by Jay Darby
“Very true, Mr Chairman,” KA4 said with his usual grandeur. “From all reports, Roberts has nothing. His investigation’s been granted to appease the media and welfare groups. He will find nothing out west, there’s naught to concern yourselves with.”
KA9 laughed. “Wish I knew what you fellas do in your civvy lives, when you’re not here playing High Council. It’s annoying being unaware of who knows what, and can do this and that…”
KA2 scratched his buzz cut, grey head. “It’s been the way for centuries that only our three highest ranking members and KA6 know the true identity of all members. It’s for your own protection, KA9.”
The others mumbled their agreeance.
“We’ve still not solved the problem of Galios,” KA2 continued. “I believe what KA4 says, but the investigation’s a distraction we can do without. Nothing good comes from those like Roberts sniffing around. Never know what they’ll stumble across…”
“I assure you, Mr Chairman, there’s nothing to find,” KA4 said.
“What’s completely assured in this world, my dear friend? Galios must be removed from the equation…We’ll kill two birds with one stone.”
“How?”
“One, Galios will no longer disrupt our plans. Two, he’s inspiration for Roberts, and that boy will lose all resolve without his guidance. His death will be a warning.”
“Is it not a significant risk to assassinate him?”
“I see no alternative. Our interests in parliament must be protected.”
“And Roberts?”
“We deal with him if and when he becomes a threat…”
“I suggest Galios be eliminated well before the elections.”
“Agreed KA4, and I’ll request the Supreme Leader’s approval immediately. KA9, do you have assassins in mind?”
“Yes. KA72, a newly promoted team leader,” KA9 said. “He and his team are perfect for the job.”
“Ah, the fellow who took over from that incompetent KA43…Excellent.”
“We aren’t the only ones appalled by Galios’ pro-immigration policies,” KA9 added. “From what I’m hearing, others may take care of him first.”
KA2 sat back in the chair and spread his arms wide. “You see, my friends, there’s no need for concern. Senator Nick Galios will thwart us no more.”
TWENTY TWO
Porter heaved open the homestead’s front door and gawked at the pink sky. The sun glowed orange and sank into a shimmering horizon. His sniffed at the air and caught the unmistakable scent of flowering eucalypts. An angry magpie squawked in the distance.
The man standing in front of him on the wide veranda cleared his throat. In his mid-sixties, of medium height and thin as a marathon runner, he wore a crisp Police Inspector’s uniform. He’d combed his grey hair from front to back.
“Inspector George Barrett...” Barrett offered his hand. “Chief of Detectives and acting Local Area Commander of Crooked River.” He pointed at Porter’s face. “Nasty bruise. Did you lose a fight?”
“Yeah, with a baseball bat...” Porter shook his hand and introduced himself.
He glanced to the woman next to Barrett. He guessed her to be close to thirty. Taller than average, she had a healthy glow and athletic leanness. She wore a white blouse and a grey skirt that covered her knees. Her golden hair, thick and shiny like her lips, she’d tied in a ponytail.
“G’day,” Porter said to her.
Her eyes, deep turquoise pools, met his as she dipped her head.
Porter led them down a hallway, through the kitchen and into a family room at the rear. The spacious family room adjoined the kitchen and had been set up as an office. Flames crackled from an open fireplace in the corner.
The Carinya team chatted on sofas, then stood when Barrett entered.
Porter waved a hand towards him. “Inspector George Barrett, the local boss…This is Lionel Roberts, the Investigation Manager. Sergeant John Rhodes, and Senior Constable Fred Klose, from the Feds.”
Barrett shook their hands then turned to his female colleague. “Chaps, meet Detective Senior Constable Lyn Foster.” His strong voice with its’ far-west inflection reminded Porter of macho voice-over blokes from 1990’s beer commercials. “Lyn’s the liaison officer between our command and Carinya, your first point of contact for any needs.”
“Good to know…” Lionel said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise, and I’ll be happy to help any way I can.” Her voice was confident and smooth as velvet.
“Well, welcome chaps,” Barrett said. “How was your flight? Trust your accommodation’s suitable, I recommended it for you. And I see you’ve got three shiny Landcruisers sitting in the driveway...”
“No problems getting here,” Lionel said. “The house is perfect, and the river frontage is lovely.”
