by June Whyte
Jake nodded. “No worries, dude. Anything specific you want me to do?”
“When you’ve finished with Lucky can you ultrasound Cleo’s right deltoid muscle?”
“Sure, man.”
“And stand her wrists in ice water for five minutes then rub in that new red gunk Ben sent over. It’s supposed to cure everything—or so he says.”
“You’d better believe it!” Jake’s metal-clad eyebrows almost connected with his head band and his cheeky grin alerted me to trouble.
Hmmm…did he know something about that horrible red gunk that I didn’t? Better not to ask.
I pushed the secrets of Ben’s vile smelling liniment from my mind and smiled down at Lucky. “Here you go, sweetheart.” I fumbled around inside my pockets until I found an unfinished Snickers bar.Naturally it had hairs and bits of fluff stuck to it, but Lucky didn’t seem to mind. Racing dogs are rarely allowed chocolate due to its caffeine content, which is probably why Lucky, new to the role of house pet, struggled to break free from Jake and explore my pockets for more of the same.
“Oh, and Jake, if you get time, ice Flynn’s track leg. He can get a bit wimpy when he sees the icepack, but play his favorite Jimmy Barnes CD, Shout! and he’ll stand for hours, no worries. Okay?”
“Roger and out, boss lady!”
Throwing a wet towel at Jake’s head, I settled Lofty into his kennel with a bowl of milk, glucose and a dehydration mix.
Then flicked my magic cape and changed into Kat McKinley, Private Investigator.
9
I parked my station wagon behind a cluster of thick bushes twenty meters up from Peter’s tire warehouse. Noone in sight—all clear and ready to proceed. Tanya had taken a couple of hours off work to cover the first shift while I collected Lofty. And figuring Peter would recognize our personal vehicles, our surveillance car was an ancient Holden Kingswood belonging to Ben’s dad.
“Seen anything suspicious?”
Tanya jerked forward as though stung by a bee. Coffee sloshed from her open thermos onto her miniscule French Connection skirt. “Oh, geez…it’s youKat,” she gasped, winding the window down. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“Of course it’s me. Who were you expecting, Jack the Ripper?”
“Not funny. There’s a killer on the loose and we haven’t a clue who he is.”
“Any movement from Peter?”
“The only thing moving near that warehouse is the sign out the front and that’s only because the wind’s blowing. I don’t know how Peter makes his money, but he sure doesn’t make it selling tires.”
“Perhaps the tires are a cover for something else.”
“Like what?”
“Well, derr,” I said, sounding exactly like Devil’s Spawn, “that’s what we’re here to find out.”
We quickly swapped cars, Tanya grumbling because although late for work she now had to go home and change her skirt.
“Why bother?” I said, burying a grin. “Just take the skirt off and wrap your scarf around your waist. No one will know the difference.”
“Hilarious.” Her glare could have burnt holes in steel.
After Tanya drove off in my car, I shifted Mr. Taylor’s Kingswood further along the road and parked behind a sprawling bottlebrush. Being such a distinctive old heap, a passerby might get suspicious if the car stood in the same spot for too long.
From my new vantage point, I had a clear view of the front of the warehouse, but felt confident no one inside the building could see me. Satisfied, I started poking around the car’s dashboard. Fair dinkum…it was out of the Ark. No CD player, no tape deck, no demister, no air-con and for some unknown reason, no windscreen wipers. I also discovered, very quickly, that there were more wire springs in the driver’s seat than stuffing.
I wriggled my rear end until I found a more comfortable position. Things had been turning over at a mighty fast clip over the last twenty-four hours. There’d been no time to get my thoughts under control. Especially with the police overrunning the house, firing questions, taking my fingerprints, subjecting me to narrow-eyed suspicious looks.
I sighed. Twiddled the thick plastic wrapping on the end of the broken gear stick. I hadn’t even had time to grieve for Matt. Until the killer was behind bars, there’d likely be no real closure. There again, if the killer wasn’t caught soon, my friends could soon be grieving for me.
