‘It’s just …’
Arbor scratched his head.
‘It’s just,’ he said. ‘I reckon this is about the safest place for her. For the moment, anyway. Until we figure out what’s really going on.’
‘You think she might be still in danger?’ asked Jenny.
‘I can’t see any reason why she isn’t.’
‘In that case, I’d best dig out the .22.’
‘God. No need for that, I hope.’
‘No harm in making sure,’ said Jenny.
They sat for a moment, contemplating. Arbor shifted uneasily in his chair.
‘I’ll be off, then,’ he said.
‘All right.’
He rose and made his way to the front door. He could feel the brush of cotton as Jenny pushed past him and held the door.
‘So when will you be back?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure. I’ve got a few things to do in town. And I want to check out some other things about Amira’s dad a bit more. Sure as hell, those Ds don’t know what they’re doing. I might be just a probie, but at least I’ve got my head screwed on.’
‘Are you sure?’
They smiled.
‘Listen,’ said Arbor. ‘When Amira wakes up, if she’s able to talk, give me a ring. Okay? I’ll make some time.’
‘Okay. I’ll do that.’
‘And if you want to have a go yourself, ask her a few questions. Gentle, like. Well, I trust your judgement.’
‘Yeah, thanks for that.’
‘No, that’s not—’
‘Yeah, I know, Danny. Go.’
‘Yeah, well. I’ll see you, then.’
‘See you, Danny.’
‘Okay. See you, Jenny.’
He climbed into the paddy wagon.
It felt good to say her name. And he realised, apart from those first few official moments in the station, this was about the first time he’d used it.
He could feel it in the pit of his stomach. It was the kind of thing that grew when you were trapped between a rock and a hard place.
The rule book couldn’t be clearer. It told him that Amira Rashid should be sitting there beside him, on the journey back to the station and to Burke and Cole. But there was no way he could let that happen. He knew that if they ever got their hands on her, Burke and Cole would be at the poor girl like heavyweights. They would bully her, frighten her and, in the end, break her into little pieces. Amira needed more, he decided. She needed protection. She needed to be handled with kid gloves. So it was clear to him. He would take it upon himself to keep her out of harm’s way. He would keep her at the farm until either the case was solved or the detectives had returned to the smoke. The rule book be damned, he decided. He would worry about it only when they threw it at him.
He imagined himself crushed between the Burke woman’s thighs. The sensation, he concluded, would be pretty much the same.
He put the detective out of his mind. If he had to think about a woman, he decided, he would think about Jenny Martin. Jenny Martin, who in such a short space of time had become so much more than just a person of interest. There was something about Jenny, he decided, something about her that put him at ease, that seemed to generate in him a natural trust. It was that country vibe that she had. She was so honest and earthy, so plain and down-to-earth. And there was more, something silly and yet enormously appealing. He loved her freckles.
Sure enough, the woman had some years on him. A decade, at least. Probably more. And there was an added complication. In caring for Amira, she had become a player in the murder inquiry. But he knew that none of this really mattered. She held a real attraction for him and he hoped and sensed that she might have some feelings for him, too. The truth of it was, he wanted her. Plain and simple. And, he thought, as he lifted his balls off the sweating car seat, it had better be sooner than later.
‘You took your time.’
O’Reilly was standing. For only the second time in days, it seemed. The detectives were at Arbor’s desk, hard at it, playing cards. Hearts, Arbor judged, but he couldn’t be sure.
‘The pub’s having a smorgasbord,’ O’Reilly continued. ‘But I’ll be back soon enough. Now might be a good time for you to catch up on your paperwork.’
‘Right, Sarge,’ said Arbor. ‘I’ll do that.’ Of course, he had no intention of going anywhere near paperwork. Especially if O’Reilly wasn’t around. But he made all the right noises.
‘Hey, Sarge,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I use your desk? The detectives … They’ve sort of commandeered mine.’
O’Reilly thought about it.
