Dark Country (Dungirri)

by Parry, Bronwyn

  ‘Someone had sent you a death threat. It was a dark road, and you weren’t armed.’

  Before she could argue that she was a trained police officer, he shrugged dismissively and headed to the door.

  ‘It’s no big deal, Blue. I was walking down there, anyway.’ Having calmly claimed the last word, he left.

  It occurred to her that she could have countered by observing that he was more at risk than she was, but by then he was already halfway across the back paddock.

  Oh, well, they were both probably safe enough, walking around town in broad daylight. And with the supper crisis averted, she had to get back to her real job – make a few calls, and meet with Sandy and the arson investigators at the ruins of the Truck Stop. There were killers and arsonists to catch – if they could.

  And after that, she’d have to look into Gil’s allegations against Dan Flanagan, and find out once and for all whether one of Birraga’s leading businessmen was, in fact, up to his neck in crime.

  Gil heard voices around the back of the Wilsons’ house, and he found Ryan at a small workbench on the veranda, fixing the leg of a doll’s chair while his three little girls watched, keeping a steady flow of light chat, explaining what he was doing as he straightened and glued the broken timber.

  The quiet family scene was a far cry from Ryan’s larrikin youth and the toughness of his early boxing days. Despite the wheelchair, the musculature of his upper body suggested he kept in better shape than most men, and he’d been a force to reckon with the other night, dealing with the Barretts.

  Ryan glanced up as Gil approached. The oldest girl immediately sidled close to her father, tucking her hand under his arm. Gil paused on the grass, keeping his distance, conscious that these kids had more reason than most to fear a strange man.

  ‘Hi, Gil,’ Ryan greeted him with a broad grin. He pushed his chair away from the bench, and all three girls gathered tightly around him, staring at Gil with wide eyes.

  ‘Hi.’ Gil nodded at the girls, but his experience with children was minimal at best, and he made these ones nervous enough without paying them awkward attention. He came straight to the point of his business. ‘Kris tells me you’ve got a bike to sell. I’m in need of wheels, and a bike would do me fine.’

  ‘It’s in the shed, if you want to have a look. But mate, I gotta say, she’s near on twenty years old.’ As ever, Ryan dealt straight and honest. ‘Bought her in my first year of professional boxing. A damned good road bike, and I’ve looked after it, but you probably want something newer.’

  ‘It’s registered?’

  ‘Twelve months rego, new tyres and brakes.’ Ryan reeled off some more details, but Gil had pretty much made up his mind already. When he went into the shed, and pulled the tarpaulin off the gleaming bike, he knew it was the right decision. He’d ridden around Sydney for years on a bike like this one – sturdy, reliable, with guts and good handling, but not flashy or distinctive. A rider in a helmet on this bike could be almost anonymous. Especially in Sydney.

  Ryan offered a couple of helmets as part of the deal, and Gil took the bike for a test ride a few kilometres up Scrub Road. Damn, he’d missed riding. With the fresh warm air, the smooth rumble of the engine, and the bush road straight ahead, the temptation to just keep going tugged at him. But he had business to attend to, and he reluctantly turned the bike around.

  He made Ryan a good offer as soon as he pulled up in the driveway.

  ‘That’s more than I was going to ask for it,’ Ryan protested.

  ‘It’s worth it to me, and what I’d pay in Sydney.’ And the Wilsons needed the money more than he did, although he wouldn’t trample Ryan’s pride by saying that aloud. ‘If you’ve got internet access, I could transfer the money to your bank now.’

  The girls had moved under the shade of a large eucalypt, where a tea party seemed to be in progress. Ryan took him into a small study, where an old computer sat on a homemade desk, the shelves above loaded with a mix of management and kids’ reference books. Ryan switched the computer on, and pulled over a chair for Gil, positioning himself by the window where he could keep an eye on his daughters in the backyard.

