“Look I got a problem,” Matt insisted.
“Yeah. Don’t we all.” The hidden face replied.
Matt rolled on his boots from the heel to toe. Patience is a virtue. One, two, three, four… fuck it. He decided to bide his time.
The silence was broken by a loud clanging as a ring-spanner dropped on the concrete floor ricocheted across the smooth surface and came to rest near Matt’s impatiently tapping boots. Matt bent over and picked up the shiny spanner.
A head with some brown facial hair growth and dark rimmed spectacles appeared from underneath the engine bay. The fellow’s brown shoulder-length hair was tussled and he untangled some of it stuck to some oil residue. He held out his free hand. After a brief hesitation, Matt sprung forward and handed him the spanner.
“Thanks,” said the mechanic.
“Look mate, I’m in a pickle. I’m a courier and my truck won’t start. I have a big job booked to Melbourne.” Matt said in one gasp of breath.
“Diesel?”
“Yep.”
“Got juice?”
“What, fuel?” Matt frowned.
“No, not go-juice. Power. Battery power.” And the mechanic stuck his head back under.
“Yeah, it cranks just fine. Although it run out flat. Battery died.” Matt’s face flattened out. He felt tired. He had enough of today.
“Fuel-pump probably. Had it serviced recently?” The voice from the engine bay echoed.
“Not for a while. Guess it is due for one.”
“Well, we’ll have to book her in. Give me a few minutes and I’ll check the book.” And he continued his inspection.
At the counter a few minutes later the mechanic flipped the pages of the appointment book. “Pretty busy. See. Tomorrow’s booked out. Maybe the day after. Oh shit, that’s Saturday. Don’t work on Saturday.” His dark-framed spectacles were skewed on his nose as he looked up to face his customer. “Where’s your truck?”
“At my property. It’s about twenty kays out.”
The brown-haired man pinched a business card from the messy desk.
“Here, ring this bloke and get your truck over here.” He passed the soiled business card to Matt. It read ‘Ted’s Tidy Towing Service’. “I need that card back. Run out of them a while ago. Bastard won’t order more.”
“Thanks, so when can I bring it in then?” Matt was inspecting the card.
“Just as quick as you can get it here.”
“Reckon you can get it going by the weekend?” Matt was hopeful.
“Get it here first. I’ll try to get a start tomorrow arvo. If I got to stay late, it’s going to cost ya.” The mechanic was blunt.
“I’ll ring him now.” Matt punched in the numbers from the card.
“Patch will have to hang the floor, in front of you. Don’t worry, he’s done it before,” Peter said. “Open the door and get him in first, snap your fingers and point to the floor. He’ll get it.”
Rafe was impressed again. However, before long, they were stuck in heavy clay mud, after the truck slewed off the embankment into the rut. It lifted the rear passenger side wheel off the ground.
Peter looked in the mirror. “Just as well we tied the load.”
Rafe was nearly sitting on Peter’s lap, and pushing the gear stick tight. Patch had climbed onto the seat squashing Rafe further over. Patch was the only occupant in the cab who was excited and happy. So happy he was that he licked Rafe on the face. “Patch. Get out of it!” Peter commanded. It was getting a bit dense in the cab. He turned the diesel off.
“Let’s get him out,” Peter suggested. “I’ll open up my door.” He swung the driver’s side open and the dog hopped over and was out in seconds.
The Land Cruiser had come to a complete stop after its initial slide, but then a minute of one-inch slides caused it to sink further into the muck. Peter followed the dog out of the truck. Patch was eagerly waiting for instructions, ready on four paws, tail wagging, and head slightly down, ears pricked up taut. Peter ignored his best friend. Rafe wrangled his way around the gear-stick and half-rolled out of the cab.
Peter was already surveying the situation and appraising a recovery. “Not good.” He murmured. “We’re sucked in good.”
“What does that mean?” Rafe was ignorant in the ways of the bush and muddy tracks.
“It means we’re fucking stuck, well and truly. Won’t be doing another run today.” He sighed with disappointment. The lanky farmer crouched in front of the bogged truck. “Nowhere to winch from either.” He bit his lower lip, in thought.
