High Beam

by SJ Brown

  He was physically removed from not just the minor metropolis of Hobart but also the increasingly popular area of the Huon Valley. It might not exactly be wilderness but on this dirt road to his shack he began to feel well away from the routines and cares of his job in the CIB. The long days and endless jostling with departmental bureaucracy would soon be shunted from his mind as he could bunker down at his little getaway and start moseying about for a week or two.

  After a few hundred meters he reactivated the lights – not too big a risk really given his knowledge of the road – and cruised the remaining kilometer to the property’s rusty gate. The simple process of stopping, shoving the gate open, idling through the gap, halting again, easing the gate back into place and driving the remaining hundred or so meters to the back door made him fleetingly wish he had invited someone. But the thought passed as quickly. He was aware he would not feel alone over the next few days: solitary yes, but not really bemoaning the absence of another.

  He parked by the water tank. He picked up the large sandstone brick at its base and felt for the Yale key. And felt and cursed and felt some more. No sign of it: obviously Kirkwood, his colleague up in town, had not listened to the carefully given instructions he had pretended to acknowledge when visiting the shack over New Year. Bugger! Mahoney went back to his car and fossicked around in the glove box for a torch. He shone it around the hiding place and the light caught a glint of metal. The key had been pressed into the soil, probably because someone had dropped the large sandstone paver right on top of it instead of placing it. He smiled to himself. Again he realized that not everybody was going to do things exactly his way and that was probably a good thing. He was becoming increasingly fastidious now he was in his mid-forties. Only last week he had caught himself putting credit card receipts in chronological order instead of just dumping them in his tax folder. An alphabetized personal fiction library made sense: the other was just anal.

  Finally, he let himself into his shack; shack being something of a misnomer as the building had been purpose built as a passive solar home. It was a beach shack in the sense it was near sand, on tank water, had few ‘mod cons’ and possessed an uncomplicated layout. But there was no fibro sheeting, drop toilet, cracked linoleum, plastic strips in doorways or spring wire doors in sight so most traditionalists would argue it was not a shack at all. Stuff them. To keep their places at basic warmth required tons of firewood whereas his heating bill was zero: the thermal concrete slab took care of that. Tradition could easily be a byword for bloody-mindedness.

  * * *

  The following morning was clear and bright. Mahoney was feeling rather pleased with himself, having successfully renegotiated the well-being program he intended to start with each day of his autumn break. Half an hour of fairly vigorous cross-fit exercises and stretching had warmed him sufficiently for a swim off the postage stamp strip of sand at the bottom of his block. Not so much a swim as a darting sprint into the bracing water with a showboat dive before he could have a second thought. It made him feel alive: as long as the cold current did not induce a heart attack, that is.

  Now he was perched on his deck with coffee and sourdough toast as he read The Mercury newspaper. Of a work day a quick read-through of the main stories was all he allowed himself time for but holidays were a different matter altogether. With no deadlines to concern him, he could linger over every news item, story, piece of trivia and so could make the provincial paper last an hour at least.

  So it was that Mahoney started reading an item about a forty-two year old builder who had been found dead in the backyard of his Acton property. The deceased had suffered a severe allergic reaction to a series of jack jumper stings and the resulting anaphylactic shock had killed him. It was obvious what had caused the man’s demise but what set the detective thinking was how such a calamity could have been allowed to happen. To be at risk you had to have been previously bitten and suffered a smaller reaction which would alert someone to a problem. Surely this person, named as Max Watson, must have been aware of his medical condition – it was noted he had first aid qualifications – and taken sensible precautions such as gardening with gloves and having the correct medication nearby. Yet this chap had been found collapsed at his own building site sprawled next to his work van.

  He continued his leisurely perusal. The Tasmanian election campaign was in full swing and Mahoney read with interest a good article on the heritage of the state’s unique voting system. The prose was clear and there was some witty anecdotal material: the writer would be an interesting man to meet.

