Flaxmead

by Brian Cain

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  The assassin had indeed been busy; he had information on Flaxmead that went back along way. Finding it had been expensive and with the aid of patience began to muster parts of a jigsaw puzzle but many pieces were still missing. He wanted to throw everything he could at it when the time was right.

  Joel Renoir alias Rick O'Brien left the services of Jib Habib and began working for himself picking up near full time work with Delores. His new found freedom had given him a feeling of invincibility, moving around and dealing with new contacts convinced him his past was forgotten. Stepping out of the realms of the underworld and Kings Cross into the colour and excitement of the horse racing industry was intoxicating. Running short of funds was a major reason for his choice but he put it in the back of his mind. Habib had paid poorly knowing Renoir needed the cover extended by his operations. Renoir had light brown shoulder length hair, stocky build spending a lot of time in gymnasiums and had two distinguishing facial features. A deep natural slit in his chin's wide jaw bone and a scar over his right eye from a knife wound. He also had huge hands in comparison to the rest of his anatomy. Originally a French air born soldier in the legion his time with the French Secret Service when transferred had been short. Selling information to the Libyan government of Gadaffi he had desecrated the sacred creed unwritten law and would be hunted to the end of the earth. With falsified passport and documents under the name of Rickman O'Brien had became an Australian citizen. Information leaked by Renoir led to the capture of British and French operatives cloaked in the Libyan oil industry spying on the terror regime of Gadaffi. Louise Legrande a French secret service operative was rescued by John Stanton's eldest son and in the process of protecting her was himself captured, tortured and executed. Louise Legrande made it back to France and was still a member of the French Secret Service. The sanction on Joel Renoir had been given to Louise Legrande and she would never give up.

  The assassin sent O'Brien for a trip to the hunter valley to check out the abode of the hunter valley thunderbolt. Studying the Field and Harper properties he came up on the radar of local police sergeant Trevor Plod. His hire car, a plain white Ford Falcon was seen in the vicinity of Harper and Fields properties on three consecutive days, Good o'l Trev lay in wait in the hundred kilometre zone behind some wattle bushes on the side of Broke road Pokolbin, to the east of the Harpers. The vehicle had never ventured to the west and most vehicles parked for a few minutes seeing if the could see Flaxmead then left. Trev waited for an hour then noticed the vehicle speed past heading east, Renoir was no slave to law. Trev gave chase waiting until he was under the bumper of the speeding Ford before engaging his lights and siren. Renoir made a quick assessment, he had seen highway patrol pursuit vehicles in the area and the road he was on was long a straight with few intersections. Although he was being stopped by a lumbering four wheel drive the chance of evasion with the available back up was poor so he pulled over. Trev left his flashing lights on and walked to the driver's window of Renoirs Falcon. It was closed so he knocked on the glass; Renoir opened it only as far as needed to hand Trev his licence. "Good afternoon sir, the speed limit along this stretch of Broke road is one hundred kilometres an hour, I clocked you at one hundred and thirty, do you have any reason for the excessive speed Mr," Trev studied his licence. "O'Brien."

  Renoir pouted and shook his head, "No, I've been trying to get a glimpse of that racehorse Flaxmead; I need to concentrate a bit more on what I'm doing."

  "Okay, three days is a long time to spend to get a look at a horse."

  "I work in the industry and just wanted to see him that's all I'm a racing fanatic."

  "Mmmm, could you just wait here please?" Trev walked back to his vehicle and punched Renoir's information into the police computer. A string of street and assault offences came up for O'Brien but no outstanding warrants. Trev undid the clip holding his pistol in tis holster on his right hip and loosened the weapon in its holster. Renoir noticed the move in his rear vision mirror as the officer handed him his licence.

  "I'm issuing a warning for your speed and suggest you slow down, next time I'll call it through to the highway patrol they deal with road crime in a very effective manner. However I am making note of your presence in the area and if I see you in the future I'll pass it on to the CIB in Sydney where you come from. I'm sure they know more about you than I do by the look of your police record."

  Renoir became agitated. "A bit stiff monsieur, I was just on holiday looking to see this horse."

  "You're French I gather."

  "I've been here a long time mate, comes out when I'm flustered like now."

  "I won't forget your face, Rickman O'Brien, strange name for a Frenchman."

  "My ancestors were French Irish, Napoleonic wars you know."

  "I can't check that far back on the records so I'll take your word for it for now. Now I'd appreciate it if you got going and took in some alternate sights on your holiday."

  "No worries catch ya." Renoir started his car and drove of sedately. Trev clipped his weapon back in its holster and watched the car drive into the distance. He was going to do a bit more probing into why Renoir was around.

  Renoir was clearly flustered by the encounter and pulled off the road a few kilometres east, into Loudbark wines. He had instructions to bring back some to the counter wines available from hunter wineries that could not be purchased in commercial outlets. Delores had an extensive wine cellar and took great pleasure in serving high quality Australian wine when impressionable friends were socialising.

