially registered car. It didn’t tell her much, except that both vehicles were a long way from home and definitely connected.

  ‘Either vehicle reported stolen?’

  ‘Negative.’

  Not stolen, or else the owners hadn’t realised yet.

  Tell me, Sierra, what are you doing here, along with your mate Silk?

  Except that Silk and Sierra weren’t mates if the dinged rear-end of the Commodore came courtesy of one red Audi.

  The Audi put on another burst and Barb flattened her foot. The speedo shot upwards.

  At 210, she radioed through.

  ‘Current speed 210 and suspect vehicle well-ahead. It’s unsafe to proceed. I’m calling off the chase.’

  She hated doing it but another vehicle could enter the road from one of the tracks. She couldn’t risk it and had Buckley’s of catching the car in this heap anyway. The truck suited the more sedate pace of Loch Sport’s typical police jobs: drunks, domestics, collisions, community meetings, along with occasional natural and accidental fatalities, firebugs and wildlife euthanasia duties.

  Barb pulled a U-turn. She headed back to deal with the dumped Commodore and warehouse break-in, and radioed through an addendum, a KALOF requesting local units ‘keep a lookout for’ the Audi.

  Next, she speed-dialled a number on her phone.

  ‘On your way home, babe?’

  ‘It could be a long one, darl.’

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Keep that twinkle in your eye for later.’

  She heard Steve’s chuckle as they disconnected.

  Barb left on bells and whistles while she returned to Progress Road at a safer speed. The truck’s headlights cut through the darkness as she cornered and flicked off the siren. She braked at the spot she’d parked earlier. The blue light outside the building still pulsed.

  All was the same as before, without one vital item: the grey Commodore.

  Barb jumped down from the truck and slammed the door. The sound cracked in the night and a startled mob of ’roos bound away to feed elsewhere.

  A flash of the torch revealed the beheaded Transformer and near it, some fresh scuffs in the sandy dirt, but no clue as to the whereabouts of the car.

  Barb straightened and pinned her eyes on number seven. At least she could deal with that alarm.

  Easily said, yet every sense worked overtime as she edged towards the shed. Her left hand operated the Maglite, her dominant right was free and she used it to push the access door open wide enough to slip through. The same hand reverted to hover over her service weapon.

  ‘Police. Anyone here?’

  She strained but heard nothing.

  At the luminous panel near the entrance, Barb checked her notebook and plugged in four digits. The screen flashed to ‘alarm off’.

  In this isolated district, private security and/or Barb attended emergencies such as tonight’s and the non-resident owners of LS Mining had entrusted her with key and alarm code rather than old Snowy in his battered panel van. She’d met a petite bottle-blonde there once, purportedly one of the directors, for the code and key handover. Right now, she couldn’t recall much about the woman except that she’d been overdressed for the remote beach town, wearing a white pants suit and blingy sunglasses.

  Until now, Barb hadn’t been inside this place. She’d always held suspicions about what, if anything, went on here, particularly when Blondie gave her a Melbourne business-hours-only emergency contact number.

  Apparently, her intuition hadn’t corroded from six years of one-member station policing. A flick of the switch shunted the tin shed into bright light. It was an empty shell, cobwebbed and dusty. Curtains over the tiny window stunk of mildew. The place looked undisturbed for years, except for two parallel stripes through the dust on the concrete floor and a greasy oil patch between them.

  Barb strained her eyes. She squatted and scanned. Make that two tyre tracks, an oil patch and a bunch of shoeprints. Several were pint-sized prints, which made her anxious.

  She mentally listed everything since her first arrival at the warehouse and jumped when her portable radio squawked with an update on her KALOF.

  ‘…Rosedale and Sale units report zero sighting of suspect Audi.’

  She shrugged. Silk could’ve headed towards Seaspray rather than taking the Longford route or maybe he was yet to come into range of the other cars.

  Or he’s doubled back.

  She shivered despite the muggy night.

