by Gary Gregor
While beer-drinking and skirt-chasing was not something to be scoffed at, particularly when your pockets are overflowing with cash, it was never going to sustain you into your senior years. Garrett needed to be pro-active with his share of the ransom, given his unfortunate reputation. He knew he was only ever going to obtain casual, menial, unfulfilling employment, if any at all. He had to set himself up financially. He needed to be in a position where he could flip the world the finger, turn his back and walk away. As soon as tomorrow, he could afford to do just that.
Although he would like, even dared to hope, to meet someone he could share his life with, he knew the likelihood of that ever happening were slim. He missed the warmth and security of a woman’s arms. It was not something he spent a lot of time thinking about but, when bathed in the peaceful silence of a star-filled sky, such thoughts seemed to make their own way unheralded into his consciousness.
Involuntarily, he shivered. The sun was gone, and with it, the oppressive heat of the day. The variation between daytime and nighttime temperatures in the desert were extreme. Another similarity with Afghanistan, Garrett recognised. Soon the temperature would drop to freezing, or even below. As easy as it was to die from dehydration under the blazing, relentless desert sun without adequate water and shade, a sub-zero desert night would claim you just as quickly.
Craig Garrett had experienced both extremes many times while on patrol in Afghanistan. He had seen his comrades go down under the weight of their combat packs and weaponry because they neglected to drink enough water and stay hydrated. He had seen them become seriously ill in the middle of a freezing night, suffering from hypothermia. Medivac choppers flying in and out of a patrol area did nothing to help keep your presence in the area a secret from the enemy.
He shivered again, pushed himself to his feet and took a long last look at the star-laden sky before turning and walking back down the ramp to his room. He had to eat but seemed to have temporarily lost his appetite. His food supplies, although not particularly palatable were more than adequate. Consisting of small cans of Two-Fruits, Irish Stew, single-serve portions of cheese, and twin-packs of dry cracker biscuits, he ate the same as was supplied for the teacher and the children. Sufficient to sustain life and only marginally better than military ration packs was about as complimentary as Garrett was prepared to go in relation to the menu. It would be nice he thought, when he was in a financial position to do so, to treat himself to the biggest T-bone steak and the best bottle of Shiraz in the finest restaurant he could find. It would be an expensive treat, and one he was determined not to make a habit of, but just once was a prize he decided he deserved.
He sat on the edge of his camp-stretcher and pulled a light jumper over his head. One more night and this would be over. One more night. He could do that easily. He leaned slightly towards the locked door leading to rooms two and three. He could hear the soft sounds of children talking amongst themselves. Maybe the teacher, Tracy, was trying her best to keep them occupied and not dwelling on the fact that they were all prisoners locked in a tiny room and at the mercy of a man with a gun.
Garrett liked Tracy. He didn’t know her and had only had brief conversations with her but it was enough for him to see something in her that appealed to him. She was scared, that was plainly obvious, but she was also strong and extremely protective of the children in her care. She was their teacher, their surrogate parent when they were not in their respective homes. It was her duty as their teacher and carer to keep them from harm. She must be feeling guilty, Garrett thought. She must feel as though she had failed them.
He would like to speak with her again. A more prolonged conversation this time. He would like to tell her that he regretted the situation she and the children were in. He wanted to tell her that that would all soon be going home to their families. And, he wanted to say he was sorry.
He lowered his head and wiped at an errant tear that escaped and rolled down his cheek. If the plan was followed, by lunchtime tomorrow Tracy and all the children would be dead. It was the plan, and always had been the plan. Garrett never liked it but went along with it because he believed it was the best way to get away with the money and never be identified. But, going along with the plan did not erase the sadness he felt. He did not want anyone to die. No amount of money was ever going to justify the killing of the teacher and her entire class of innocent young children.
