A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2)

by John Hollenkamp

  “As far as I remember.” Darren exited the bedroom.

  She heard him relieving himself in the toilet, “Sounds like a bloody horse in a paddock.”

  “Sorry. I should have shut the door.”

  “Now that you mention it,” she commented, but regretting her sarcasm.

  “Look, maybe this has been a mistake. I’m really sorry I should have called you a taxi, or driven you back to your unit.” Darren was still naked, standing at the bedroom door.

  Ruby broke out in a giggle.

  “What’s so funny?” Darren asked.

  “Your willie, it’s half-mast. How can you apologise with your willie wanting to have a dance?” Ruby raised from the edge of the bed, took two strides and put her hands on Darren’s hips. Slowly, her hands slid down and into his groin. She took his growing penis in her hands, rubbing softly alternating with a squeeze.

  “You can tell me about this Cate a little later.” She brought her lips to his, and kissed him passionately.

  ***

  The early morning ‘exercises’ had left them famished. After showering and getting dressed they went out for breakfast. Darren took her to an unpretentious café and restaurant overlooking the water and Magnetic Island, it was situated away from the busy hub of The Strand.

  As soon as the coffee was served, Ruby asked the question: “So, who is Cate?”

  Darren had anticipated her insistence and persistence, having an answer ready when she’d ask again. “Cate was a very dear friend of mine in the Sydney days. She was a police detective, who was a member of this boxing club, where I trained years ago. She often sparred me in the boxing ring.”

  “Only in the ring?” Ruby raised her eyes from the cup at her lips.

  “That’s it.” Can we not make this a drama?

  “Sorry. I’m being a bitch. I had a bad experience in the past with my ex-partner’s lies.”

  “Cate got shot and killed in the line of duty. Not long after I knew her.”

  The waitress had arrived with two large plates stacked with eggs, bacon, toast and tomatoes, interrupting the conversation. The girl set the plates down, asking if they wanted more coffee or anything else. Ruby shook her head ever so slight. After a quick thank you, and ‘no thank you’, Darren pulled his plate closer and started carving up the fried eggs on his toast. They ate in silence for a few minutes, before Ruby commented. “Well I am pleased to know that you’re not married, or otherwise spoken for.”

  “Good.” Speaking with a mouthful.

  Ruby cut some bacon on her plate, and shovelled it on her fork with a bit of egg. She was ravenous. “And I am also very sad for you that it ended in such a tragic way.”

  “It’s water under the bridge now. Long gone.” Darren’s face was sullen.

  “Great food here. And a nice view. Isn’t it? Makes you forget about your troubles.” She had a bite from her breakfast.

  Darren stuffed a huge helping of bacon into his mouth, after chewing and swallowing, “I can’t forget that I’ve gotten you mixed up in my troubles. It worries me.”

  “Did I ever tell you that I am ex-military?” Ruby finished her last piece of tomato, and neatly placed her knife and fork side by side on the empty plate.

  “Ex-military? Like as in a soldier? Shooting guns and all that.” Darren wiped his toast around the plate soaking up the last of the egg-yolk.

  “Yep. I learnt how to dismantle, clean and re-assemble ready for shooting an L85A2 assault rifle. I wasn’t too bad on the shooting range either, I will have you know,” she said assertively. “I was a British soldier for six years. Infantry at first, then I chose to train as a medic. I saw some action in Iraq. Certainly, not the best of memories.”

  Her face was hard now. “I assure you that I can shoot and hit a moving target, with deadly, accurate precision.”

  “I’ll have to keep that in mind, when we go hunting for pigs one day.” His answer was off-key, and dismissive.

  Ruby eyed him with contempt.

  “Please don’t patronise me, I don’t appreciate it.” Curt and clear.

  “Sorry. I’m edgy. I don’t mean to rubbish what you did in the army.” Darren threw his serviette on the table.

  “The bloke stalking me, he’s serious business. I’m sure he’s also the same cuh …sorry, bastard, I spoke to when I was told to sell the house, to pay them back. And I am also sure, that he’s the same bloke Simon was scared of. Did you know? Simon’s fingers were snipped off with secateurs before his throat was cut.”

  Ruby stared at Darren, horrified.