‘Yeah, whatever,’ he said. ‘Just don’t think it’s permanent. I told you. I’ll be back in an hour. After that you can make do with the front counter.’
He left. Arbor deliberated for a moment before taking his place at O’Reilly’s desk. He ran his fingers across the screen of the PC. It was thick with dust. It didn’t mean that the computer was never used. Far from it. O’Reilly had used it to view the crime scene photos just the other day. But it did mean that O’Reilly was a lazy bastard.
‘Hey, Constable.’
It was Burke, leaning back in her chair like a Mississippi gambler.
‘What?’
‘Fancy a game? You can buy in for twenty. A dollar a trick after that.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Please yourself.’
The detectives laughed. Arbor hit the power button on the PC. He knew that, at some stage, he would have to play their game. But not yet.
‘No sign of your girlfriend, then?’ asked Burke.
‘What?’
‘The Paki chick. Amira. No sign of her?’
This was too much. Even for them.
‘No,’ said Arbor. ‘There’s no sign of her. But I’ll keep looking.’
‘You do that,’ said Burke. ‘And remember. If you do find her, we’ve got first dibs. Okay? Unless, of course, you’ve got it in your head that you’re smart enough to solve a murder case yourself.’
I might just do that, thought Arbor. I might just do that.
He looked at the screen again, at the shimmering logo of the Western Australia Police Force. He wondered what the powers that be might call the likes of Cole and Burke. To him, they were what the Poms called ‘The Filth’.
He loaded the photos he had taken at the Blairs’.
The sticker, he found, was surprisingly easy to identify. To the naked eye, at the farm, it had seemed just an image, an emblem, but on the PC, with the help of the zoom, he could see lettering. Encircling the coat of arms were the words ‘Australian Rural Union’. Arbor had never heard of it. He did a search for the Union’s website. He found it easily.
He felt a wave of disappointment as he scrolled down the page. Holding to a broad range of aims such as fellowship, solidarity, support and charity, the Australian Rural Union seemed little more than a boys’ club for farmers. Reading between the lines, he could see similarities to other civic organisations such as Rotary, Apex, the Lions and the Masons. Very up-front, open, nothing to be concerned about, the ARU was an organisation that every self-respecting farmer would join. Yearly subscriptions to the Australian Rural Union, the Farmers’ Federation and the National Party would be perfectly in order.
Arbor looked for more. He left the website and scrolled further down the list of search results. They were mostly uninteresting: blogs by farmers, blogs by farmers’ wives, reports about meetings, social events and the like. He was close to giving up when a new website and one word in particular caught his eye: ‘purity’. Curious, he looked further. This new website held an investigative piece linking the Rural Union to something called the ‘National Purity League’.
Arbor felt his stomach turn. But he kept reading. Written by a well-respected eastern states journalist, the article talked of a growing, potentially dangerous, relationship between the Rural Union and the darker, altogether seedier, National Purity League. It argued that while not technically affiliated with th
e Union, the National Purity League had become firmly entrenched within the larger body and was now using its structure and resources to enlist new members, to organise and to grow. And while it had not yet attracted too much attention from the law, the National Purity League had, at times, come close to the line, playing a major role in anti-immigration and anti-refugee demonstrations.
Although it was based mainly in Queensland, the article suggested, the National Purity League was slowly gaining a solid footing in the rest of rural Australia. It had become particularly strong in outback Western Australia. Much as its name suggested, the League had an ethos that harkened back to the 1950s and the White Australia Policy. White nationalists.
Arbor felt annoyed. Annoyed that the organisation was completely unknown to him. And annoyed that such a thing even existed. He scanned down the article, feeling more and more a need to turn away, to kill the screen entirely. But could the Blairs be tied up with the National Purity League? It didn’t seem too far a stretch.
He was still there, tapping the mouse, gazing at the screen, when the door opened and O’Reilly returned.
‘Here,’ the sergeant said, dropping a container and a drink on the front counter. ‘Don’t say I never do anything for you.’
Arbor got up and approached the parcel. He peeled back the lid of the container.
