“Yeah, mate. What do you need?”
“For you to come back to work this arvo, and fucking keep driving until you drop!” Pete bellowed.
“I’ll see.” Darren hung up. His gaze lingered on the mobile for a few extra seconds, shook his head and continued up the steps. Then, it rang again. Ignoring the persistent ring-tone he fiddled with the key already in the door lock. The new door key wouldn’t budge; ever since parting with his own housekeys to the real-estate agent the replacement key was never reliable. At this particular moment, it made him want to put his fist through the glass panel on the door. Fuck this shit. He then grabbed the phone from his back pocket, “What! What do you want Pete!”
“Sorry. But this isn’t Pete,” clearly a female voice.
“Oh, Cynthia. Thought you were someone else.”
“We’ve got an offer on the table.” A short pause followed, “It’s not as high as we like it to be.”
Ah the punchline, Darren mused. “Go on.”
The key turned, Darren pushed the door, stale air greeted him.
“Three-fortyish.” The estate agent cleared her throat.
“That’s like seventy grand less than I asked for,” Darren replied.
“The market is not very kind to sellers at the moment. You are not alone. But think of it this way. You will be in a similar position to bargain when you buy your new home.” Her reply was soothing and collected. Another punchline. Whoop-t-do.
“Wasn’t planning to buy another just yet.”
A short pause.
“Is that a ‘no’ or ‘I will think about it’ answer?”
“Tell them three ninety.”
“Happy to pass on the counter-offer. But they already informed me that they won’t entertain any other figure. It’s three-forty or nothing.” Cynthia paused before adding, “They looked at three other properties. You might miss out.”
Darren’s head was spinning. He hated being put on the spot. The money was well short of the gangsters’ demand for payment. To Darren’s thinking, most of the money would be better than no money – although that idea didn’t pan out for Johnno when he couldn’t front with the handguns. Pride, and ‘my dick is bigger than yours’ might not be such an issue with the mob. Yeah right! However, paying most of the money might buy him some time.
Long enough for him to go underground and lie low. And being a home-owner wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. By the time, he paid rates and insurance he reckoned he’d be better off renting.
“You there?” Her patience was fading.
“Trying to make a decision here,” Darren answered.
“Would you like to think about it a bit longer? I can call you back in a few hours. I am sure I can persuade them to wait to not take the other offer.”
“What other offer?” Darren questioned.
“They were offered a really good deal on another property, but it’s yours they want,” Cynthia said it calmly.
“Righto. Do the deal. I accept the offer. Call me back when you done it.”
Snap decision. Is that what you do when you sell your house? Give it away to the first offer? …Depends on the size of the gun to your head. Darren clicked the end button.
He put his phone away, took one look at his kitchen, then his living room, a bottle of Jack Daniels and a photo of him and Patch. Nick had sent it to him a few months ago. What’s home? he thought. A place where your heart lies and your soul rests. And where was that? Not between these walls.
Darren turned around and left through the door.
Patch. It was time to reunite with his best mate.
Three minutes later, he was on his way to the vet clinic.
***
Ruby drew the last bit of eye-liner, one eye squinting, close to the mirror. Her breath fogged up the glass. She wasn’t much of a make-up person, these days. In fact, ever since her first waking hour in the British Army, the whole make-up thing went out the window. Literally.
When he entered into her life that afternoon, things changed for her. Things inside her that brought her back to life before the Army. It wasn’t about memories, or the things she used to do. It was an awakening of part of her that she’d learnt how to supress, and bury. You had to. Otherwise, you wouldn’t survive.
She’d never met a man like Darren. He had a strength about him, for survival. A softness which was far from weak. A demeanour that bordered gruff, with an abrupt sense of humour, scathing about the injustices around him. But he never stood on a soap-box. He wasn’t always taking the piss, just a lot of the time, when you least expect it. She was smitten. Not at all army-like.