  Her mind twisted to the vanished Commodore, perhaps with an injured driver and child in the midst of all this, and Barb felt a stir of urgency less common these days than during her previous suburban postings. Whatever was going down, she wanted it sorted fast and without casualties.

  After she’d secured the building, she added the Commodore to the KALOF, then dug out her mobile and dashed to the police truck.

  ‘Steve,’ she said, when her hubby picked up. ‘Keep an eye out for two out-of-town cars – a steel-grey Commodore around a 2004 model and a new red Audi. Both are sedans.’ She quoted the rego numbers and added, ‘Let me know if you see either but don’t get involved. The occupants could be dangerous or in danger, I don’t know which.’

  She called off after assuring him she’d be careful and made a succession of similar requests to the CFA captain, Snowy, Bev at the Marina Hotel and Len. The small-town grapevine would do the rest and soon hundreds of extra eyes would be on the lookout.

  After she’d turned over the truck engine, Barb hesitated. The blood and sticky food crumbs in Sierra’s car had her worried.

  Sweat puddled between her boobs. Uneasy and pumped, her nerves buzzed. She tamped down the emotions and reasoned through the case.

  Somehow, Sierra knew the LS Mining shed was unoccupied. However, any local could’ve guessed that and passed it on. What puzzled her more was that someone—Sierra?—triggered the alarm after they’d been parked inside the building. That didn’t make sense. Unless, say, they’d deliberately set it off to enlist help.

  Her help.

  Think. Fast!

  The truck’s motor vibrated through the steering wheel. Barb itched to plant her foot but forced herself to pause and process the situation.

  She presumed Sierra was on the run with a young kid and came here for refuge. And that was after Sierra sustained an injury and bled on the carpet and seat. Silk/the driver of the Audi somehow followed-slash-found them here and at some stage the cars clashed. Sierra and child were hiding when Barb arrived and Silk took off in a hurry but could be on his way back.

  Barb’s brow puckered and she shook her head.

  An elaborate scenario, but is it pure fiction?

  She flicked her thumbnail against her front teeth.

  Tap, tap.

  Her next headshake was decisive. Both Mum and Cop radars combined into certainty. She couldn’t explain or dismiss it. If she wasn’t spot on, she’d struck bloody close.

  Now, she drove. Barb turned left towards town because the other option overwhelmed her. Numerous tracks came off Seacombe Road and a lone cop couldn’t quickly inspect them all.

  She followed Lake Victor
ia at a slow pace and scanned continuously. Meanwhile, a follow-up plate check on both vehicles revealed neither reported stolen so far.

  As she crawled through town, it crossed her mind that Sierra mightn’t be a thief or connected with the auto repair shop. She (she? – yes, remember the Audrey Hepburn sunnies) may have borrowed a friend’s vehicle to get away from Silk.

  That’d explain the lack of booster seat for the kid.

  Could this be a case of domestic violence? An ugly custody dispute?

  Frequently the basic theory was spot-on. Like that double-homicide in Natte Yallock where the killer was allegedly the son of one of the victims and motivated by money. It was a tragedy, yet a too-common scenario.

  Barb noted curtains twitch as she moved along Victoria Street. She cut across to National Park Road and near the swamp, hooked around onto Toorak Avenue to again hug the Lake Victoria side. It’d be unlikely that Sierra or Silk would stay on the more conspicuous main drag that dissected town.

  A couple of fellas from the CFA stood on the nature strip ahead. She pulled abreast and dropped her window.

  ‘I said keep a lookout but don’t be too obvious or get involved. Ring me if you see something.’

  She shooed them back to their truck and they chuckled, yet complied.

  Barb swatted a mozzie, then another. But she did it unconsciously. Her mind was fixated on the tango between Sierra and Silk.

  She wouldn’t abide an outcome similar to the Natte Yallock case.

  ‘Shit. Idiot.’

  She reached for her phone.

  Her hubby wasn’t just a full-time Mr Mum. He was also a home-based IT whiz.