“Tell me what to do, mate.” Rafe was apprehensive about spending the night out here.
“We’re bogged to the axle and we have no traction in the back. We got to raise the front and get more level. Or otherwise we could try and find a winching point to pull us out.” Peter was gathering options for recovery. Rafe was lost. He just nodded in agreement.
“Pity I didn’t bring the hi-lift jack,” Peter muttered in afterthought. “We’ll have to use the small one.”
“Small what?” Rafe enquired.
“There’s a small jack behind my seat. Better hunt around for some flat timber, to use as a pad.” Peter explained.
“A pad?” Rafe still lost.
“Yeah, like a plate for the jack to sit on while we try to lift the front and pack underneath.” Going to be a very slow afternoon. Peter predicted.
The afternoon sun had already disappeared behind the ridge and the hidden valley was cooling rapidly. After finding some cut rounds from previous tree-cutting expeditions, Peter had managed to fashion a base for the jack to sit on. Lifting the front wheel and tyre out of the sucking mud was tedious and slow.
“That’s as far as it’s going to go.” Peter concluded. “We need to find a winching point.” As he went to scout the area in front of the truck. Just out of reach from the trees on the other side of the creek, he searched for another solution. He saw the big rocks over the other side and had an idea.
“See those boulders there. I reckon we can find a decent bit of tree trunk and wedge it between the rocks and run the winch cable to it. Use the trunk as an anchor.” Peter hoped that would work and pull the truck free.
They found a suitable length of trunk.
Patch was running circles around the men while they carried the heavy lump of wood, stopping to rest a few times, to the truck. Peter retrieved the steel spud bar from under all the marijuana plants in the tray, “We’ll dig a hole first.”
Rafe wasn’t quite up to speed and curious as to how Peter was fabricating this ‘anchor’. He followed the bushman over the creek. Peter speared the bar into the shallow puddle behind the boulders.
“What about the water?” Every time Rafe cleared some material, water filled up the hole.
“Don’t worry about the water. Just keep up with the shovel and clear as much as you can.”
Patch had settled by now, tongue out and stout on all four legs. Panting, while eye-balling the men.
Soon they dragged the heavy post over and lowered it into the hole. With a single bubble noise the heavy round log pushed all the water out. Peter had angled the hole such that the post was leaning back and wedged close to the boulders. “Give it some extra resistance.”
Darkness was closing in. There was no moon. “Keep the dog away from the cable, mate, and yourself too. A long way.” Peter yelled out again, before starting the diesel up. The slow reel from the winch tensioned the steel wire. The truck was groaning and the wire was stretching under load. The winch struggled and came to a near stop, when finally it jarred the heavy vehicle forward. Peter put his foot down on the pedal to help the recovery, from then it pulled the truck out of the mud pit, with little effort. Peter steered the vehicle out of the hole. The lights were shining on the limp winch cable still attached to the post behind the boulders. The post was now leaning towards the truck. Lucky. Just in time. Peter sighed and was relieved that they didn’t have start all over again.
Rafe’s watc
h read 6.41pm.
Martin hadn’t smoked this many durries in a long time. In the three hours waiting for Peter to return, he had walked around the tin cottage about twenty times. He had split some wood, not for Peter’s fireplace, but for venting, to settle his rage. He imagined splitting Peter’s head open with an axe.
He sat on the timber steps and flicked another cigarette butt on the ground. There was a collection of nine butts strewn in a four-foot circle. Like badly aimed bullet holes leave on a field target.
It was getting dark. Matt would be furious if he wasn’t home, in case they were leaving for Melbourne tonight. Although he doubted they would be departing tonight. But after Matt’s performance this morning, he thought it prudent not to aggravate his cousin further. And the fucking third degree following. No sir. Not tonight. I need to think about him, and I need to think about Peter. And who ever owns that fucking blue Kombi.
Martin started the Corolla. As he let out the clutch to reverse out, the front tyre was slipping and spinning in something soft. He stuck his head out of the window but saw nothing out of the ordinary. But the car wouldn’t budge. He jumped out of the car and walked around. The passenger side front tyre had become stuck in a small soft, and muddy hole. He returned to the wheel and floored the pedal. The little engine roared and the light-weight sedan catapulted out of the hole.