“This place is a beauty alright, over a century old, heritage listed…There’s something about these old girls, with their sandstone brick and rustic exteriors. High, ornate ceilings.” Barrett looked down. “The smell and feel of solid timber floors…”
“Location’s fantastic too, halfway between the mission and town.”
Barrett's eye’s narrowed. “You already know the way to the mission?”
“I’ve visited once before... How’s it going out there?”
“Personally, I can’t say, haven’t been for years. We’ve had very few reports of abuse, and it seems an unusual choice to base yourselves here in Crooked River.” Barrett cocked his head. “But I’m sure you have your reasons…”
“Few reported incidents, yes. It’s the unreported ones I’m interested in…”
Barrett turned from Lionel to the three policemen. “You’ll be ditching those suits, chaps. Nights remain cool, but the days are already stinking hot.”
The group chatted for twenty minutes. Barrett checked his watch. “Five already…Must be off, a meeting to get to.”
“Pleasure to meet you both,” Lionel said.
Barrett and Lyn walked towards the front door, then Barrett turned back. “Almost forgot…Lyn’s hosting your dinner tonight, on me. Our pub’s a grand old thing, you’ll love it.” He smirked. “Be your first chance to meet the locals...”
“Sounds great, thanks,” John Rhodes said. Nuggety as a pit-bull terrier, but with a gentleman’s demeanor, his bald head and greying mustache made him appear older than forty-three.
“What time, and how do we find it?” Klose asked Lyn.
“Let’s say, seven? Drive down the main street and look for a pub. We’ve only got one...”
By 8pm, Porter and the others had finished their meals at the Crooked River Hotel. He remained in the dining area with Lyn. Lionel, Klose and Rhodes had moved to stools along the bar. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung over the room. The stench of stale beer rose from stains in faded, lime-green carpet. Packed in like sheep in a shearer’s pen, rowdy patrons failed to hide their curiosity of the four outsiders who dared drink in their pub.
Porter noticed a group of locals that stood out from the rest. Six men dressed in training gear, with matching t-shirts and shorts, sat around a circular table and watched him over the top of beer glasses. “I’m guessing those blokes in the corner…” he pointed with his eyes, “are the local footy team? What’s with the filthy looks? You’d reckon I stole their teddy bears…”
Lyn snorted as she ran a finger over a wine glass. “Yep, the footy team. Always here on Wednesday night’s after training.”
“And the filthy looks?”
“That’s every male detective in Crooked River, excluding Barrett. They know of you, and why you’re here.”
Porter gritted teeth, pushed air through his nose. He’d only been in the Outback for half a day, but the crisp country air and open spaces had refreshed him. He’d decided that escaping Sydney’s demons would do him good. But the detectives’ suspicious stares winded him, worse than when he’d forgotten to wear a protective box and a speeding cricket ball had clean bowled his nuts. Could he ever esc
ape memories of Eddy Tindall’s shooting and subsequent events? Would others ever forget?
“You know what happened, and you’re still sitting here. Why?” he said.
“I’ve only been here two years, worked in Sydney’s outer west before that…” Lyn’s tone matched her kind face. “I’m nothing like this lot, and won’t judge you. We’ve all made mistakes.”
He sculled the rest of his beer, unsure how much she knew about him and which of his mistakes she referred to. “Off to the bar... Another wine?”
“No thanks, early start tomorrow.”
Porter joined the service queue and waved to acknowledge the Carinya blokes at the far end of the bar. They raised their glasses and continued their conversation. He noticed one of the footy team ahead of him in the queue, the detective who’d stared at him the longest. He towered above the crowd, his spiky blond hair added an inch to Shaquille type height, his shoulders wider than the Nullarbor.
Porter ignored the whispered gossip around him and stepped alongside the spikey-haired giant at the service counter. A cute brunette in her early twenties smiled at him as she poured a beer. A dark-skinned bloke cleaned glasses behind her.
“Ronny?” the brunette called to the bloke cleaning glasses. He turned to her. “I’m busy over here. Serve this guy…” She indicated Porter with a tilt of her head.