The sadness that swept through him felt all-consuming. If he was honest with himself, the immense weight of it had been upon him since he killed the woman and her baby in Afghanistan. Since that awful day, his life was simply one numbing step after another. One miserable day at a time. Suspended from duty, separated from his comrades and flown back to Australia to await the outcome of an internal investigation which he knew was influenced by a government determined to save face in the eyes of the electorate. Then, his subsequent Court-Martial and the distorted, biased, media frenzy that accompanied it all weighed heavy on his shoulders. The sleepless, dream disturbed nights and the prospect of a future filled with the more of the same was a burden almost too hard to bear; even for the hardiest of soldiers.
There were any number of psychiatrists who would declare that what he was experiencing was Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, a common condition among members of the military returning from a war zone. For Craig Garrett, however, what they called it was irrelevant. For him it was pure, unadulterated sadness. Perhaps the imminent death of Tracy and the kids was the final straw.
DAY FOUR
32
Cameron ‘Yap Yap’ Barker was about to leave his office when the phone on his desk rang. “Shit,” he cursed softly. “What now?” He moved back to his desk and picked up the phone. “Cameron Barker,” he said.
“Superintendent Barker, Peter Cornwell here,” the voice announced.
“Fuck,” Barker mouthed silently. “Yes, Minister, what can I do for you?”
“We need to talk,” Cornwell said, his voice sounding stilted.
“Minister, I was about to walk out the door. I’m leaving for Papunya and I need to get on the road. Can this wait until I get back?”
“No!” Cornwell said earnestly. “It cannot wait.”
“Are you okay, Minister. You sound a little out of breath.”
“I’m fine,” Cornwell insisted.
“Okay,” Barker said. “What is it?”
“Have you heard about the fatal crash down the highway?”
“Fatal car crashes on the Stuart Highway are not uncommon, Minister. To what particular crash are you referring?” Barker asked, knowing full well the answer.
“The accident with the four-wheel-drive and the road-train,” Cornwell said.
“Of course I’ve heard about it. The police are usually the first to be notified when there is a road accident,” Barker answered sarcastically.
“Are the two dead men suspects in the kidnapping?”
“Why would you jump to that conclusion?” Barker asked.
“The media is suggesting they may be,” Cornwell answered.
“As a politician, I would have thought you would have long ago accepted that the media is not always to be relied upon, particularly if you want the facts,” Barker said.
“That’s why I’m asking you, Superintendent.”
“Well, we don’t know if the two deceased were involved,” Barker answered. “The accident is still under investigation.”
“When will you know for sure?” Cornwell asked.
“Minister, we will know when we know. For the moment our investigation is ongoing and, as you well know, I’m not at liberty to discuss any ongoing investigations.”
“That’s a standard line – straight from the police manual I suspect,” Cornwell said sarcastically.
“Is there anything else, Minister?” Barker asked. “I have to go.”
“Who are they?”
“We have not released the identities of the deceased as yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because we are
yet to formally identify the deceased, and then their next of kin will need to be contacted, Minister. No names will be released until we have done that.”
“Perhaps once again you have forgotten just who I am, and the position I hold,” Cornwell said with undisguised emphasis of his own self-importance.
“No, Minister, I have not forgotten who you are. Nor have I forgotten the position you hold. As much as I’d like to forget, you make it very difficult for me to do so.”
“I don’t care much for your attitude, Superintendent,” Cornwell said. “Perhaps a quiet word in the ear of your commissioner might help you adjust that.”
“I’m busy, Minister Cornwell. As I said, I need to get to Papunya. If you are inclined to have a word with the commissioner, go ahead, knock yourself out. In the meantime, I have work to do.”
Ignoring Barker’s insistence, Cornwell continued. “What about the ransom?” he asked hurriedly.
“What?”
“The ransom, was it paid.”
“The decision to pay the ransom was taken out of our hands by the Chief Minister, as you well know,” Barker said. “Against our strongest objections, it was paid before dawn this morning.”
“I fuckin’ hope so!” Cornwell said.