  As the computer slowly hummed into life, silence sat between them. Ryan must be wondering – about Marci, about his arrest and release, about the fire – but he didn’t broach any of these topics. He’d stuck up for him during the fight the other night, but that was before Marci’s body was found. It said a lot for his trust in Kris’s judgment that Ryan had invited him inside, was selling him the bike. Wheelchair or not, Ryan would have kicked him off the property the minute he’d arrived if he thought Gil was any danger to his family. Ryan might have run wild for a time, but he’d always looked after what he valued, and the protectiveness and care that had seen him help a painfully shy Beth to her feet when she’d tripped on her first day of high school was even more evident now, with his eyes straying to the window several times a minute, to check on his girls.

  Gil was willing to bet that the same protectiveness meant Ryan would have his ear to the ground, and a fair idea of what was going on in the district. Ryan had never succumbed to the rougher, illegal stuff but, like Gil, he knew people who had, years ago.

  Gil broke the silence. ‘Any idea who’s in with the Flanagans these days?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘The Flanagans?’ Ryan raised an eyebrow, cautious.

  The computer screen finally flickered into life, and Gil started the browser. ‘A couple of Flanagan drivers were in the café last night,’ Gil explained. ‘I don’t know what the cops think, but they’re my prime suspects for torching the place.’

  ‘Shit.’ Ryan stayed silent for a moment, and again he looked out the window. Gil navigated to his bank’s web page, letting Ryan take his time to choose how to respond.

  ‘I don’t know anything for certain,’ Ryan said after a few moments. ‘The Flanagans have taken more interest in the Dungirri area this past couple of years. The drought’s hit everyone hard, and Dungirri’s had its other troubles on top of that. A few of the blokes from here …’ He swallowed hard. ‘There were suicides. And a couple of deaths that might have been, might not. Some people left town. Mitch and Sara Sutherland … after little Jess died, they sold up. They only had a couple of hundred acres, but Mitch’s parents sold up their big place and left, too. Flanagan’s Agricultural bought their properties, and a couple of others. They’ve got more land in this district now than the Strelitz family company has.’

  Gil let out a low whistle. The Strelitz family had been the local pastoral royalty for the last fifty years.

  ‘The thing is,’ Ryan continued, ‘the last twelve months or so, the Flanagans have been investing heavily in improvements – new dams, fencing, sheds, and top breeding lines. Everyone else is tightening their belts, and some are on the edge of bankruptcy. So most of the casual and contract work round here at present is through Flanagan’s. And most of the younger blokes who stay around are reliant on casual and contract work.’

  Gil understood the significance. That had been one of Dan Flanagan’s strategies: make a youth grateful for some work, manoeuvre him into a couple of shady jobs, and then hold those over his head as a threat if he wanted out.

  ‘So, who’s working for them?’ he asked.

  ‘Who isn’t, might be quicker. Two of Johnno Dawson’s boys, and Luke Sauer – Karl’s cousin – have been doing a lot of casual stock work. Luke’s sister Ingrid works for the company office in Birraga.’

  The Dawsons and the Sauers had just been kids when he’d left. He didn’t know enough about any of them to hazard any guesses as to their characters.

  ‘Sean Barrett drives heavy equipment for Flanagan’s earthmoving business,’ Ryan continued. ‘Paul’s a fencing contractor. He’s just finished a big contract on the old Sutherland property.’

  ‘And Jim Barrett?’

  ‘Jim’s managing one of the Strelitz properties, since Mark’s parents retired to the coast.’

  Well that was one pers
on, at least, who didn’t work for the Flanagans, at least, not directly.

  ‘What about Butler at the pub?’

  ‘Dave? He only came back after Stan died a few months back. He works out on the gas fields in South Australia, makes damned good money out there. He’ll be off again as soon as the pub is sold, or closes. Same with Angie, his sister. She does environmental surveys and the like.’

  Being only temporarily in town didn’t mean they weren’t influenced, but lessened the chance of it. Gil mentally moved them towards the bottom of the suspicion list.

  ‘What does Karl Sauer do?’

  ‘He worked for a phone company in Birraga, until they closed their local office earlier this year. He’s been doing casual IT work here and there since then.’

  They ran quickly through the rest: Karl’s siblings, at uni in Sydney; Andrew Pappas, health and safety officer for the council; his wife Erin, a vet working with Beth’s father Harry; his sister, Lexi, a teacher in Birraga, along with Chloe Barrett.