  “Still want to hang with me?” Darren asked looking straight at her.

  “Till we don’t like each other anymore, which I hope will not ever happen,” Ruby answered, resolute.

  CHAPTER 50

  LIFE GOES ON

  The rain clattered hard against the office window. The car-yard was awash with sheets of water flowing over the sloping pavement. Always rains in Cairns. The landline rang, it was hard to hear the ring over the noise coming from the metal roof over the weatherboard building. Bruce broke off gazing at the outside world, and reached for the ringing phone.

  “Brooce, it’s Matteo.” The Italian’s pronunciation of his Australian name always evoked a secret chuckle. His contact on the island spoke nervously in rapid, short sentences. Bruce sat motionless while listening to the caller.

  Eddie sat opposite. He saw how his cousin’s face changed with the progression of the call. Bogdan leaned back on his chair, his hair touching the wall behind him. Angrily, he banged the wall with the back of his head.

  “Fucking dickhead. What a fucking dickhead!” the car dealer ranted. “Okay, just settle down, I will get back to you ... what? … yes, later this evening.” He hung up, dropping the handset into the charger base.

  “What’s going on?” Eddie sat straight in the chair.

  “Someone has very poor judgement.” He tapped a pen on the wooden desk. “We got onto this pommy cunt who goes to New Guinea, brings us lots of drugs from there. We had a deal going, but he’s reneged on it. What a cock. I can’t believe it.”

  “Want me to sort it out for you?” Eddie’s chest heaved with readiness.

  “Can’t have you going to the island. The law is after you, Boris.”

  “Eddie. Call me Eddie. I promised to call you Bruce. Remember?”

  Bruce broke into a short laugh. “Touche.”

  “Anyway, what sort of drugs do you get in Papua New Guinea?” Eddie was curious.

  “Great quality smoko, and chemicals for meth. All at the right price.” Bruce clasped his hands together behind his head, offering no more description to Eddie’s question.

  “What’s next?” Eddie asked.

  “A shitload of phone calls. To calm some very pissed off crew when they find out the gravy train has been derailed.” Bruce sighed heavily.

  “What about your usual supplier?”

  “Had a problem with a tiger shark,” Bruce replied with a thick smile.

  “Looks like we’ll have to squeeze this motherfucker.”

  “No. He wants more money up front. Wasn’t the deal we made, but hey, there’s still a chance. Matt can go back in a few days and renegotiate. It’s business. Life goes on.”

  ***

  That evening, in Dover Plains, Townsville, the body of a young Aboriginal boy was dumped as the darkness of the night set in. A group of kids playing soccer on a vacant parcel of land were about to call it quits, when they saw a car pull up on the other end. No street-lights over there, but they could just make out someone pulling out something from the back of the station-wagon.

  Looks like a carpet or something.

  Who knows?

  Might be worth taking home.

  The tight group ran over, when the wagon took off. As they got closer they all slowed down, then they stopped altogether, horrified. One girl moved in closer, the others didn’t budge. She slowly inched towards the discarded item. She knew. Inched closer still.

&nbs
p; “I think I know him,” she said as she brought her hand to her mouth.

  ***

  He got the call just after eight o’clock. Joel was watching television, eye lids heavy, and nearly asleep.

  “You’re needed urgently.” The voice on the other end was the desk sergeant on duty. Joel recognised her voice. He was alert now.

  “Found a kid in Dover Plains, murdered. You need to go. Indigenous boy.” Her voice was full of regret. Joel knew her. Another Indigenous police officer. Not many of us.

  He threw on some jeans and a T-shirt. He slipped on his runners as he hopped to the front door. I can’t believe this. Another body.

  When he got to the field, the blue, white and red lights were flashing, lighting up the area like a Christmas show. People were scattered on the make-shift footy field. A denser group had formed a ring behind the barrier separating them from the small, battered body on the grass. He had parked the Civic, and waded through the unruly crowd.

  Then saw her. Auntie Jilli.

  Joel stopped breathing for a moment; the wailing had started, the crying for a loss. The sound of which, tore his ears apart, and caved his head in.