“Obviously, my saying so is not good enough for you,” Barker said. “Perhaps
you can confirm it with your boss… or, mine. However, I’ve known my boss for a long time and I know he will repeat exactly what I have just told you. Either way, I don’t give a fuck. Now, if there’s nothing else, I need to go.”
“That woman and her students need to be home with their families, Superintendent. The ransom had better be paid.”
“That woman?”
“Yes, the teacher.”
“Do you even know her name, Minister?” Barker asked.
“Her name?” Cornwell’s voice faltered slightly.
“Yes, her name,” Barker repeated. “Do you know her name?”
“Of course… of course I know her name… it’s …aah…”
“Cartwright, Minister. Her name is Tracy Cartwright.”
“I knew that,” Cornwell insisted.
“Goodbye, Minister,” Barker disconnected the call, and left his office. There was something about the conversation with Cornwell that didn’t sit right with him. Cornwell was the Minister for Education; he had to know the ransom drop was made before dawn. Why all the questions about whether it was made or not? Cameron Barker had been a cop for a long time; suspicion had become ingrained in his DNA, and Cornwell made him suspicious.
Had he met anyone else as he left and hurried along the corridor, they may well have been somewhat bemused at the disjointed, unflattering, obscenity laden mutterings of one of the Force’s senior officers.
Cameron Barker parked in front of the Papunya Police Station and glanced at his watch. Ten minutes before noon; he had made good time. He got out of the vehicle, paused for a moment and stretched, flexing his aching back. On entering the small station building, he saw Foley, Rose and the station Officer in Charge, David Sparrow gathered around a large map attached to the rear wall. In front of them, Sparrow’s 2IC Richard Smart sat at a desk, speaking to someone on the phone.
Hearing Barker enter, Foley, Rose and Sparrow turned to greet him. The three men came around the desk and met Barker in the middle of the room.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Barker said.
“Hey, boss,” Foley said. “How was the drive out here?”
“Road’s as rough as guts,” Barker answered. “Needs a grader over it.”
Sparrow stepped forward and offered his hand. “David Sparrow, sir.”
“Nice to see you again, David,” Barker smiled, shaking Sparrow’s hand.
“Sorry about the road,” Sparrow said. “Council is supposed to grade it regularly, but their idea of ‘regularly’ and mine differ considerably.”
“No need to apologise, David. It’s not your fault. Bloody councils are the same everywhere.” He turned to face Foley. “What’s the latest from out here, Russ?” he asked.
Foley nodded towards Richard Smart behind the desk. “Max is talking to local station owners in the district,” he began. “We’ve had them flying low over the surrounding countryside, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Most of them are familiar with the area; at least with their part of it. Unfortunately, we are right in the middle of their busy mustering season and some of them have had to return to the demands of their properties.”
Richard ‘Maxwell’ Smart hung up the phone and stepped around the desk.
Sparrow introduced his 2IC. “Richard Smart, sir,”
“Gidday, Richard,” Barker shook hands with Smart. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. Any news from the station owners?”
“Sorry, sir, nothing more than yesterday when we last checked in with them,” Smart answered.
“Can I get you a coffee, sir?” Sparrow asked.
“Coffee would be great, Spog, thank you, standard please, white-with-one.”
“I’ll get it,” Smart said. He looked around the faces in the room. “Anyone else want a coffee?”
A chorus of assent came from Foley, Rose and Sparrow. Smart turned and entered a small ante-room at one end of the office.
“Any update on the road accident?” Foley asked Barker.
Barker took a notebook from his shirt pocket and flipped it open. “We got an ID on both the deceased,” he said, referring to his notes. “I had to pull over on the way out here to take down the details. The driver; at least we think he was the driver, the bodies were so scrambled it was hard to tell, was Liam O’Hara Frayne, thirty-five-year-old former commando with the Australian Army. Served three tours of Afghanistan. The passenger was thirty-three-year-old Mark Gregory Thomas, also a three-tour veteran of Afghanistan.”
