Back to the Pilliga

by Tony Parsons

  Not long after I crossed the river for the second time, I slowed down and started looking for a place to sleep overnight while there was still plenty of daylight. As well as wanting to try out my new 400-mm lens before it got dark, I wanted to have completely set up camp before sundown. Only a new chum makes camp after dark in the Australian bush because it’s so important to inspect the surrounding area in order to avoid sharing your tent with dangerous snakes, ants whose sting is pure agony and numerous other venomous creatures.

  After pulling in off the road I soon found what appeared to be a good site. There were no ant’s nests close by and no fallen logs. And only minutes away there was plenty of firewood scattered about. Before long I had my tent up, a fire going and the billy on. It was clear as I unpacked my collapsible table, chair and cutlery that Eunice Kendall hadn’t spared any expense with the camping equipment.

  There was a crow pecking at something beside the road perhaps fifty metres away and I focused my new 400-mm lens on it. The result was overwhelming so I took a couple of pictures of it, feeling very happy.

  Sitting in my chair after an early dinner, I contemplated the nearby road that led to Coonabarabran. I was back in the country of my childhood. Ahead of me were the Warrumbungles with all their timeless mystery. They had been here untold years before the first human, black or white, arrived in this region. They had witnessed the first comings of indigenous people and the passing of the tribal way of life.

  Estimates of how long people had lived in this region ranged from 7500 to 25,000 years. Kamilaroi was the name used to describe the tribes and sub-tribes who occupied a vast area of northern New South Wales. Kamilaroi country extended from Murrurundi in the south, Mungindi in the north and almost as far as Brewarrina in the north-west. The term Kamilaroi was also used to describe all the tribes who spoke the Gamilaraay language. The Kamilaroi people had traditionally occupied the eastern side of the Castle–reagh River and the Mole tribe of the Wiradjuri the western side.

  Australia’s rivers had naturally been a magnet for indigenous people as a source of not just water but food, since animals also came to them to drink. The Kamilaroi people would have fished in the Castlereagh River as well as hunting other animals, principally kangaroos. Anything that walked or crawled was utilised for food.

  Life changed dramatically for the Kamilaroi people when white squatters moved into the area in the 1830s. Whereas the resources of the region had hitherto been ample for them, with the arrival of the white fella food sources were soon stretched. Kamilaroi men were shot at and their women abducted by white stockmen. After the retaliatory murder of a white settler by the Kamilaroi in the Warrumbungle district, punitive expeditions by mounted police resulted in widespread death amongst the tribes with 50 aborigines killed on one such expedition. Even more devastating to the Kamilaroi people were white fella diseases like smallpox, which cut a swathe through their numbers. With such widespread death, much of the knowledge of the local culture had vanished.

  Dragging my thoughts away from the past to the present, I decided to try out the new powerful radio Mrs Kendall had supplied, switching it on just before the 7 p.m. news on the ABC. The reception wasn’t at all bad though there was nothing of much importance reported so, tired after a day’s travelling, I decided to have an early night. Mrs Kendall had been extremely generous in her understanding of my camping needs. I hadn’t asked for a radio because there was a good radio in the vehicle, but she’d supplied a great set. Likewise, all the camping gear was of the very highest quality.

  I had a swag and a separate pillow, which I put my Browning pistol beneath. I had a Mannlicher rifle and a 12-gauge shotgun in a case beside me, though it was technically illegal to transport firearms in a vehicle. A phone call to Ballinger would fix that. I also had the most up-to-date mobile phone.

  It took me only a few minutes to drop off, and whether it was the change of air or the solitude and scarcity of vehicles, or just feeling more comfortable in the country I’d grown up in, I had a great night’s sleep.

  I woke feeling on top of the world. It was a cool, fresh morning, harbinger of a great day. After I’d finished cooking and eating a hearty breakfast I had a second mug of tea. As I was drinking my tea, a truck laden with cypress logs slugged past my camp, its driver waving to me in typical bush fashion. I smiled and waved back – suddenly it was as if I’d never left the bush. I could feel myself slipping back into my old world, in which the accent was on weather and seasons, stock and grain prices and the annual show.