  ‘Can you run a search on LS Mining?’

  ‘Hi honey, I missed you too,’ Steve retorted.

  ‘Sorry, darl.’ Thank God we don’t have to sweet-talk D24. ‘Same. Now, can you look at the directors and their addresses…please?’

  She heard Steve click away, punctuated by rustle sounds from his shirt against the receiver. Soon he said, ‘Two directors. Vincent Silk.’

  Of course it is.

  He quoted a South Melbourne address. ‘And Juliet –’

  ‘Shit, that’s it.’ Barb thumped her forehead.

  ‘What’s it?’

  ‘Blondie was a Juliet, but she never gave her surname.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I’ll explain later.’

  Now more about the meeting with the woman from LS Mining came back to Barb. Juliet had deftly sidestepped questions and somehow they’d ended up talking about their kids.

  Our four girls and Juliet’s boy, who’s the same age as little Ange.

  Although he still sounded perplexed, Steve confirmed, ‘Her surname’s Silk too. Same address.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  She’d wasted precious time at the warehouse before she’d called around for help. Anything could’ve happened in the meantime.

  She rang off and resumed her trawl.

  Then her phone and radio went berserk. From all over came reports of the Commodore’s or Audi’s current location.

  Except that it was impossible for the Commodore to be in Cliff and Snipe Streets simultaneously, just as the Audi couldn’t be near the caravan park while it was supposedly thirty metres ahead of Barb’s truck.

  In their excitement to help, the locals’ imaginations had gone wild. Fortunately, the flurry settled, which allowed Barb to concentrate.

  She must back herself. If she lacked the wits to solve situations alone, she’d never have secured what was traditionally a male job – the run of a one-member station in an isolated seaside country town. She’d jumped through hoops to prove her aptitude and the quirky, sleepy place hadn’t extinguished her ability, although she’d seemingly surface-rusted in the salty air.

  Notwithstanding the invitation to mozzies, she left the window open and edged the truck forward. The wind was up again. Trees and shrubs swayed in a haphazard swirl with loud whooshes and whistles. In the distance, waves crashed on the surf beach.

  Barb had to picture herself as Sierra – Juliet.

  She hypothesised aloud.

  ‘I’m on the run from hubby, Vincent, with our son. I borrowed a friend’s car and came here, to our empty shed.

  ‘I hid the car inside, thought we were in the clear, pulled the car out and spotted Vincent’s Audi. I dragged my son back to the shed, accidentally squashed his toy, triggered the alarm and locked us inside. Someone would let the cops know – it’s the type of place that things go noticed. But I hoped it’d be sooner than later because Vincent’s angry. He hit me earlier and I bled on the car upholstery.’

  Barb could smell her own sweat. If she got this wrong, Juliet and her son were in grave danger.

  She went back to her reckonings.

  ‘Luckily, Vincent didn’t have a key to the shed and a cop arrived before he broke in. We came out when she chased Vincent off.’

  And went where?

  Barb crossed National Park Road again, into Wallaby Street. The baked-mud-mixed-with-fart smell from Lake Reeve when it dried up over summer struck her, along with a rush of adrenaline.

  Steve may be Mr Mum in their household, but Barb was hands-on too. Where would she take their kids to keep them safe?

  Somewhere secluded and preferably with a toilet because God knows kids always need to go at the worst possible times.

  The National Park would tempt her but its corrugated dirt road and dead-end held less appeal than the surf beach with its slightly better access options.

  She steered over the causeway and the crash of surf amplified. Her high-beam picked up a squashed bunny on the bitumen. Blood still wet and sticky, the carcass not yet picked over.

  Recent road kill.

  Run over by Juliet or Silk?

  Maybe.

  Barb circled the truck into the beach car park. Her hands tingled when she spotted the grey Commodore parked in the darkest corner. The red Audi angled behind it, obstructing escape.

  Barb parked, blocking the Audi and checked both vehicles before she paused and listened. All she could hear was the pound of surf. But instinctively she knew where they were.