Right now, her heart beat was up, but it wasn’t the same as the thumping she would experience hiding behind sandbags under a volley of machinegun fire. And her fingers weren’t trembling either. No, they were steady as she brushed the mascara to blend better. She moved the mirror away from her, and inspected her face from a few angles. Then she had a frightful thought.
Time. Oh God, what’s the time?
16.58. Two minutes to go. Army habit, precision on the clock.
Putting on make-up had taken far longer than she’d anticipated. She was out of practice.
Quickly.
She snatched her bra from the bunk and put it on. Her knickers were hanging off the fold-up drying rack. She sat on the narrow bed and slipped laced garment over her feet, up her smooth legs. She ran the open palm of her right hand over her right leg, checking to make sure the razor hadn’t missed anything.
One minute to go.
Khaki cargo trousers next. A girly denim shirt with a bright flower pattern to finish. She’d never look like Shakira, fashion-wise.
Her comrades used to tease her: you look like Shakira, shame you don’t have her fame, or money. You wouldn’t be stuck here in this shithole.
First date. And he’s late.
***
The gravel crunched under the tyres, the side access went back a long way, opening up to an unkept carpark bordered by overgrown weeds. He parked in the middle of the cleared yard, leaving the car there as per Ruby’s instructions.
From under the shade of a large silk-tree with low hanging branches he saw a kookaburra cocking its oversized head, looking directly at him. “What’s your problem? Not wormy enough for you?” The predator flapped its wings and escaped to a higher branch.
The blistered old paint on the back walls of the clinic was peeling off in sheets. In contrast, the clinic’s street frontage showed off a brilliant white coat of paint on the timber weatherboards.
Go through the back door: it’s the one with no paint on it, those were her directions. With butterflies in his stomach, an elevated heart rate, hiding a bottle of Merlot in a colourful carry bag, he neared the unpainted door. He cleared his throat and turned the knob. Wednesday afternoon at 5.15pm, the clinic was closed to visitors. Not for him, Darren was there by invitation.
Darren pushed the door open to the sound of squeaking hinges, and the sweet voice of a British veterinary nurse. “Hello, Darren. I think there’s someone here looking forward to see you. Come quick.”
The high-pitched yelping and ear-piercing bark was unmistakably Heeler, alive, excited, ready to rumble – for Darren, the sound of reunion.
Front paws against the wire, eyes fixed on his master, ears pert and sharp, his tail whirring like a rotor, Patch was ready to take on the world.
“Let me unlatch the door, so you can get acquainted again.” Ruby beamed.
Patch jumped out of the cage straight into Darren’s arms, followed by a dog’s lickfest. Patch’s exuberance was finally tempered by a bribe, a big fleshy beef-bone.
Ruby had produced the dog treat from the fridge, and held it in front of his nose, knowing it would help her developing friendship with Patch as well as calm him, distract him. It was amusing to watch, initially Patch couldn’t decide between a rumble with Darren or the bone. Eventually the bone won. Both Darren and Ruby were in stitches.
Patch didn’t let
them out of his sight. When Darren and Ruby moved to the kitchen, he picked up his bone and followed them. The bone clunked around on the timber floor, as Patch nosed it around while gnawing at the fleshy bits.
“Don’t worry, I’ll mop the floor for you,” Darren said shaking his head.
“Hah. Now that’s an offer a girl can’t refuse,” Ruby giggled.
Darren pulled a chair back and assumed a seat at the kitchen table. Ruby had filled the kettle and prepared the cups, draping the teabags, waiting for the kettle to boil.
Out of the blue, “I’ve sold my house.”
“Wow. That’s quick.” She was leaning against the counter. Behind her the noise of the gurgling kettle started to intensify.
“Yeah. Didn’t expect that. Only been on the market for a few weeks. A bit unexpected, to be honest.”
“Does this change your plans about going away?” She poured the boiling water into the cups, drowning the teabags.