  After my tea I savoured the peace around me. For much of its area the Pilliga Scrub is thicker than it was when the first white man arrived in the area. In those days it was open savannah-like country with the growth of saplings and scrub kept in check by annual fires, which the Kamilaroi used to flush out game. Such was the intensity of vegetation now that a person could quite easily get lost in some areas of the scrub. Even competent bushmen had been known to take a compass into the Pilliga when they searched for new timber sites.

  It was only just after six but I was keen to get on my way, conscious that if Caroline Clemenger was still alive, every day she was held hostage would be agony for her. Before I did so I wanted to spend a bit more time thinking about how to proceed. As I started to pack up, a white police car with two men in the front seat flashed past me travelling south, the passenger turning his head sharply to get a squiz at me as they shot past. A few minutes later an ambulance tore down the road in the wake of the police car.

  Presently a tow truck appeared from the direction of Coonabarabran. As its driver – a youngish fellow – gave me the usual bush wave, I noticed the graphic on the door was that of the garage my father used to deal with. I hoped he hadn’t recognised me. The possibility that there’d been a bad accident got me thinking about Kenneth’s death. Even after all these years, I’d never really come to terms with him dying so tragically, his so very promising life cut short.

  The only thing to do now before I set off was pack up my photography equipment. Just as I was about to do so, the ambulance from before returned at a great rate of knots, siren blaring, followed closely by the white police car. To my surprise, as the police car neared my vehicle it slowed, turned off the road and pulled to a stop almost beside me. Two constables, both well built fellows, one a two-striper, got out of the car and came towards me. The younger of the two looked keenly at my camera set-up. A 400-mm lens mounted on a tripod wasn’t the kind of thing a country cop would see very often I supposed. Certainly not beside a road.

  ‘Bad accident?’ I asked and nodded towards the south.

  ‘Bloody idiots. Some fellas think they’re hell on wheels. One dead and two pretty bad,’ the two-striper answered.

  ‘Locals?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. They ought to know better. Gravel edges are murder at high speed. You turn your head away for a second and you’re gone. Especially if you’ve been on the turps.’

  I nodded, noticing that the younger constable still couldn’t tear his eyes way from my Nikon and the 400-mm lens. ‘Doing a spot of photography?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Hoping to,’ I said with a wry grin.

  ‘I’m a camera bug myself but I can’t afford the kind of gear you’ve got.’

  ‘Like to take a look?’ I asked.

  ‘I sure would,’ he said, his face lighting up.

  ‘I’ll focus it on that crow down the road a bit,’ I said. When I had the lens homed in on the big black bird I stepped aside.

  ‘You travelling through or staying a while?’ the two-striper asked me.

  ‘I could be staying for a little while. You fancy a cuppa?’ I asked.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Milk . . . sugar?’

  ‘Both, thanks.’

  I went and got extra cups out of the vehicle along with some teabags and sugar. ‘Help yourself,’ I said.

  The younger man straightened and let out his breath. ‘What a lens. My biggest is a 200 mm. Looks like I’ll need
to start saving for a 400 mm,’ he said.

  ‘Depends on what you want to do with a camera. You can take good pics without a 400 mm but if you want to do wildlife photography, especially birds, you’ll need one eventually. But we’ve all got a lot to learn. You never know it all,’ I said. ‘Do you want a bit of tucker to go with that tea?’

  He looked at his partner and then nodded. After making his tea I buttered a couple of slices of wholemeal bread, put it on a plate and held it out to them. Each man took a slice without hesitation. Looked like they mightn’t have had a chance to have breakfast before they were called out to the accident.

  When he’d finished eating, the two-striper looked at me and frowned thoughtfully. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked.

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said.

  ‘You look familiar,’ he persisted. ‘I’ve seen your face somewhere.’