  That left only the older, retired people and the school kids. It struck Gil that of his particular age cohort – those now in their mid-thirties, once considered a demographic bump in town – there were few left. Ryan and Beth, Paul and Sean. Mark. Everybody else had either left, or died. Paula and Barbara weren’t the only ones; a couple of guys had died in a railway crossing smash, and Ben Sutherland had been one of the suicides Ryan had mentioned.

  The high mortality rate gave a strong sense of foreboding about his own future. So did the fact that half the working population of the town appeared to be employed by the Flanagan company.

  He finished transferring the money to Ryan’s account, thanked him for his help, and rode away on his new bike.

  He parked in front of the pub, beside Liam’s car. Across the road, the ruins of Jeanie’s building lay, drab black and grey in the sunlight. The cabin still stood, scorched but mostly undamaged; his few belongings might be salvageable, after all. Assuming the arson investigators didn’t seize them for examination.

  A sombre group of police, including Kris, Fraser and Adam, and several men in overalls, were talking together under the kurrajong tree, while a couple of uniformed cops, their faces tight, dragged a blue plastic sheet across part of the ruins, at the office end of the building.

  Damn, not a good sign.

  Police tape cordoned off the whole corner, fluttering lightly in the breeze. He hesitated by the bike, undecided whether he should cross the road, try to find out what was happening, or whether they’d just brush him off.

  Kris glanced around, saw him, and waved him over. She ducked under the crime scene tape and met him on the corner. Her eyes were dark in her stark white face.

  ‘More trouble?’ He nodded towards the splash of blue plastic.

  ‘Yes. Somebody was in there, Gil. In the office. They found him under the rubble.’ Her voice shook, and she glanced away, swallowing.

  ‘Do you know who …?’

  ‘No. Nothing recognisable.’ Her pale face took on a grey tinge, and she closed her eyes briefly, but held herself together. ‘However, one of the cattle trucks is on a side track, about a kilometre down the road, and there’s no sign of the driver.’

  And two and two made four, Gil thought bitterly. Setting fires was dangerous business.

  ‘Did you see anything, Gil? Hear anything?’ A note of desperation sharpened her voice.

  ‘No.’ He’d been so focused on getting upstairs to Jeanie, believing her the only one in the building, he hadn’t spared a thought for the possibility of anyone else being in there.

  ‘I went past the office,’ she said, the words coming fast, her breathing shallow between them. ‘I got the ladder from the cabin. He might have still been alive then …’

  ‘Blue, listen to me.’ He didn’t dare touch her, with too many people around to see, but he used firmness and logic to defray the frenzied thinking of shock, give her something solid to hang on to. ‘By the time we got there, no-one was alive in that office. The gas explosion probably got him instantly – the cylinders were right outside. There wasn’t a damn thing you could have done to save him.’

  She sucked in a long breath, blew it out again. ‘You’re probably right.’ Casting a reluctant glance towards the tarp-covered area, she took another deep breath. ‘I’d better go back.’ Hands in her pockets, she straightened her shoulders. Toughness and vulnerability, wrapped in one bundle, her courage all the greater because she fought to overcome her own fears and susceptibilities to do her job.

  She took a few steps away, before swinging about to ask, ‘You’ll still be here later? You’re not leaving yet?’

  ‘I’ll be around, at least until tomorrow.’

  Again, a brief nod, then she swivelled on her heel and strode over to her colleagues.

  Gil met up with Liam coming out of the pub.

  ‘I saw you ride up,’ Liam commented. ‘I see you’ve found some transport.’

  ‘Yes. Bought it from an old mate.’ He jerked a thumb towards the pub. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Deb and Angie from the pub have got it all organised. Angie’s giving us accommodation for a couple of nights in exchange for the help. But the hotel kitchen’s been closed up for a couple of months, since Angie’s Dad died, so it needs a good clean. Which do you want to do – shopping for supplies in Birraga with Deb and Angie, or kitchen cleaning so it’s ready when they get back?’