“How funny is that?” He mused to himself. In doing his escape he flung bits of mud and dirty water onto the blue Kombi. Martin cursed as he bunny-hopped up the track. He would be back.
The headlights on the old Land Cruiser were crappy at best. The climb up the hill and through the scrub was slow. Even for Peter who knew the track well, it was hard going, because at night the landscape was very different. Things you thought looked familiar were completely different in daylight.
Patch had made himself a comfortable spot on top of Rafe’s lap. Bobbing his head up from time to time, with a look of irritation at the many bumps interrupting his rest.
“Fucking thirsty and hungry,” Rafe remarked unmotivated and tired.
“I hear ya,” Peter replied. The end was in sight: Peter recognised the fallen spotted-gum to his right and knew they were only a few hundred meters away from home. The poor lighting from the truck did not hide their surprise as Peter pulled up close to the Kombi. A feeling of incredible dread overcame the lanky and very tired-out bushman.
“Someone’s been here.”
“There’s mud and crap all over my Kombi.” Rafe noticed.
Peter’s head slumped down on his hands that were still holding the top of the steering wheel.
“Martin.”
CHAPTER 68
CALM BEFORE THE STORM
After yesterday’s impromptu stake-out and some overnight tossing and turning at 3am, Cate felt exhausted from looking for the square holes to stick her square scenarios into. All night she seemed to be searching, but her dreams had her wandering around with a ball. You can’t stick a ball into a square hole. Oh, yes you could. Waking up in a daze, she had just lost her rubik’s cube. Oh, this is nuts. What is this? Remembering a last glimpse of her dream pushing a rubik’s cube through a hole in the wall. A bullet-hole. Oh, Jesus, I must be going crazy.
The clock read 5.02am. She pushed herself up from her pillow and sat on the edge of the bed. After a few minutes she dragged her tired body to the bathroom. Darren didn’t stir, he was fast asleep.
The cemetery was quiet. She heard only the crunch of her steps on the gravel path. Of course, it was quiet. The dead didn’t speak. But they do listen. Cate was convinced of that. Silly.
“Hi dad.” Smiling, sat down on the marble slab in front of the grave-stone. “It’s beautiful here. I can hear the ocean. It’s nice and sunny today. A bit cold though.” She arranged the flowers in the stainless steel vase that sat next to the charcoal marble slab. “Mum is good. She actually recognised me the other day, for a minute or so.” Cate shook her head and fought back a tear. Okay, not going here.
“The bikie investigation is getting complicated. So I’m here for a chat.” She sighed.
“You know the man I told you about, Darren … well, you might not approve of some his past activities, but he has become really important to me.” She paused and looked around her, smelling the scent of the flowers she had brought. The ocean sparkled a fresh morning blue. “I think I love him.” There I said it.
“I don’t know how I am going to come out of this, dad. I might even lose my job.” She looked down to the grave-stone, as if she was waiting for an answer. The cold slab, the hard surface, was getting uncomfortable for her backside.
“I want to help him. I don’t want him to get killed. Anyway, thanks for listening to my moaning. I’ll see you soon. Love you.”
On the way back to her car, she thought Jesus, how easy is it for life to spin out of control. Back in her car she felt relieved, like she had just returned from a confessional.
She glanced at her watch, ten to nine she thought. Still early. Even the station gave off an air of calm. No ringing phones, or voices. Calm before the storm. She pressed the intercom button on the telecom system.
“Yep,” Adam responded.
“Bring some coffee and come into my office. We got some work to do.” She let the button go, leaned back against the chair. Her mind cast back to yesterday at the traffic lights on Pittwater Road. Time to start digging into south coast affairs.
‘Matlock’, was old-fashioned and didn’t care much for change, but he was one hell of an investigator. Old school tough-guy. None of this pussy-footing around. ‘Rattle the fucking cage’, he used to say. “Most criminals are gutless, they’re like bullies. Once you stand up to them, and show them that you’re a bigger arsehole than them, they back down.” Cate wasn’t on board with all of his bravado, but in this game you had to show balls.
