Snatched! (Foley & Rose Book 6)
Page 1
Snatched!
Foley & Rose Book 6
Gary Gregor
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
DAY ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
DAY TWO
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
DAY THREE
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
DAY FOUR
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
DAY FIVE
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
DAY SIX
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Dear Reader
About the Author
Copyright (C) 2020 Gary Gregor
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter
Published 2020 by Gumshoe – A Next Chapter Imprint
Cover art by Cover Mint
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.
Acknowledgments
A number of people play a role in getting an author's story from an initial idea to a published book. For some of them, that role is small, for others it is significant. All who contribute in some way, regardless the level of input, are important to me, and although it might be cliché, it is true that this book would never have seen the light of day without each of them.
If I must nominate just a few, I would start with my former colleagues in the Northern Territory Police Force. You wonderful folk are the inspiration for my characters and, while those characters are fictional, I occasionally draw on the personality traits of some of those I have met in the job. If you recognise yourself in any of them, please remember that you are there because you inspire me.
My beautiful wife, Lesley, who tolerates my long hours in front of the computer without complaint, I love you and I thank you, although I still insist my love of writing is not an obsession.
Last, but by no means least, I thank all at Next Chapter Publishing. The Next Chapter team took a punt on an unknown, and that's rare in this business. I hope I can justify your gamble. I know I'll never stop trying to honor that leap of faith; thank you.
This book is respectfully dedicated to the memory of police officers everywhere who have paid the ultimate sacrifice in the service of their communities.
Prologue
They found Walter Tjapanangka lying in a shallow ditch at the side of the Namatjira/Kintore Link Road just a few hundred metres from where it intersects the Gary Junction Road.
Walter had been shot once in the chest. He lay on his back, his lifeless eyes open, staring up at the searing central Australian sun. He bled out and died where he fell; on the hot, dusty ground. Flies in their hundreds swarmed in a noisy, buzzing frenzy around his face and chest, settling briefly in the blood that had soaked through his shirt and onto the talcum powder-like dirt beneath him before lifting off, flying around for a few seconds jostling for a better position, and then settling once again.
The two boys who found him, teenage brothers Billy and Henry Tjampitjinpa from Papunya, ten kilometres to the north, stood warily, several metres from the edge of the road and stared wide-eyed at the body, neither wanting to approach any closer.
Fearful of offending against aboriginal spirituality and thereby hindering Walter’s passing into the afterlife, neither Billy nor Henry dared to speak the deceased’s name.
They recognised Walter Tjapanangka immediately. Walter was a well-known identity in the Papunya/Haasts Bluff region and the brothers knew Walter had been on his way to Papunya with a bus load of school children on a day excursion from Haasts Bluff.
So, where was the bus? Confused, they turned their eyes from the body and scanned the surrounding country.
The school bus, and every one on it, was gone.
DAY ONE
1
In a perfect world, Walter Tjapanangka should never have been a school bus driver. But then, Haasts Bluff, a tiny, hot, dry, dusty aboriginal settlement in the remote, isolated wilderness of the West McDonnell Ranges was not, and never would be a perfect world. The truth was, when the Northern Territory government of the day supplied the community with a shiny, new, Toyota Coaster, 4 litre, 5 speed manual transmission, twenty-two seat bus, their generosity did not extend to supplying a driver and that presented a problem for the residents of Haasts Bluff: Who was going to drive the bus?
The long-awaited arrival of the bus all the way from Alice Springs, two hundred and fifty kilometres to the East, was a big event for the residents, all one hundred and fifty of whom gathered, animated with anticipation, at the school oval to welcome the new, bright and shiny bus. Not that the bus looked all that bright and shiny when it finally arrived due to traveling from Alice Springs, over mostly unsealed, dusty, corrugated, dirt roads. Nevertheless, community enthusiasm was never going to be dampened by a little dirt on the Duco.
Now they could travel to neighboring communities in air-conditioned comfort rather than in one or more of the numerous, rusty, mostly unregistered, borderline unroadworthy, and almost always unreliable cars dotted around the community.
Remote, isolated outback aboriginal communities are populated mostly with resilient folk. You simply don’t survive in such hot, inhospitable, barren places unless you are born with a good deal of durability and toughness inherited from your forbears running through your veins.