  Gil weighed up the choices, made his decision quickly. ‘I’ll stay here.’ He didn’t want to go too far from Kris, because of the developing investigation, he almost convinced himself. Besides, he’d told her he’d be here. ‘You go to Birraga. But Liam, I want you to stick with Deb, and to keep an eye out for trouble.’

  ‘You think there’ll be more?’

  They would come for him, at some time, he figured. The attempt to frame him had failed; now the evidence of that was destroyed, they’d turn their attention to him directly. The death of the truck driver might delay things a day or two, giving him time to find out more about who and why, and then leave here so that Kris and others would be safe.

  He answered Liam’s question with a shrug. ‘Hopefully not today. Do you need money for the food? You can use the business account if you need to.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. The politician bloke, Strelitz, he’s put up the extra cash to replace the food.’

  Of course Mark Strelitz had covered the extra cost. And, Gil had to give him credit for it, probably without a political motive in his head. He belonged in the town, had always been a part of it, and he’d apparently followed in his parents’ footsteps in generously supporting community causes.

  Gil headed to the pub’s kitchen with Liam. Maybe a couple of hours scrubbing benches and ovens would improve his mood. And maybe, if he spent the time thinking through the evidence, he might find some answers to this whole damned mess.

  The flyscreen door banged against its wooden frame as he and Liam entered the kitchen, and at the sound Deb glanced over from the cupboard she was investigating.

  ‘Gil’s going to be chief cleaner,’ Liam announced with some relish, ‘while we see the metropolis of Birraga.’

  ‘Great.’ Deb grinned cheekily. ‘Always good to see the boss doing the dirty work.’

  If he’d been in a better mood, less distracted, he’d have come up with some dry retort. And if he’d been less distracted, he might have noticed the girl half-hidden by the open pantry door.

  ‘Have you met Megan?’ Liam asked, with a warm smile for the girl. ‘She worked with your friend Jeanie. She’s going to help you clean the place up, and then be another kitchen hand with me.’

  There she was, smiling a hello at him, her dark hair pulled back from her face in a ponytail, the hairline peaking down on her forehead, just like his own. His … His brain still stumbled over the word.

  He dragged his hand through his hair and managed to mutter some sort of greeting without really looking at her.

  His … daughter.
If there were any gods, they’d be laughing at him now. That the fumbling episode in the dark with Barb, all those years ago, could have resulted in her – this lively, pretty girl – seemed impossible, a bizarre joke on him.

  And now he was going to spend the next few hours scrubbing with his daughter.

  ELEVEN

  The one o’clock national news came on the radio as Kris parked outside the station. She’d been to the other side of Birraga with Steve, visiting the truck driver’s wife who had reported her husband missing, and preparing her for the probability that he wouldn’t be home, ever.

  An hour later, she could still hear the woman’s anguished cries in her head, and when she closed her eyes she could see the faces of three little kids, scared and confused, not yet old enough to understand why Mummy was yelling and sobbing.

  Kris rested her arms on the steering wheel, letting her head drop onto them. How were you supposed to tell a grieving woman that she shouldn’t see her husband’s body? That there was nothing left to recognise of the man she’d loved, the father of her children, and the man she’d made love to? Of all the deaths Kris had notified in her career – and there’d been too many, this past couple of years – this was one of the hardest. Even if the man had deliberately set the café fire, no-one deserved what had happened, his wife and kids least of all.

  She and Steve had drawn little information from the woman. Her husband had been driving off and on for Flanagan’s Transport out of Jerran Creek for a couple of years, and they’d moved to Birraga three months ago. He’d had more steady work since then, four or five runs a week, with the occasional overnighter.

  Nothing she told them gave them anything useful to indicate his guilt or innocence, motivation or associates. They hadn’t been able to locate the other driver, either. According to the job sheets Karl’s cousin Ingrid had given Kris from the Flanagan company office, there was only one truck scheduled for the run to transfer steers from a property west of Birraga to the old Sutherland property, not two. Ingrid had no clue who could have driven the other truck, and the manager of the transport division was off pig shooting for the weekend, and not answering his mobile phone.