  ‘Not on any wanted posters, I assure you,’ I said with a laugh. ‘How long have you been in the force?’

  ‘Nearly ten years,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s the ranking officer in Coona these days?’ I asked.

  ‘Senior Sergeant Morris,’ the two-striper answered. ‘You in the Force?’

  ‘I used to be . . . CIB,’ I said, wondering if it was the same Morris who’d received a gong for bravery during a flood. If so there was a good chance that he’d remember me because I received my gong at the same function. ‘Will Senior Sergeant Morris be at the station today?’

  The two-striper nodded. ‘He sometimes goes home for lunch between one and two. But not every day. It depends what’s on.’

  ‘Could you tell him to expect a visitor,’ I asked.

  ‘Sure. What did you say your name was?’ the older constable asked me.

  ‘I didn’t,’ I said, smiling, not about to fall for that old trap. ‘I have a very good reason for not wanting my name flashed about. Let’s just leave it that I’m here with the Commissioner’s blessing. But I don’t want that flashed around either.’ I reckoned that mentioning the PC would curtail any more questions.

  The two men looked a bit nonplussed at this revelation and soon after got up, thanked me for the tea and turned to leave.

  ‘You might care to do a spot of photography with me some time,’ I said to the younger cop.

  ‘I’d like that,’ he said with a grin. ‘How should I get in touch with you?’

  ‘You’ll be able to do that through Senior Sergeant Morris, Constable . . . ?’

  ‘Beattie. Graham Beattie,’ he said.

  After their car had disappeared into the distance I began packing my gear. The two-striper had looked at the number-plates of my 4WD and then written something down, probably my car’s rego details. They’d probably pass the 4WD’s registration number on to Coonabarabran station. Both men seemed good types and were probably good police officers too.

  After one last look around I packed away my photography gear, put the tea and food away and got out the big map of the area showing the location of all the properties with details of who owned them. Though it wasn’t right up to date because some properties had probably changed hands, it provided a lot of essential information about roads and lesser tracks in the Pilliga.

  After a thorough scrutiny of the map and with the belief that I had the overall picture of the Pilliga back in my head, I folded up the map and got in the vehicle.

  CHAPTER 9

  As soon as I hit Coonabarabran I headed straight for the cop shop. There were two marked police cars and some unmarked vehicles, mostly Holdens, in the car park at the station. After parking my vehicle I walked to the front of the building.

  Inside, a different two-striper and a slightly smaller constable were at the front desk. They gave me the usual intense scrutiny characteristic of police officers. The good ones, anyway.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said brightly. ‘Is Senior Sergeant Morris available?’

  ‘Who shall I say wants to see him?’ the big two-striper asked.

  ‘Can you just tell him I’m the gent his boys had a cuppa with on the Binnaway Road after the accident this morning.’

  I could tell by the looks on the faces of both men that my morning visitors had discussed me. The two-striper picked up a phone and spoke into it briefly. Hanging up, he asked me to follow him and we walked into the inner recesses of the station, where he stopped and knocked at the door of a closed office. After the occupant had called for me to come in he thanked the two-striper who nodded and closed the door again.

  The officer at the desk got up as I entered, his expression one of surprise as he came over to shake my hand. ‘I don’t believe it. Lachie Sinclair, the fellow who nailed Bud Hollis and took a bullet doing it,’ he said with a grin as we shook.

  ‘Senior Sergeant Morris, the fellow who rescued a woman and her two kids from a car during a raging flood,’ I countered.

  ‘Not bad, Lachie,’ Morris said. ‘What the blazes are you doing here?’

  ‘What I’ve come to talk to you about will take a while to tell, Senior Sergeant,’ I said to Morris, who was a tall man but not bulky.

  ‘Ming to you, Lachie,’ he said.