  ***

  Wilder was called in. Ten o’clock at night he was summoned to the office. High priority. A dozen uniformed officers who were at home at 9.35pm were roused to come back to work. Immediately. An emergency situation developing. Possibly a riot in Dover Plains. Get your gear on!

  The riot hadn’t happened, when reinforcements arrived. Processions of mourners were roaming the streets. Grieving for another soul. The police had stayed back, standing vigil at the crime scene. Joel had left; he’d be facing a long night, starting at the office.

  “What happened?” Wilder walked through his office door with a coffee.

  Joel was sitting in a chair, the one that usually sits against the wall, where it was unmoved. “Some evil bastard killed a boy named Billy. He was only twelve.” Joel had a tear rolling down his cheek.

  Wilder gave him a minute.

  “Is that the kid from the burnt-out taxi caper?”

  Joel looked up, wiping his eyes, “Yep, that’s him.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Not yet. But I will find out, if it’s the last thing I ever do,” Joel vowed.

  “How did he die?”

  Joel put his hand to his mouth, followed by massaging the back of his head, “Apart from a severe beating to his whole body, some sick bastard shoved an ignition barrel of some sort down his throat, until it couldn’t go any further. Imagine his suffering, it would have been terrifying. Only twelve years old. Poor bugger.”

  Wilder’s face stiffened with controlled anger.

  “We can’t dwell on his suffering. It’s not helping us find this psychopath.”

  Joel nodded.

  “Oh, by the way. Some good news. The blood spatter on the shoe you found matches that of blood samples found at the Manly raid, more specifically on the murder weapon that killed our colleague. Your hunch was solid.”

  Wilder’s words were of some consolation. Joel felt beaten, the lifeblood sapped out of him. He stood from the chair and stretched his back. Tomorrow was another day.

  “See ya in the spring, boss.”

  “Be here at 8am, I’ll make sure to request your temporary assignment to my section. We have grounds now.” Wilder had his fingers steepled under his lower lip.

  “’Cause I’m Aboriginal?”

  “Problem with that?”

  “Being Aboriginal has never been a problem for me.” Joel left the room.

  ***

  The following morning Joel made a point to see Fiona in person rather than her being advised through the official channel.

  “Sorry to hear about that kid. I know you were acquainted with him and his family.” Fiona was genuine in her sympathy. Joel was under no illusion that Gibbs and a few others weren’t favourably disposed to this particular local community, especially those younger ones who committed crimes, as if it was a revolving door.

  “Same ole shit, different day,” Joel said glum.

  “All the money that’s been thrown at trying to solve this crap. What a waste.”

  “Can’t undo the misery inflicted on Indigenous people, by chucking money at us,” Joel retorted.

  “Blame it on the white folk.”

  “It’s not that simple. I’ll see you when I see you next.”

  “Good luck. Being a crusader won’t make you sleep better at night.”

  Joel paused and turned facing her, “It’s not about crusading, it’s about finding a sadistic killer.”

  “Life goes on, Joel.”

  “For one it didn’t.”

  CHAPTER 51

  A BULLSEYE

  The battered dinghy in the carport did not look anything like seaworthy, not in its current state anyway. Matteo had used the 14ft aluminium boat for easy storage – lazy storage, hence it was chockers full of rubbish. Empty beer bottles, cans, old newspapers, plastic bags, discarded fishing gear like torn cast-nets, a few rusty crab-pots and fishing rods of all descriptions and sizes. He was expecting an important call from Bruce, but his drug-dealer boss hadn’t rung him yet, as opposed to Slice who had hassled him to go fishing today. Caught off-guard by the early morning phone call he caved, agreeing to take Salvatore’s friend for a fish in the waters off Horseshoe Bay. After turfing most of the rubbish into two wheelie bins, he searched the bottom of the dirt-covered hull for bungs. While laying down on the smelly ply floor his hands searched under the seats, fore and aft, for the missing bungs. He found one, the other was still missing. Phone rang.

  “I’m at Nelly Bay.”

  “Okay, I come soon,” The exasperated Italian did his best to remain calm. Why was he here already?