Ronny wiped his hands on a black AC/DC t-shirt and trudged towards the service counter. With a face as chubby as his round body, he had rusted steel wool for hair and a thin nose. He stopped all of a sudden, a vicious scowl on his walnut-brown face. He leered at Porter with black eyes. “Sa, sa, sorry, Emma,” he stuttered. He turned back to the cleaning bench. “I don’t sa, sa, serve kid killers.”
Porter forced a laugh. He had another admirer.
Emma spun to face Ronny. “Get over here and pour this guy a beer. Now.”
Ronny cleaned a glass, head down. “That pig killed my friend, Emm. Can’t look at him.”
“Ronny.” Emma moved beside him to shout in his face. “You’ll lose your job if Gary hears of this. Get your arse ov--.”
“Emma, you heard him.” The spikey-haired giant spoke slow and deliberate, like Crocodile Dundee on Valium. “He doesn’t serve child killers, and I don’t blame him.” He snarled at Porter. “You’ve got a hide, this is a copper’s pub...”
Porter winked at him. “Good thing I’m a copper then.”
“Fucking smart arse eh? Judging from your ugly swollen mug, you’ve already copped a floggin’. Don’t make me give you another.”
Porter turned and met his grey stare. He stood 6’3 and weighed two-twenty pounds, but he guessed the spikey-haired giant had four inches and fifty pounds on him. He felt bullied for the first time in his life, a strange sensation... “Problem, mate? What was your name?”
Patrons around the bar dispersed. Emma retreated from the service counter and folded her arms as though she’d seen it all before. Ronny watched on, eyes bright, a bloodthirsty UFC fan.
“Name’s Jim Thompson, but you’ll call me Detective Sergeant. No problems here for me... But for you, can bet on it.” He didn’t flinch, kept his eyes on Porter. Detectives who’d rushed to stand behind him sniggered, a pack of hyena.
“Why’s that?” Porter looked Jim up and down and smirked at his tight-fitting shorts. He noticed the muscles in his right forearm bulge as his hand clenched into a rockmelon-sized fist. A knotted cross tattoo, red and green in color, covered the forearm. “Those are nice snug shorts you aerial ping pong boys wear…Is it because I prefer rugby that you blokes don’t like me? Because I like to let my nuts breathe a little?”
Jim’s face flushed crimson, he brought his chin within an inch of Porter’s nose. “No, Porter, it aint ‘cos you’re a rugby poofter. You’re a lying, scheming, IA dog, who turns on his mates and can’t be trusted. That’s why you’re not welcome here...”
“Too bad, champ, ‘cos I’m thirsty.” Porter turned to Emma. “Schooner of VB, thanks sweet.”
The bar fell silent, no-one said a word.
Porter braced himself, expecting a punch, and planned his first move. He’d go for Jim’s knees, if he could get off the floor. He glanced at the long, black fingers gripping his shoulder.
“Dan, ignore him,” Lionel said, then turned to Jim Thompson. “I’ll be speaking to Inspector Barrett. We’ve been assured of your assistance, not this, harassment.”
Jim grunted at him, then locked his eyes on Porter. “Awh, aint this sweet boys. The snitch has his blackie mate watching out for him. Awh…”
The hyena Detectives laughed as one.
“Don’t you have any Koori boys to bully today?” Lionel asked Jim. “Getting braver now, taking on men?”
Jim’s yellow teeth glistened as his upper lip curled. “I remember you…You’re the Legal Aid bush lawyer who represented that cheeky blackie last year?” He turned to share the joke with his detective mates. When he turned back to Lionel, his eyes shimmered with hatred. “We’ve already led you out of town once. Guess we were too friendly, ‘cos you didn’t take the hint. Best you and these city poofters leave town. Now. ‘Cos I tell you, we’ll be far from friendly a second time.”
Porter clenched his jaw, hands became fists. He focused on Jim’s square chin, determined to unleash his erupting aggression in one telling blow. A firm hand gripped his elbow. He turned to see John Rhodes beside him. Fred Klose stood on the other side.
“Here’s your beer.” Klose handed Porter a full schooner glass.
Porter tasted the beer, licked cool froth from his lips, then smiled at Jim. “Catch you later, this being the only pub and all…”
“Bet on that, dog.” Jim shot him a look of disgust, growled at Emma, and led his pack from the pub.
Porter and the other Carinya blokes shared a moment of victorious banter, then joined Lyn at the dining table.