Bored, I tipped back in my seat, prepared to spend a couple of hours studying the exciting visual of wheat growing in a nearby paddock. I should be home working on the dogs. This surveillance stuff was a complete waste of time. What on earth did I expect our suspect to do? Run outside waving a large kitchen knife, yelling, “I did it! Come and get me!” Not likely. After all, I knew Peter Manning pretty damn well. Or I thought I did…until he’d indicated over the phone that he wanted a guarantee his dog would win. Or was I overreacting? Peter always wanted his dogs to win.
Almost asleep, I jerked upright, checked my watch for the umpteenth time and scowled at the silent warehouse. It was two o’clock. By now, Ben, using a fake foreign voice, should have rung Peter offering to sell him a new undetectable drug guaranteed to add ten lengths to a dog. If Ben had forgotten his part in the plan and was chatting on the phone to one of his bimbo girlfriends, I’d strangle him with his own telephone cord.
Another half-hour passed. I began counting magpies. Some strutted importantly along the grass verge of the road, others dug their needle sharp beaks into the dirt, searching for edible worms. The magpie-count had reached an astonishing twenty-eight, my stomach rumbled in the hope of being plied with food and if I didn’t pee soon I’d end up ruining Mr. Taylor’s leather upholstery.
Option one? Use the restroom in the petrol station half a kilometer down the road. I gnawed on my bottom lip. If I left my post now you could bet your last black jellybean Peter would be gone by the time I returned.
In desperation I cranked my crossed legs a couple of notches tighter.
Option two? A plastic ice-cream tub, chock-full of used golf balls, resided in the rear of Mr. Taylor’s car. If I dumped the balls on the floor, I’d be left with an empty receptacle. I scanned the street. Not a movement. Not a sound. Even the magpies had deserted their roadside meal. Teeth clenched, unable to hold the inevitable off a moment longer, I clambered head first over the back of the seat, upended the golf balls and went for broke.
Oooh loverly….
No sooner had I released the floodgates than I heard a crash inside the warehouse. Bent double, ecstasy temporarily halted, I jerked my head up. Nooo! Not now! Peter Manning, shouting obscenities, came barreling through the front door of the warehouse. Frozen in midstream, I watched him fling his smartly attired bulk behind the wheel of his SUV, gun the engine and screech off down the road.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Hair in my eyes, knickers digging into unmentionable cracks, I heaved myself over into the driver’s seat, cursing all cars, killers, underwear and natural body processes.
By now, Peter’s SUV had roared to the corner of the street and turned left, while I was still struggling to turn the key in the ignition. Come on. Come on. Start. After persuading the reluctant engine to kick over, I floored the accelerator. The Kingswood bunny-hopped forward, gathered speed like a tortoise with its legs tied together and then proceeded to “follow that car” at a sedate crawl. At the crossroads, anxious to see where Peter was heading, I heaved the steering wheel sharp left.
And winced.
Bugger…
Finger and thumb each side of my nose, I squeezed—just as the pungent scent of eau-de-urineflooded the Kingswood.
* * *
Whatever was lodged up Peter’s nose had him high-tailing it along the Two Wells to Gawler Road like a Formula One driver, minus the pit-stop crew. For a guy who was supposed to know his tires, he was hell bent on treating his own tread with utter contempt. If he didn’t slow down soon he’d be out of sight and I’d lose him completely.
Even with my foot flat to the boards all I could coax out of the Kingswood was a sluggish 50ks an hour. May as well pull over to the side of the road and give the old car oxygen—attempt heart surgery—say a prayer over the body.
And then God looked down from heaven. He gave me a celestial wink and performed a miracle. On the road ahead, Peter’s SUV Pajero did a screaming 180-degree turn and shot straight through the Taylor’ open gateway.
Yessss!
Three minutes later, with a sinister hiss of smoke escaping from under the car’s bonnet, I rattled along the same rocky driveway. In the paddocks on either side of me, doe-eyed cows munched cud while dreaming of whatever it is cows dream of. And daisies bloomed, their butter yellow petals rippling against a sea of irrigated pasture.