Walter Tjapanangka was one such person. He was about as tough and durable as they come. The Tjapanangka family were all strong, hardy folk, and their residency in Haasts Bluff dated back more generations that anyone could remember. They were not a particularly nomadic people; although at some point in their past, their ancestors must have been a curious, wandering clan to find themselves domiciled in the centre of the harsh Australian outback where they remain to this day.
Like the majority of the elder residents in the community, Walter was not a well-educated man. Structured, formal classroom education, embracing a curriculum of essential subjects such as English and Mathematics, among others, was non-existent when he was a boy.
When Walter was growing up, all he needed to know was how to track and hunt for food so he would not starve, and find water so he would not die of thirst. Basic in its simplicity, but reading, writing, and arithmetic were not matters of life-sustaining importance to the early, weathered, hardened, indigenous inhabitants of the nation’s desert interior.
No one knew just how old Walter was, even Walter himself had no idea of his age. The best educated guess would
put him at around fifty years old, a number that could easily be off the mark by as much as a decade. When you spend every day of your life beneath the blazing sun of the Australian outback, where daytime temperatures can, and very often do, soar into the high forty-degree Celsius range, your skin is going to turn hard, wrinkled, and leathery very early in your life, adding years you have yet to experience to your age.
Walter worked as a grounds-man-come-handyman for the tiny Haasts Bluff community school. It was not hard work, menial at best, and that suited Walter. He kept the school grounds clean of rubbish, wiped dust from the schoolroom windows, and where his limited expertise allowed, he mended a broken chair or desk leg. There was no grass to mow, even the school oval was little more than a barren patch of dirt with goal posts at each end.
Water was scarce out in this country, the residents could count the number of times it rained each year on one hand, and when it did, it either evaporated in the air before it hit the ground or disappeared into the parched earth immediately it landed. The community could not afford to use what little water they were able to store on trying to encourage grass to grow on the oval.
The community did not have a lot in regards to funds and, although Walter was paid little more than a small stipend for his services, it was enough for his basic needs. Besides, his knowledge of financial matters was commensurate with his lack of education so he just went about his work with what could only be described as lackluster enthusiasm.
However, Walter was excited when he was appointed custodian and driver of the community bus. He was not overly exuberant with his enthusiasm, that was not Walter’s way, but he was inwardly proud of his position and considered his appointment as bus driver to be an indication of his status as an ‘elder’ in the Haasts Bluff community.
The bus was housed in a purpose-built, open-sided, corrugated iron-roof shelter between the community administration building and the single-room school building next door. Walter kept the bus as clean as possible given the desperate shortage of water and, when not tending to chores at the school, he could often be found in the shelter wiping dust from the bus exterior with a tatty rag or sweeping the interior with a broom which had seen far better days.
For no reason other than he worked at the school and was one of the very few residents who had a driver’s license, he was selected to drive the community bus whenever it was required. It mattered not to Walter, nor indeed to any other member of the community, that his license had expired long ago and was never renewed. No one asked and it never occurred to Walter to volunteer this small tit-bit of information. It would not have mattered even if someone did think to ask; this was the desert. There were no police stationed in the community, the closest, manned police station was in the settlement of Papunya, twenty-five kilometres to the north. Out here, who other than the police, really cared if he had a license to drive or not? It only mattered that he could drive.
Walter saw the car in the distance long before he reached it. He knew most of the vehicles from Haasts Bluff and Papunya, at least those that were still drivable, but, as he got closer, he was certain the car was not from either settlement; it was in much too good condition to be a local vehicle. The bonnet was up on the Toyota four-wheel-drive. Two men, two white men, stood at the road-side of the vehicle, next to the open bonnet. One of the men leaned over the bonnet, his back to the approaching bus, and the other stepped out into the centre of the road and waved his arms above his head, urging it to stop.
Twenty-eight-year-old Tracy Cartwright, a Primary-school teacher eighteen-months into a two-year tenure at the Haasts Bluff school, felt the bus begin to slow. Sitting in the seat directly behind the driver, she looked up from her book and saw the vehicle parked at the side of the road ahead. “What is it, Walter?” she asked Walter Tjapanangka.
“Can’t know, Miss,” Walter answered in his familiar, deep, guttural drawl. “Might be broke, dat car,” he added.