“Didn’t think about that. But … I ought to hang around I guess. Got to check with the agent. I’ve never sold a house before, so I don’t know what the go is.”
Ruby put the steaming cup in front of Darren. She stood with both hands cradling the hot cup, and sipped quietly, regally. Her eyes appraised him. She sipped again quietly. Darren looked up at her, their eyes holding each other’s.
“Fancy going out for a meal?” she suddenly spoke.
Darren coughed on his hot tea, his face blushing, “Sounds great.”
“You look a little surprised,” Ruby giggled.
Darren smiled thinly, “Not often a bloke gets asked out.” He felt embarrassed that it appeared so blatant to her. His face felt warm. Bloody hell, I thought I was better at this, he cursed silently.
“I must tell you. I’ve never been known to be bashful. I prefer being honest and forward to avoid misconception.” Ruby put her cup down on the table and moved closer to Darren. She bent down and kissed Darren lightly on the lips. Darren thought his eyes were popping out. Lucky for him, that idea was only in his imagination. Her soft, moist kiss, that was not imagined.
“Never kissed a man with a moustache before. I will try and get used to that.” Ruby nodded and closed in on Darren again. This time the kiss lasted longer.
CHAPTER 41
IT’S AN INDIGENOUS AFFAIR
“So you think it’s okay to go around stealing other people’s stuff?” Joel’s eyes narrowed as he spoke to Billy. The young boy stared at Joel with an empty gaze. But it wasn’t a look of defiance, or a look of not caring – it was an expression of not recognising that such behaviour was wrong. Billy shrugged his shoulders with jerky quickness, twice. The gaze hiding in his brown eyes was that of an individual far older than a twelve-year-old’s. His brown hair stood upright on his head, dry and unwashed. The red singlet hung loosely off his shoulders. Stretched on one side, torn on the other, the garment hadn’t seen a washing machine for a while.
“You know the old bloke you and your cousins stole the car from, he’s got nothing now. No car, he’s stuck at home. Can’t visit his rellos, can’t go shopping on his own. He has no money to buy another car.” Joel attempted to evoke some empathy, knowing full well that empathy was a non-existent concept in the minds of many of the kids and teenagers he had dealt with, or had been friends with in his past.
Then again, why would this kid have any sympathy for an old white fella with no money. No one gave a shit about a twelve-year-old with no money. Joel imagined himself standing at a wall in a dead-end alley. Now he felt guilty.
“Can ya take me home today?”
The way the question came out said it all: Billy was numb to the idea of why he was held in temporary detention. “And if I get you out of here, what are you going to do when you are back with Auntie Jilli? Are you going to help her out? Or are you going to hang around those older boys to make more trouble?”
“I kin help Auntie. Then I kin see the others.” Billy’s eyes lit up.
Joel studied Billy’s face for a moment before deciding to answer, which was a moot point – it was a forgone conclusion that Billy was going home today, regardless of whether he was to re-offend.
“I will drive you myself.” Joel’s answer was sober and direct.
“What about Max? Is he coming too?” The exuberance of a twelve-year-old filled the room as if he was about to climb onto the Ferris-wheel at the Show.
“No,” Joel replied tersely at first. Then he softened, “No, Max is staying here. He’s older than you and should know better than to steal cars, and not report Charlie’s death.”
That remark evoked a reaction.
Silence and stillness in the room followed.
Joel leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. Billy’s head drooped, and after a long moment Joel heard a sniffle.
“Charlie’s my cuzzen.” Billy raised his head, eyes bloodshot and wet, tears rolling down his round cheeks, his lips quivering. Sorrow and anger fighting each other in those eyes.
“Yeah. I am sorry too.” Joel wrapped his hand around the boy’s arm and squeezed several times.
“Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
***
The corridor leading to Wilder’s hide-away office was empty, and Joel’s heavy boots clunked on the polished concrete floor. Joel detected a reluctant and tired stride. Was it the constant going between his uniform job to the unpaid detective role that was wearing him out or was it the whole circus? Probably the circus, he answered himself.