“What was that all about?” she said.
Porter groaned. “What you reckon? Like you said, the local cops know me. Expected crap from them, but the dark bloke behind the bar…Ronny? What’s his problem?”
“Ronny’s nearly fifty, with the brain of a ten-year-old. He cleans the pub and drives the delivery truck. Sorry, should’ve warned you about him.”
Porter frowned at his failing memory, uncertain if he’d had dealings with Ronny back in the city. “He’s not too dark, and doesn’t have typical Koori features. Half-caste?”
“Maybe…His surname’s Goodwin, only been here six months. Nice guy, just a bit simple.” She giggled like an embarrassed teenager. “Said he loved me the first time we met, and every time since.”
Klose made his eyes whirl. “That’s a bit weird.”
“Was kind of sweet, until he started threatening every guy I talked to...”
Rhodes chortled. “You’ve hit the cupid jackpot there, Lyn.”
Porter watched patrons filter back into the hotel. “He’s not the only simple one around here…I know Goodwin’s in Redfern, but not Ronny. Does he reckon I killed his friend?”
“He knew the Neilsen kid and others around Redfern,” Lyn said.
“Where did he grow up?”
“Hasn’t said…Only that he fell in with the wrong crowd, had a bust-up with his family, and came out here to escape bad influences.”
“Reckon he’s easily led astray…” Porter said.
“Yep, and I’m sure the detective guys told him all about you. They control him like a puppet, the poor bugger.”
“Could’ve done without another enemy this first day, but understand him hating me. He reckons I’ve killed his mate and now trying to steal his girlfriend…” Porter shook his head at the stupidity of it. “Girl behind the bar seems alright…Emma?
“Yep, Emm’s lovely. Her dad Gary Rowe’s the publican. He’s out of town hunting with Patto, the usual barman. Both nice guys…”
“And the albino gorilla… Jim?” Rhodes said.
She scrunched her nose. “Jim Thompson’s the Detective’s team le
ader and captain of the footy team. All-around wanker, chauvinistic womanizer and racist arsehole…And, Bill Thompson’s son.”
Klose laughed. “Chauvinistic womanizer? You speaking from experience, Lyn? C’mon, a gorgeous girl like you has to expect attention out here?”
She sneered at him. “Jim put the hard word on me in my first week. Knocked him back, said he wasn’t my type. And married...The prick’s made my life miserable ever since.”
“Who’s Bill Thompson?” Rhodes asked. “You said his name as though it means something.”
“It does, around here at least…The Thompson’s have been the richest and most influential family in this district for decades, going back to the early nineteen-hundreds. They own thousands of hectares of prime river frontage, most of it taken from Aboriginals, and make a fortune selling it off to investors…Bill Thompson was the Senior Sergeant here, back when they were gods, as were his father and grandfather.”
Porter warbled with puffed cheeks, loud and deliberate, bored by stories of local reputations. “He, was, the Senior Sergeant here. Once a god or not, a retired cop, aint a cop. There’s no need to fear that bloke…”
“Not sure if that’s true,” she said. “Bill’s the Mayor now and has more control than ever. No doubt you’ll meet him before long. Word is, he’s ropable Carinya’s in his town. You’re bad for business…”
TWENTY THREE
Mid-morning on Thursday, Dan Porter sat in the passenger seat as Lionel drove the Landcruiser along a bumpy, red dirt road. He struggled to forget events from the night before, the hatred towards him at the pub had been insane. But this was a new day, he told himself, he had to harden the fuck up and move on. The Mayor and cops didn’t want him in Crooked River because they had something to hide. What? It was time to get out and about, and find it.
Two hours earlier, he’d sat at the kitchen table while Lionel briefed the Carinya team. He’d explained it would be difficult enough for him and Klose to gain the trust of local Kooris, and near impossible for Porter and Rhodes. He separated them into two teams with one Koori member in each, then allocated a list of victims, witnesses, and locations for each team to investigate. Lionel would work with Porter, Klose with Rhodes. Porter contemplated asking to work with Klose instead, unsure if he could forgive Lionel for putting Jane and Amber at risk, but had decided not to. Lionel had earned respect by confronting Jim Thompson at the pub, and he’d give him a second chance. Besides, was there any point holding a grudge, out in the middle of nowhere?