  He gave up looking for the missing bung, resigned himself to stopping in at the boat shop on the way to picking up Slice from the Ferry Terminal. The dinghy had been cleaned out and looked like a fishing boat again. The cowl on the ancient Evinrude outboard engine was covered in dust and dirt. How long since he had started it? Ages, months and months ago, he realised. The red, metal fuel tank sat under the boat wedged against the trailer axle. Matteo bent down for a closer look. The fuel hose was curled around the filler. The rubber primer bulb had visible cracks, from lack of use and exposure. Ahhgg, is one trip only, and dismissed the thought of renewing the fuel line and primer.

  ***

  Slice waited patiently at the covered taxi rank, giving him some respite from the hot sun. It was nine thirty in the morning, not a breath of wind with a faultless blue sky. He whistled silently, and shifted his bare feet on the concrete a few times. His thongs were next to his feet. The buses had just left carrying a hundred or so tourists and backpackers, leaving the terminal surrounds peaceful and quiet. His mind drifted to the plan for today which was to prod the young Italian without too much pressure. Slice never rushed into any interrogation, especially one that was likely to end with disposing of a body. That was not on his agenda today. It was also against The Old Boy’s wishes.

  Yesterday’s events were fresh in his mind. The rage that consumed him for most of yesterday caused him to do things unplanned and out of blind fury. Emotional involvement was a recipe for one hundred percent failure. He regretted having to deal with the Aboriginal boy, it had been ugly and unnecessary; but he had zero remorse. The little bastards should have left my car alone! None of the hurt would have happened. Dumping the body in his home suburb was meant to be statement. In retrospect, it was a mistake. Emotion. Rage. Revenge. He should have controlled himself. Now he had to watch his back, in case anyone could describe his ‘borrowed’ car, a Ford wagon which he abandoned not far from his flat. His Commodore still hadn’t turned up.

  Another issue, when the car was found whether in one piece or burnt-out, it would eventually lead the coppers to him. There would be questions: Do you mind if we come in? Did you see any of them? Through which door or window did they gain access? Can we ha
ve a closer look? Do you mind if we send forensics out for fingerprints? Next thing, bullseye, fingerprints in the unit match that of the dead boy. What a fucking disaster!

  Slice’s anxiety was building, his blood was coursing faster through his veins. He closed his eyes, sat straight, forcing himself to control his breathing, yoga style.

  With eyes shut, he turned his mind inward, imagining a void.

  Breathe shallow. Slow it down. Then breathe slow … breathe deep.

  Not long into his peaceful escape.

  “Steven. Hey Steven.” Matteo leaned over the passenger side of his Moke and waved to Slice.

  The hitman opened his eyes, startled. Instinctively, waving back like an excited relative.

  Within minutes, Matteo was scaring the shit of Slice with his driving, spearing the feather-weight Moke around the narrow bends to Horseshoe Bay. If nothing else, Slice vowed to cut the rug from under this maniac on the road by the end of his next visit.

  Wind in his hair, his butt bouncing on the worn-through seat, fingers clasped, one hand on the windscreen, the other hanging on to the seat frame on the floor, he finally screamed, “Heyyy! Fucking slow down.”

  Matteo turned his head with a broad smile, “What’s that you say?”

  “Never mind. Keep your fucking eyes on the road!” Horrified that Matteo was still speeding and not looking at the road.

  Slice endured another ten minutes, before the Moke came to a grinding halt in Matteo’s gravel ‘n grass driveway, “You want to go fishing? Then we must go soon, before the wind comes.”

  Slice put his Broncos cap back on. “Let’s get on with it then.” A terse reply.

  Fifteen minutes later, the tinnie trailer was hooked up to the Moke. To a mainlander, it looked a laughable sight; to an islander it would just be a shoulder shrug. The aluminium boat on the trailer dwarfed the roofless Moke with its length and girth, Slice had a chuckle. “I guess it’s no more dangerous than your driving,” he commented. The trailer’s safety chain clinked on the bitumen while being towed.

  Horseshoe Bay was idyllic, despite the number of tourists. The boat ramp was clear, allowing Matteo to back the trailer down without a wait. After removing the D-shackle from the chain securing the boat to the trailer, he pushed the vessel off the trailer with little effort. He snatched the short, frayed rope which was tied to the bow cleat, “Here, Steven. Please hold this.” Dropping the rope in Slice’s hand.