Behind Tracy, eleven students; five girls and six boys all aged between eleven and twelve, were engaged in the usual noisy, back-and-forth banter and laughter typically representative of a small gathering of pre-pubescent youth. The confusing, dis-jointed jumble of many voices talking at once faded quickly to an audible hum of hushed, curious voices, asking anyone who cared to answer, what was going on? Some of the students rose from their seats and craned their necks to see why the bus was slowing down. Others leaned out into the aisle, looked past the students in front of them, and peered curiously out through the front windscreen.
Tracy turned in her seat and addressed her young pupils. “It’s okay, everyone,” she said with a firm, authoritative voice. “A car has broken down up ahead. We are going to stop and see if we can help. Please sit down and stay in your seats. We will be on our way again soon.”
Children are by their very nature, extremely curious. However, the order - ‘sit down and stay in your seats’ may well have been delivered in a foreign language. Those who were standing in their seats remained standing and those still seated rose to their feet for a better view. This was exciting! Questions followed by speculative answers ranging from flat tyre, to flat battery, to blown motor, came in hushed voices, each overlaying another, and continued until the bus came to a stop about ten metres from the rear of the Toyota. Walter left the engine running so the bus’s air-conditioning continued to keep the interior comfortably cool.
Tracy turned again and faced her students. “Everybody, sit down, please!” she insisted. She waited a few moments, watching the children until they had all resumed their respective seats. “Thank you,” she said, finally. “Now, please remain in your seats and be quiet.” She turned back to the driver. “Should I get out and see what the problem is, Walter?”
“I’ll go, Miss,” Walter said, rising from his seat. “Maybe I can fix dat car.”
“Are you sure?” Tracy asked, glancing beyond Walter at the two men standing next to their vehicle.
“Yes, Miss,” Walter said. He opened the driver’s door, climbed out of the bus, closed the door behind him, and started walking towards the vehicle. As he did so, the man who had waved them down, crossed back to the car, leaned closer to his friend and said something to him. The second man did not turn to face the bus but remained leaning over the exposed engine compartment.
Tracy watched Walter Tjapanangka stop a few metres in front of the two strangers. The man who waved the bus down spoke to Walter, and pointed to the open bonnet of the vehicle. Walter moved forward, stood next to the second man, and leaned over the engine compartment. Then, the man who spoke moved away from his vehicle, looked back at the bus, and began walking purposely towards it.
A strange, unfamiliar feeling fluttered in Tracy’s belly. Why would one of the men approach the bus? She was being silly, she thought, and dismissed the feeling. Perhaps he simply wanted to let her know what was happening.
The stranger moved past the front passenger door of the bus and, as he did so, he looked up and smiled at Tracy staring curiously back at him through the window. He stopped at the sliding-type, centre door, reached out and opened it, stepped inside the bus and closed the door behind him. For a few moments, he stood in the aisle, looked up and down from the rear of the bus to the front, at the faces of the children, and then he looked directly at Tracy. He strode forward and stopped next to her.
“Nice and cool in here,” the man said with a smile.
The fluttering feeling deep in Tracy’s belly was back. This didn’t feel right. Something was wrong. Tracy looked up at the man. She attempted a friendly smile, knowing full well it did not come off as she would have liked. “Is everything alright?” she asked.
“Everything is tickety-boo,” the man answered. His smile was much more genuine than her pitiful effort. “Can you drive?” he asked.
“Pardon?”
The man shrugged. “Can you drive?” he asked again.
“Aah… yes, I can drive,” Tracy answered, with some hesitation.
“Good,” the
man smiled. “Get in the driver’s seat.”
“What? I don’t understand,” Tracy said with a shake of her head.
“What’s not to understand?” the man said. The smile had disappeared. “Get in the driver’s seat.”
“Wh… what about Walter?” Tracy glanced out at the car ahead and then back at the man. “Walter is the bus driver.”
“Don’t worry about Walter,” the man said. “Just get in the driver’s seat.”
Tracy glanced hurriedly at the empty driver’s seat. “I… I’ve never driven a bus before,” she said. The nervous flutter was now a genuine feeling of fear.
“It’ll come to you,” the man said. “Get in the seat!”
“B… b… but,” Tracy protested.
The stranger leaned forward, his face just inches from Tracy’s. He slowly lifted his shirt, untucked and draped loosely over the waist of his jeans. Tracy drew back against the window and stared in horror at the butt of a hand-gun protruding above the man’s belt.