  He sat under the trees outside on top of the ridge by the car park in the cool breeze amongst the chattering parrots. He eventually calmed went inside, bought several cases of top class white and red wine, and with assistance loaded them into his car. He heard a horse screaming and whinnying carried on the wind, he asked the sales attendant helping him, it was Bob Field's. "Is that a horse I can hear?"

  "Yes it is."

  "You have horses in the wineries?"

  "Yes, cattle, sheep, goats, Alpacas."

  "Oh, nice place, really relaxing."

  Flaxmead reared up and screamed in the wind running loose in the open paddock below the range Jessica watching his outlandish antics. Renoir was about to climb into his car, the view of Shangri La was blocked by the Loudbark complex. "That don't sound like no ordinary horse, I've heard something like that before at a race meeting I reckon."

  "A lot of horses sound the same."

  Renoir frowned looking puzzled, he turned back to Bob as Bob went to walk away. "You ever seen the horse Flaxmead that comes from round here."

  "Not for a while no."

  "So you have seen him?"

  "Yes."

  "Where?"

  "Where he lives down the road west of here."

  "I tried to get a glimpse of him, I'm a race fan but had no luck."

  "People round here are a bit touchy about Flaxmead."

  "So I noticed."

  "They say if you listen to the wind you can hear his cry any where in the valley."

  "Really."

  "The Irish say it's an omen just like the cry of the banshee."

  "You can hear the cry of that horse, is that what you mean."

  "The cry of what horse, I hear nothing." Flaxmead's screams continued to resonate in the wind.

  Renoir hesitated then began to climb in his car. "Thanks see you around."

  "No worries," replied Bob. He turned and walked away with a chuckle.

  Flaxmead was certainly screaming more than usual, he was having a hell of a time and he could be heard miles down the valley in the wind as he charged around flat out enjoying his freedom. Jessica had a saddle pack on him carrying just over eighty kilo, what she thought he would have to carry in the Melbourne Cup.

  Bob made his way down the now well worn path through the old gate from years back now in use again accessing Shangri La. He wanted to see how the Nebbiolo grape crush had gone and discuss progress with Shangri La winemakers. />
  He ran into Winston looking across the valley from the car park viewing area toward the cries from Flaxmead. "He's revved up today Winston."

  "Yes, I've seldom heard him cry like that. He's gone beyond his battle cry for some reason."

  "I just told a bloke it was a banshee, I'm not even sure what one is. Seemed to work okay, took his mind of it being a horse. Some people ask too many questions."

  "An ancient Irish myth can be traced back as far as Norman times across Ireland, England and Scotland. Said to appear as usually an old woman like a hag, early Christians used it to depict which's in the pagan realm but the myth sat with certain Irish clans of the time. The O'Grady, O'Neil's, O'Connor's, Kavanaghs and the O'Brien clans. If their family members heard the cry death was imminent, hence the cry of the banshee."

  "How do you know all this?"

  "I was educated in a British university, not uncommon to have extensive knowledge of history of the UK after spending seventeen years in their education system. I majored in history and economics."

  "You said the O'Brien clan?"

  "Yes a fearsome Irish clan from the times of the banshee."

  "The bloke I just served was named O'Brien, I remember it from his credit card. Flaxmead screamed his head off while he was here. Flaxmead isn't an old hag but he sounds like what you'd expect from one of those banshee sheilas."

  Winston chuckled. "I sometimes wonder what Flaxmead is, sometimes he appears surreal. There's a rumour he once killed a man but it's not true, nor is he the bringer of death. He'll be the bringer of a lot of disappointment, that I can guarantee the establishment. He can sense things I can't, if he was screaming like a banshee he had a good reason. What did this gentleman look like?"

  "Bloke with a slight French accent, stocky fit looking bloke with light brown hair, casual neat dress. Average height."

  "If you see him round here again, best we pay a bit more attention to his motives."

  "He asked a lot of questions about Flaxy, bought a swag of counter wines he had a Sydney address."

  "When I first saw Flaxmead, he had this aura about him, uncanny. In England years ago I was able to stop an armed robber before he got in our house just by taking note of the dogs behaviour. He no doubt saved the whole family from a madman on a mission to steal my father's wealth, just a few pounds kept in a jar in the kitchen. The man was a hunted murderer the dog knew, we didn't. How? A more powerful lesson than anything taught in the corridors of education. I watched animals for such behaviour for a long time, by the time I worked with Wilson and Bartholomew I had been blessed with the perception of gut feel. A pet or animal around a person I was dealing with backed up these perceptions of human nature. It would be a long time before Wilson and Bartholomew had their lives changed by an animal. That animal was Flaxmead."

  "Have I missed something Winston?"

  Winston chuckled his shoulders jumping up and down. "No you can't miss a show that only just started." He put his hand on Bobs shoulder and started to walk to the winery complex changing the subject. "Now this Nebbiolo grape process is going rather well. We have an idea on barrelling and would like your opinion." The pair walked off side by side.