In sharp contrast, the scene taking place outside Ben’s kennel-house looked anything but peaceful. Two combatants, both fine specimens of Aussie manhood but as different as fine Brie and Cheddar cheese, eyed each other off like snappy terriers over a bone. Peter, with his perfectly styled hair and matching blue tie neatly tucked inside the lapels of a dark Armani suitcoat, could have stepped straight from the pages of Businessmagazine. Ben with his slightly too long hair, dark stubble decorating his jaw, ripped jeans, scuffed work boots and a red-and-black checked shirt secured with one button, was an advert for VB beer.
I hopped from one foot to the other in a dance of indecision. Should I dive in between the two of them? Act as referee? Strip off my clothes in an attempt to distract? When we’d discussed setting a trap for Peter the night before, I guess we hadn’t thought our plan through to its full conclusion.
I wasn’t the only witness to this highly charged exchange. Ben’s older brother Nick, his hands covered in either engine oil or black cow diarrhea, popped out of a nearby milking shed. He gave me a definite I’m-not-getting-involved-in-this, eye roll and just as quickly popped back inside again. Cindy, Nick’s grey-muzzled sheepdog slunk under the tank-stand and lay, one eye open, one ear cocked forward, observing the fallout. While farm cats of every color and shape in the cat spectrum dove for cover.
“What the fuck do you mean by questioning my integrity?” Peter snarled, a vein pulsing in the side of his neck. Fine spittle sprayed from the corners of his lips as he spoke, exemplifying the up-until-now vague term, foaming at the mouth.
“Questioning your integrity? I don’t know what you’re on about, Peter.” Without looking up, Ben dipped an old rag into a half full tub of Leather Combo and carefully applied the thick orange goo to the length of the dog lead he held in his hand.
“Don’t play the innocent with me, Taylor. I know it was you.”
“Sorry, mate. You’ve lost me.”
Peter’s hands closed into fists so tight each knuckle stood out like ribs on a skeleton. “So you’re too much of a chicken-shit coward to admit it?”
Uh! Oh!
I watched Ben stretch his neck, slowly rotate his shoulders then place the lead over the hitching rail beside six others. He turned towards Peter and smiled. All teeth and no eyes. “Better watch it, mate,” he warned, his voice as soft as the fur on a charging bull.
“Watch nothing!” Peter spat. “You’re a dipshit, Taylor, and I’m going to knock that stupid grin off your face and into the next paddock.”
Double Uh! Oh!
Ben’s eyes flickered and narrowed. He carefully scratched behind one ear, his grin set in a concrete mask. “Look, I don’t want to hurt you, mate.” He carefully screwed the lid back onto the Leather Combo container and placed it on an outside shelf. “What say we go inside, grab a beer and talk about what’s bothering you?”
“You can stick your beer up your ass!” Peter took two steps toward his opponent and pushed his puce-colored face closer. “Ever heard of caller ID…mate?”
Ben raised one eyebrow and glanced across at me with an expression on his face that clearly said…bummer.
I quickly made a mental note of our faux pas in my sleuthing diary.
Eyes chips of frost, Peter sent a thick yellow globule of spit dancing across the dirt. “Why ring me? Why pretend to be some foreign git instead of yourself?”
“Um…caller ID, eh? Fancy that.”
“And why would you think I’d be interested in buying drugs?” Peter drew himself up to his full height, which was still a head shorter than Ben’s six-two, and quivered. “Answer. Me. That.” Emphasizing each word, Peter poked Ben in the chest three times.
May as well have tried breaking his finger on a brick wall.
“Watch it, mate.” Ben’s retaliatory shove sent Peter reeling backwards until he stumbled and went bum first in the dirt.
“Aw…Ben…I don’t think you should have done that.”
These guys were going to kill each other. Wringing my hands and saying, “Aw Ben” wasn’t going to cut it. Ben’s brother, Nick, was as much help as ice cream in a blizzard. And my fighting skills were up there with Pooh Bear’s.
Peter sprang to his feet and immediately adopted the traditional boxing pose. Hands chest high, fists bunched, narrow eyes focused. For several minutes they danced around each other, huffing, puffing, snorting, spitting and trading testosterone vibes like a couple of ten-year-olds in the school playground.
“You’re a prat, Taylor!”
“You’re a thug, Manning!”