‘Thanks, Sarge,’ he said. It was a shepherd’s pie. At least, it looked like a shepherd’s pie. A shepherd’s pie and a dozen or so particularly soggy chips. But it was something, he thought, as he sank his teeth into the freshest of the chips. With the ginger beer, it represented the first show of goodwill he had received from O’Reilly in nearly seven weeks. Something, it seemed, worth celebrating.
The potato on the pie was starchy and barely edible, but it filled a hole. Thankfully, that hole had been made remarkably smaller by the French toast and banana thing that Jenny had served up to him earlier. It had been delightful. Jenny … He checked his watch. It was past one. Why hadn’t she called? Surely Amira was up and about by now.
His frustration had become a physical thing, loaded with sensation. The onion in the pie was biting his nostrils, and the meal itself had left him with a distinctly metallic aftertaste. The air conditioner was now running a few degrees too cold. O’Reilly’s snoring had an edge like sandpaper. And Burke’s laughter had all the charm of a Disney hyena.
He took his drink bottle and what remained of the meal to the kitchen and tossed them into the already overfull bin. It was his job to empty it, he knew, but it could wait. The detectives were returning to the case. Now, he reckoned, was as good a time as any to find out exactly where, if anywhere, their investigation was going. He stopped on his way back to the counter, peering over Burke’s shoulder at her open laptop.
‘Is there something we can help you with, Constable?’ she asked, deliberately masking his view.
‘Yeah … No … I …’ He couldn’t help the stammer. ‘I just thought you could use me. In your investigation, I mean. I mean, I know I’m not exactly a local, but I’ve been here a while. I know things.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure you do,’ said Burke. ‘But, let’s just say our inquiry is going places that are a bit beyond you. Okay? A bit beyond your pay grade. So why don’t you get back to your dusting, eh? There’s a good boy.’
Fine. Fuck you, too, thought Arbor. I’ve got young ears. You two love the sound of your own voices so much, I can just as easily eavesdrop.
He dragged a stool to the front counter, sat down and grabbed paper and pen. They were so far up their own arses, he decided, they would have no idea what he was doing.
They were rabbiting on about land. About what they were calling a ‘Pakistani land-grab’. A land buy-up by Rashid, his brother and several other unknown Pakistan-based businessmen. So Mandy’s story was true, Arbor thought.
It was all deeply suspicious, the detectives had decided. Through some clever internet searching, Cole had learned that over the last few years, the ‘land-grabbers’ had bought up some six thousand hectares in the area between Chatton and Whitney. Mostly in small parcels, using funds of questionable origin. This property had been left fallow ever since, to be used for God knows what.
Cole had a theory and he was running with it. The land, he suggested, might have been intended as the local base for some future large-scale drug operation, or perhaps even as a terrorist training camp. To Arbor’s surprise, Burke agreed with him. That might just be possible, she said. And further, the detectives happily agreed, Rashid had been the perfect point man. The buy-up had been going on for, what, five or six years? Rashid had lived in Chatton for all that time, in the seemingly innocuous guise of a quiet small-time businessman. All under the noses of the dim-witted locals.
Poppies, opium, marijuana, even ISIS or Al Qaeda. The list of possibilities was endless. Arbor could hear them squabbling. Was Rashid’s murder the result of a disagreement, turned violent, between members of a drug cartel or, worse, a falling out between Islamic extremists? It could be anything.
Yes, it could be anything, thought Arbor. But it was highly unlikely. They might just as easily be building a new home for Pakistani cricket. With a very big car park.
‘Garumph!’
O’Reilly was choking. His feet hit the floor and he bolted upright.
‘Fuck. Where was I?’
The detectives laughed.
Where you’ve always been, you fat bastard, thought Arbor. But this time in a grog-induced coma.
‘Where are you going?’ asked the sergeant.
Arbor was heading for the front door.
‘It’s too bloody cold in here, Sarge,’ he said. ‘I need some sun.’