  We sat down and he got the young constable at the front desk to bring us tea and biscuits. While we waited I had a good look at him and saw he hadn’t put on a lot of weight since I’d last seen him. He had a good head of greying hair and slightly olive skin. A wide red scar protruded some three or four inches beyond the neck of his blue shirt and I remembered he’d also been commended for rescuing a family from a fire. He clearly hadn’t escaped unscathed. I’d say that there weren’t many braver police officers than Morris.

  After the tea and biscuits arrived he picked up one of his phones and growled into it. ‘No more calls for me until further notice.’

  Sipping his tea he regarded me with unconcealed interest. ‘When the boys came back from that accident and mentioned meeting an ex-cop with a lot of fancy camera gear who wouldn’t give them his name, I never imagined it would be you. Why isn’t your vehicle registered in your name?’ he asked.

  ‘I didn’t give your fellows my name because I don’t want it splashed around the district.’

  ‘So you’re here on a case?’ he asked.

  I nodded and filled him in on how I’d set up in security and PI work since I’d left the force. Then I proceeded to detail the reason for my visit. He listened attentively, occasionally stopping me to ask a question.

  ‘So you see Ming, it’s more than likely that I’ll need your help before this race is run. I can tell you that your Super at Mudgee will be briefed by Sydney and he’ll be instructed to tell you I’m to be given any assistance I require. Sydney wanted your Super to brief you before I arrived but I asked them to leave it until I’d made contact with you. I’m not here to get in your way. And if those rotten bank robbers are here the only interest I’ll have in them is whether they’re holding Caroline Clemenger. I’m being paid by her mother,’ I said.

  ‘I see,’ he said thoughtfully, clearly weighing up all I’d told him.

  ‘Have you made any progress or come to any conclusions about Caroline Clemenger’s whereabouts?’ I asked.

  ‘The answer to both your questions is no. But the truth of the matter is that my hands are tied. I was asked not to do anything until there was a ransom demand. There hasn’t been one. I would have raided the Challis property but was instructed not to because the big chiefs in Sydney thought it might scare the bank robbers into running and possibly killing their hostage,’ said Morris.

  ‘Have you heard anything that might suggest they’re hiding somewhere in the Pilliga?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Only that Head Office think Ted Challis was the third man in the bank robbery,’ said Morris. ‘Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘A couple of things we’ve heard suggest they may well be in the Coonabarabran region. And as you’re aware, Sheila Cameron says she saw Caroline Clemenger sitting in a car in the main street here. Superintendent Ballinger didn’t put much credence in that sigh
ting because it seemed so strange that any crims would bring a hostage into town. But Sheila’s a long-time family friend of mine and I’m going to see if I can get the full facts from her. However, the bottom line is that Sheila’s a smart woman and went to the same school as Caroline Clemenger, so if she says she saw her I think there’s a good chance she did,’ I said.

  ‘Okay, Lachie. Let’s get down to tin tacks. How can I help you?’ Morris asked.

  Though I didn’t show it I felt a huge sense of relief. Having Morris onside and willingly cooperating with me was going to make my job a lot easier. ‘Nix, right at this moment. I may need little bits of information from time to time and I hope to be able to keep you informed too. As I said, if I locate these creeps, they’re yours. My main brief is to locate and – if she’s still alive – rescue Caroline Clemenger,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks Lachie,’ said Morris, possibly thinking what the apprehension of the bank robbers might mean for his station. ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘As long as it takes,’ I said.

  ‘It could be risky, Lachie, one man out in the bush on his own. Shouldn’t we provide you with someone as back-up?’ asked Morris.

  ‘The Sydney chiefs reckon I’ve got a far better chance of finding the bank robbers and working out if they’re holding Caroline Clemenger if I’m on my own. I know it’s highly irregular but this case calls for irregular handling. And I do have a contingency plan to fall back on if the going looks too much for one man,’ I said.

  Morris thought about what I’d said for a bit and then seemed to make up his mind. ‘I wouldn’t like to see you killed and dumped somewhere in the Pilliga, so keep in touch and don’t hesitate to ask if you need help. Once you locate those mongrels we can deal with them,’ he said.