Adam didn’t bother knocking. The coffees were stacked on top of each other, poured in take-away cups. “A stellar job, balancing those coffees.” Cate applauded.
“Thank you, boss.”
“Speaking of stellar, you’re going alright so far. You’ll make a good investigator,” Cate complimented him. “But don’t let it get to your head.” She put her head down to peruse her notes on the desk.
“Thanks for your trust in me. I won’t let you down, boss,” replied the well-groomed detective.
“Make sure you spend plenty of time at the shooting range. And I am very serious.” Cate’s eyes opened wide while advising her understudy.
“You’re going on a recon. South. First Wollongong, and then Ulladulla. I’ll give you some background. Last year, there was a shooting in a pub in Wollongong, involving a stolen handgun, a .22 calibre Ruger. There is a connection between the ‘boys from the bush’ and this handgun. Apparently, the ugly creep I sighted yesterday, by the name of Martin Villier, was identified as the seller of the weapon. I want you to dig up the records and talk to who was involved in this bikie shooting in Wollongong. We need to establish a trail for this .22 Ruger. See if you can backtrack this shithead’s movements, try and pick up a trail for him after the shooting.”
She tapped her finger on the desk. “There’s another thing. This Kevin made mention of an unsolved homicide, possibly linking our friend Martin to it. I’d like you to chase up this lead as well. Seems to me that this Martin could have a few smelly skeletons in his closet.”
Cate reflected for a moment. “I shudder to think of what he’s capable of.” Cate briefly imagined an apparition of a ghastly pale face with black eyes boring into hers. She felt the goose-bumps on her arms.
Adam noticed the subtle change in Cate’s behaviour, “You okay, boss?”
She waivered, “Yeah, just felt like a ghost went through the room. Strange, isn’t it? The mind sometimes is tricked into thinking the worst; a bad feeling sneaks up on you.”
Her unease felt contagious so Adam quickly offered, “When am I leaving?”
“Right now. I expect you’ll be away for more than a day. Pl
enty of motels on the way, and keep in touch, any time of day, or night. Well, try not to ring me at 4am to tell me that the birds aren’t chirping.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
CHAPTER 69
ANGUISH
“You’re not too happy, it looks like. Question is …who will survive, the punching bag or your ticker?” Carlos’ chuckle was not a happy one. Darren eased off a little but kept up the harrowing barrage of punches. Carlos shook his head and turned away. The sound of muffled fury stopped.
“Things have changed.” Darren was panting; sweat was pouring from his face. ”You wouldn’t believe it, but by some crazy twist of fate, life has brought Eddie and Martin together, with Cate right in the middle of it.”
Carlos stopped and turned to face Darren. “Who’s Martin?”
“A fucking psycho who creates misery for everyone who happens to cross paths with him.”
“I’m not quite with you.”
“He’s the little runt who started the circus. The one who stole Johnno’s stash of guns, that eventually got him killed.”
“Ah, yes. Same one that smacked your mate at the pub, same one that mutilated the dog. Yeah, I remember you telling me. So what’s the story with Cate?” Carlos beckoned Darren to follow him back to his office.
“As fate or bad luck has it, she’s been watching the bikies in Narrabeen, and guess what …those cunts are now doing business with a couple of shysters from the South Coast. A twosome, cousins by the name of Matt and Martin Villier. Yep …one and the same fucking Martin.” Darren’s voice grew a little louder as his temper warmed.
“Okay, isn’t that good? Now you can get both of them.” Carlos saw nothing but the bright side of this news.
“It’s not good. I’m concerned about Cate.”
“Mate, she’s a copper and has a whole team to back her up when shit hits the fan. This is the job she does, mate.”
“Cate doesn’t work that way, plus things got a little complicated; she saw me doing a drive-by yesterday.” Darren sighed while leaning against the doorway to Carlos’s office. His frustration was showing; the boxing gloves were still on and he kept slapping them together every few seconds. He was too pre-occupied to notice the irritation on Carlos’ face.
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