“Where were they from,” Foley asked.
“Both had driver’s licenses bearing the same address, in the western suburbs of Sydney,” Barker continued. “We are waiting to hear back from our New South Wales counterparts, but we assume they may have been sharing rental accommodation. We are also trying to locate next of kin before we go public with their ID’s.”
‘Maxwell’ Smart returned with a tray of coffee mugs. “Coffee’s up,” he announced.
A short interlude followed while everyone took their coffee.
‘Yap Yap’ Barker took a tentative sip and placed his cup on the desk. “Thanks, Richard. This is good coffee.”
Smart smiled. “It’s hard to go wrong with instant coffee, sir.”
“Okay, where was I?” Barker began.
“With the dead war heroes,” Sam reminded him.
“Actually, Sam,” Barker said. “Heroes is an apt description. Our preliminary enquiries with the Defence Department indicate that both Frayne and Thomas were decorated soldiers. However, it’s early days yet and we are waiting for more detailed information on both men.”
Barker looked at Sparrow and then Smart. “Are either of those names familiar with you chaps?”
“I don’t think so,” Sparrow answered.
“Richard?” Barker asked.
“I’m not sure,” Smart said. “I met a bloke by the name of ‘Liam’ a month or so ago. I never knew his surname. He came with a couple of other guys from Alice Springs to erect a bus shelter at the Haasts Bluff school.”
“How did you get to meet him?” Barker asked.
“I was on a day off and went to Haasts Bluff to see Tracy, the teacher at the school” Smart hesitated for a moment. “I have been seeing Tracy for a few months, sir. She introduced me to him.”
“You’re dating the teacher?” Barker asked.
“Well… yes, sir. For a couple of months.”
“Are you okay with getting involved in this investigation?”
“Yes, sir,” Smart said adamantly. “I’m fine, sir.”
Foley looked at Barker. “I asked Max the same question,” he said. “He has been doing a good job and is mana
ging to keep his emotions in check. Besides, we need every available person we can get.”
“Okay,” Barker said. “If you’re okay with the situation, so am I.” He turned to face Smart. “Sorry, Richard, but I had to ask the question.”
“I understand, sir,” Smart responded.
“Any photo ID’s on the deceased?” Sam asked Barker.
“Our people in Alice are working on enlarging their driver’s license photos. They will send them through to me when they are done.”
“Can you offer any more on this ‘Liam’ character, Max?” Foley asked.
“No, not really,” Smart said. “The three of them were only here about two or three days. They camped in swags in the community centre and left when the shelter was erected. I only spoke to him briefly when Tracy introduced us.”
Barker turned to face Foley and Rose. “What do you think,” he asked.
“Could be a coincidence,” Sam said. “But he was in Haasts Bluff long enough to learn about the upcoming day-trip to Papunya.”
“And, we don’t know how much more he might have learnt from Tracy in the time he was there,” Foley added.
“Do we know who these three dudes worked for?” Barker asked.
“No,” Sparrow answered. “But we can find out. I will contact the community office at Haasts Bluff. They should have some paperwork in their files.”
“Okay,” Barker said. “As Sam eluded, it could be pure coincidence, but ‘Liam’ is not a particularly common name. To have it pop out at us like this is interesting. Let’s follow it through and see where it leads us.”
Sparrow turned away to use the telephone but was stopped by Barker.
“Wait, Spog. Before you ring Haasts Bluff there is something else I want to run by you all. Do any of you know what a para-motor is?”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “It’s like a powered hang-glider. Very light, and powered by a small two-stroke engine. They can be launched by a motor attached to a three, or four-wheel platform, like a regular aircraft, or foot-launched by the pilot wearing a two-stroke-backpack-motor.” He looked around at the faces of the other four men in the room. Everyone was silently staring at him. “What?” he asked.