‘Yeah, all right,’ said O’Reilly. ‘Just don’t be long.’
Arbor stepped onto the pavement and took out his phone. The bricks on the outside of the station were in full sun and he enjoyed their warmth and texture as he leaned against them. He called Jenny.
‘Hi, Danny,’ she answered. ‘She woke up about an hour ago, but she was all over the place. She didn’t know what day it was. I gave her some juice and told her to go back to sleep. That’s all right, isn’t it? I mean, I know you want to talk to her, but … Well, you wouldn’t have got much the way she was.’
‘But she’s all right, isn’t she?’ asked Arbor. ‘I mean, should we have called the doctor?’
‘Don’t second-guess yourself, Danny,’ said Jenny. ‘No, I think she’s fine. I’m sure if you can manage to get out here later, she’ll be able to talk. You will make it out, won’t you?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘I’ll let you know, Danny. If anything changes.’
‘Cool. I’ll see you, then.’
He hung up. Less than satisfied. A little uneasy. Never mind, he told himself. Jenny had said Amira was fine. Besides, these sorts of things, he hoped, had a way of working themselves out.
‘G’day there, Danny.’
‘Hi.’
It was the Jones boys, cruising by on their squeaking, barely roadworthy bicycles.
‘Whatcha doin’, Danny?’ said Drew.
‘Have you got a girlfriend, Danny?’ said Jason.
‘What?’
‘We heard you,’ said Shane.
‘Look, bugger off, will you?’
‘We’re going to tell our mum on you,’ said Jason.
‘Tell her what?’
‘That you told us to fuck off,’ Jason continued.
‘What? No, I didn’t. When?’
‘The other day. When the Paki snuffed it.’
Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. He had been under a lot of pressure.
‘You three should be wearing helmets.’
The boys laughed.
‘Yeah, right,’ said Drew. ‘In your dreams.’
‘So, who is she, Danny?’ said Jason. ‘Is she a good root?’
Little pricks. They wouldn’t know what a good root was.
Arbor made a sudden dive at them, nothing too threatening, just enou
gh to set them back. The boys rode away, laughing even louder. Arbor climbed the small step back into the station. He was met in the doorway by Cole and Burke.
‘Out of the way, big guy,’ said Burke. ‘Coming through.’
She went through him like a rhino.
‘Your boss has recommended the smorgasbord,’ she said. ‘We thought we’d give it a try.’
You do that, Arbor thought. He found himself speaking aloud.
‘Try the shepherd’s pie,’ he said. ‘That’s what the sarge got me. It was very nice.’
‘Thanks for the tip, Constable,’ said Burke. ‘I might just do that.’
Anytime, thought Arbor, and he stepped inside.
‘Never. Never. Pull the other one … No. Fuck.’
O’Reilly laughed. He was on the phone. To an old mate, Arbor could tell, given the man’s relaxed pose and the choice language he was using. In any case, he was engrossed in the call and showed no interest in Arbor as he passed.
It was now or never, Arbor decided. There would never be a better time to find out exactly what the detectives were up to. And, after all, it was his desk. They were only squatters. He sat down and flicked through the loose papers that lay around. They were mostly handwritten notes. Mostly illegible. He set the papers aside and focused on Burke’s laptop. Luckily, the detective had left it on. Had it been password protected, he would have been stuffed.
As it was, he negotiated her files with ease. He found a folder marked ‘Homicide’, a sub-folder marked ‘Rashid’, and, within this folder, several others. He found no mention of the Blairs. A few folders identified the detectives’ international inquiries. One was marked ‘Ali Rashid’, presumably Salim’s brother. But it was another that drew Arbor’s attention, a sub-folder marked ‘Land Acquisitions’. Arbor opened this folder.
Inside, there were several maps, as well as some documents containing links to Landgate sites. The maps covered the area between Chatton and Whitney, each featuring a highlighted parcel of land. The detectives were right in this regard, thought Arbor. It appeared that Salim Rashid and his connections had been buying up big.
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