  Urgency made her sprint.

  She drew her torch. Her booted feet burrowed into loose, deep sand as she ran down the hill. Light from a new moon glistened on the foamy waves in the horizon but her eyes fixed on the three sets of footprints in the wet sand edging the water.

  Ragged tracks of mid-sized, pint-sized and large footprints led into just mid and large treads. She imagined Juliet had snatched up her child and held him as she raced with her husband in pursuit.

  Barb clicked the Maglite’s high-beam and held it overhead. She accelerated, huffing heavily – she preferred Sudoku and fishing to athletics.

  Now she heard shouts over the surf. Her light picked up a cluster. Shapes refined as she approached. She saw the petite blonde she recognised as Juliet scuffle with a hulking male. He struck her backhanded and she sprawled.

  Barb’s ‘Stop! Police!’ went unheeded.

  A tiny boy cowered before the man. His eyes seemed too large for his face, wide with fear and shock.

  ‘If I can’t have you and my boy, no one will.’

  Barb swallowed bile mixed with the chicken parma she’d had for tea at the RSL. She never understood the mentality that killing someone you loved was better than letting them go.

  Silk hoisted his son like a sack of potatoes and spun to the sea. The boy lifted his chin and pierced Barb with ebony eyes. He stretched his fingers towards her and whimpered.

  ‘Stop!’ Barb repeated.

  Silk half-turned, snarled, then trotted into the lacy threads of retreating breakers.

  One glance at Juliet assured Barb she was conscious and safe for now – unlike her son.

  ‘Let him go!’

  Silk ignored her.

  Barb tried again, wishing she knew the child’s name to make her plea more personal. ‘Silk! Let your son go!’

  He ran on.
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br />   Taser and gun were both too risky with a moving target and the child in close proximity.

  What should I do?

  Silk’s long legs plunged through the waves and increased the gap between them.

  The boy screamed and a primal mothering reaction overrode cop protocol. Pocketing her torch to free up her hands, Barb roared and charged.

  As her boots struck water and sank into the shifting sand, she assessed her rival. Her solidly built 180 cm meant she was no pushover. But she was a head shorter than the broad-shouldered man.

  Waves slapped her calves. She knew the sea floor dropped steeply. In a few more steps Silk and his son would submerge and be sucked into the rip. No time to hesitate, she lunged forward.

  She grabbed Silk’s collar and yanked him down to her height. She clenched a fist. One chance is all she’d get.

  Crunch.

  Her knuckles connected with his temple. He grunted. His eyes widened, then blanked. His body slackened and the boy splashed into the water.

  Barb threw an arm each around the father and son. The little boy struggled.

  ‘It’s okay, mate.’

  Barb tried to soothe him. But more frightened than ever, he bucked, pitching her into the water. Still clinging to the man and boy, a swallow of seawater made her gag and spit. She managed to drag them onto the beach, then collapsed to the sand. Her lungs burned and salt stung her eyes.

  The boy scurried to Juliet, who drew him onto her lap. She cried loudly, her tears dropping onto his wet curls. The boy clung to his mother and Barb saw his body quake.

  Silk lay on the beach. His gaze travelled over his estranged family, then to Barb, who scrambled to her feet, weighed down by her waterlogged uniform. He looked back to mother and son. His fingers spasmed and face contorted. Barb felt a prick of compassion.

  Strangely, she heard the last verse of White Wedding, the lyrics she would’ve sung tonight accompanied by the surf.

  Nothing fair, all right. Her heart hardened to Silk. Not safe, either.

  What Silk had attempted in a warped sense of love was the ultimate betrayal of the purest thing in his world: his son.

  Barb nudged Silk with her toe, hard. He yelped.

  ‘Too late for regrets.’

  His eyes squeezed shut in mute response and she glanced back to the boy. He’d pulled away from his mother to stare at Barb. Saltwater and tears beaded on his face and with his eyes still fixed on her, he crept a thumb into his mouth.