“I’m a thug?” Peter’s voice skidded upwards. “You offer to sell me drugs and then call mea thug.” Another phlegm-laden globule of spit hit the dust a few centimeters from Ben’s feet.
Ben tossed an exploratory fist in Peter’s direction and then danced backwards. “Does the name Matthew Turner mean anything to you?”
“Of course it does. We all knew Matt…” And then the subtext behind the question must have registered. Peter’s jaw dropped. “You bastard—”
“Hey, come on. This isn’t getting us anywhere. Break it up, fellas…” Palms face out in the global gesture of I-come-in-peace, I stepped between Ben and Peter at the exact moment Peter swung a lethal right uppercut. And somehow, on the upward arc, the point of my chin got in the way.
Or that’s what Ben told me afterwards.
At the time, I didn’t see the fist coming, can’t remember the punch connecting and didn’t feel my head bouncing along the asphalt.
It was pretty much good-night and sweet dreams….
10
I woke to a jackhammer excavating the inside of my skull, scooping out my brains and replacing them with burning coals.
Warily, I unglued one eye.
It was daylight. I was lying in a hospital bed. And a nurse was entering the room. I went to sit up but my head felt like every member of the Two Wells football team had kicked it during their recent Grand-Final match.
I lay down again.
The smiling nurse placed a water jug on the table beside my bed. I didn’t return her smile. During the night, every time I drifted off to sleep, this blue-and-white starched figure complete with flashlight, thermometer and clipboard, appeared by my bed. Always with the same questions:
How many fingers am I holding up, Ms. McKinley?
What day is it, Ms. McKinley?
When did you last use your bowels, Ms. McKinley?
Still wearing her artificial smile like a badge, Florence Nightingale lifted a biro, poised it over her clipboard. “Good morning, dear. Sleep well?”
“Four fingers. It’s Saturday morning. And not since you inspected the contents of my bedpan last time and commented on the size, consistency and color of the contents.”
Undeterred, the nurse smiled at her clipboard, added three ticks then slipped a thermometer between my lips.
Why had I given in and let Ben drive me to the Gawler hospital? When I regained consciousness after being knocked out, I’d assured the dithering trio I was fine, just had a bit of a headache. But did the three wise men listen to me? You’ve got it. An apologetic Peter Manning, bowing and scraping and virtually promising me his first-born child, helped lift me into Ben’s
car while Nick handed me two frozen packets of Country Fresh baby peas. One for my jaw and one my head.
And two hours later, when the doctor shone a torch in my eyes, asked a few questions and decided to admit me overnight for observation, Ben was still by my side. Of course I told the doctor I couldn’t accept his hospitality as I had dogs to feed. But Ben, being the good Samaritan he is, promised to send one of his own workmen over to help Jake, so I reluctantly agreed on the sleepover.
Florence Nightingale, still fussing beside me, brought me back to the present. “You’re one of those greyhound training ladies, aren’t you, dear?”
I nodded. What else could I do with a cylinder of plastic that tasted of disinfectant denting my tongue?
“We had a greyhound training gentleman admitted here last night. Looked like he’d been beaten up,” she went on, puffing my arm up to near-bursting point with the blood-pressure gizmo. “He’s next door, in room 32B. Name’s Barney Thompson. Do you know him?”
The tall string-bean steward who operated the startingboxes at the track?
I spat the thermometer from my mouth. “Barney? Is he okay? What happened to him?”
“No, no, no,” she protested, jamming the hard plastic tube back in place. Assured that the thermometer was cemented between my lips, she shook her head. “Mr. Thompson has a fractured skull, three broken ribs and a broken arm. He told the doctor he fell out of a tree, which doesn’t make sense. I ask you, what tree inflicts bruises to over eighty percent of your body?”
I bit down hard on the plastic. This was getting scarier by the minute. Even stewards weren’t immune. Had Matt’s murderer put Barney Thompson in hospital? Or was the killer only one member of a well-organized gang?
Lots of questions. No answers. But one thing I did know—reclining in a hospital bed dressed in nothing but a starchy white gown with a dirty big slit down the back made me a sitting duck for anyone to walk in and blow me away.