Wilder was in his usual spot: the sagging desk-chair behind a paper cluttered desk. To use his keyboard and mouse, was a mission in itself. First, he’d have to find them under all the documents.
“In this job, you have to eliminate the unlikely, or not probable, otherwise you go in circles. And you can’t solve everything. As for getting answers to your own questions. Well, forget about that. Better not to think about why someone committed a crime. Think about how. Motives are only good in the context of the reason or opportunity of a crime. Don’t beat yourself up about why people do the things they do. You’ll destroy yourself.” A helpful sermon.
Good timing. Joel nodded.
He pulled up the only other chair in the office. With the chair reversed, he sat leaning forward over the backrest.
“How did it go with the kid?”
Joel’s head stiffened.
“It’s just a question, specific about a twelve-year-old boy, an involuntary witness to a tragic death of another boy.” Wilder’s expression was blank.
“Fair enough,” Joel said.
Sullen, he fidgeted in the reversed chair and commented, “I guess, it’s fair to say that the death of the cab driver and the death of the Indigenous boy are unrelated. Charlie died from his own stupidity, drunk as a skunk when he blew himself up. Aboriginal Legal Affairs will deal the boys. It’s out of our hands now.”
“That it?” Wilder showed some bewilderment.
“Are you surprised?”
“No. Not really. Let’s move on to the cab driver. Our prime suspect is the bikie from Sydney. He was the last person in contact with him.” Wilder reached for a pencil.
“His last known passenger,” Joel interjected.
“Humour me.” Wilder tapped the eraser end of the pencil on the desk. “This Edward character was the last person with him. We know he’s a killer. Simple maths, put a known killer next to a dead guy, so who killed the cab driver? My money is on the known killer. Eddie.”
“Okay, what do you want me to do?”
“Find this Eddie, arrest him, bring him in.”
Joel got up from the chair and calmly swung it towards the spot from where it came.
“I have a contact in Sydney who passed on the phone number for a fellow who can shed some light on Eddie’s past activities with his bikie mates. Here’s the contact number. I don’t think he’s with the police force anymore. It’s a personal mobile number. I believe his name is Adam.”
Joel took the piece of paper
from Wilder, “How do you know him?”
“I don’t. Apparently, he was the murdered copper’s offsider.”
“Which one?”
“Catherine Hawkins. Detective Catherine Hawkins.”
CHAPTER 42
JELLY BLUBBER
Matteo’s lifestyle on the island lacked for little. The cottage he lived in was tucked away from prying eyes and located in the backwoods of Horseshoe Bay. He helped out one of the boat hire operators and did the odd shift in a café. His parents had bought the house, and his old man was still supporting him. His property boasted nearly an acre surrounded by bush. The multitude of Cane Palms he had planted had created a private oasis. Despite an idyllic location his timber cottage was also surrounded by a mess of abandoned toys, a rusty boat-trailer with a derelict timber sloop sitting on top, another boat under a ramshackle lean-to which doubled as a storage vessel for everything from empty beer-bottles to Styrofoam boxes filled with a variety of fishing nets, crab nets and rods. An old Nissan Pulsar with flat tyres sat in the high grass, desolate and pathetic some thirty metres away from the shed around the back.
“Looks like you’ve done alright for yourself, Matteo.”
“I like it here. The island is beautiful. The people are beautiful. How long are you staying?” An eager question.
Too eager.
Slice replied, “Leaving this afternoon, just here for the day. Haven’t been to the island for a few years and thought I’d spend a day here to … refresh my memory.”
Matteo appraised his visitor with a gentle smile and a glint in his eyes.
“My uncle, Salvatore. He is well?”
Slice paused before his considered answer, “He sends his regards. But I am not here on his behalf. Of course, I am happy to pass on any message from you.”
A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2) Page 19