  The morning rolled by and he settled into the easy rhythm of the day. At times such as these he was most glad he had returned to his home state after spending almost a decade in England. He had made a hasty departure in the late ’80s to put as much distance between him and a failed engagement. A colleague from their days at the Training Academy had maneuvered himself into his fiancée’s affections and ultimately into Lisa’s bed. Perhaps he should have been more attuned to what was going on but he had been absorbed in part-time study for a law degree, his new position in the Criminal Investigation Branch and helping to lift his soccer club up the ladder. But he never felt the betrayal to be his fault. Yes, he should have given more time to his partner, but so could just about everybody, and he was only eighteen months short of completing the tertiary course that would lead to a rewarding career as a public prosecutor and financial security for them both and any children they might have. Why didn’t she talk to him if she felt she was being left on the sideline?

  Mahoney went into the kitchen, boiled some water and refreshed the coffee pot. Sitting down again, he gazed across the dazzle of the bay to the lithe eucalyptus trees on the far side. You could almost feel the reflected warmth off the water as the sun bored into the cool depths. In the Old Dart he had yearned for moments like these, especially during the interminably long winters. Without the drama and freshness of Nordic snow they were merely monotonous sagas of drab greyness. And the rain never really seemed to pelt down but drizzled from the skies or degenerated to an annoying mizzle. Still, London had given him a career of which he could be justifiably proud. Nonetheless, he had never been gladder that he had returned home. Especially now as he faced the prospect of a complete fortnight without the rigors of his position as the head of Serious Crimes.

  CHAPTER 3

  Friday 5th March 9am

  Another working week in the ‘lucky country’ was drawing to a close. The roads through central Hobart were congested with work commuters and parents ferrying children to school. Visitors from larger cities tended to find local radio traffic reports of logjams laughingly alarmist compared to the serious gridlocks that beset Sydney and Melbourne. Hold ups and delays were indeed small beer down here. Nevertheless, some days it could be particularly painful getting through Sandy Bay. It was here that some of the state’s more prestigious private schools were located as was the University of Tasmania. The campus had been constructed on the former site of a rifle range in the 1950s hence its long rectangular shape and the unprepossessing nature of the architecture. There were no dreaming spires to speak of amid the functional blocks housing the various faculties.

  Amanda Pattison was seated in the alfresco area of the university coffee bar. Each morning as she walked the kilometer from her rented flat on Churchill Avenue, she never ceased to be amazed by the number of SUBs prowling the streets. Sure, this was the most prosperous suburb in a city that was still on the up, but did these people need Super Urban Bulldozers? If even a quarter of these 4WD vehicles had genuinely been off-road she would be surprised. In supposedly democratic Australia, the grotesque bully bars were the current status symbol to indicate you were a cut above the riff-raff. That a full tank of petrol in these days of inflated fuel prices cost about as much as the weekly rent on a small flat did not seem to deter this demographic. Nor the indisputable evidence that they were practically certifiable people-pulpers. It was the modern
equivalent of the British gentry mounted on their steeds riding to hounds among the village peasants.

  She did not suffer fools gladly: that she thought this about herself suggested she was not quite as self-aware as she imagined. Nonetheless she was quick-witted and could usually run rings around most of her peers in tutorials. So she naturally enough bridled at the comments, admittedly infrequent, that she was interested in Brad Finch merely for his body. The most banal hinted that she was a football groupie. The simple truth was that their relationship was completely platonic. They just got along well together. He was personable and consistently capable of making her laugh. What principally endeared him to her was his ability to genuinely listen to her and engage in conversation: a rare quality in 49% of the population.

  Although there was one aspect of their friendship that ever so slightly narked her; his lackadaisical approach to punctuality. He managed to get to training on time but in most other facets of his life a text saying “c u in 30” usually suggested a ballpark estimate. Part of the mess in the lecture hall yesterday had been his tardiness. Mind you, the lecturer had taken a hammer to a nut with his response. Cartwright was definitely a good lecturer but he could not expect each and every student to pay rapt attention right throughout his presentations. Lord only knows what would happen if his reputation as academia’s gift to the great unwashed was ever tarnished.

  Turning her attention to the crossword, she mulled over 4 across. ‘Richard the Lionheart unfaithful in love (10 letters)’. Why some people got married was beyond her knowing. Did they truly believe the fairy tale? Were they fully aware of their true selves, let alone the essential natures of their partners? Did the old pressure to conform to the social norm still exert itself that strongly? Amanda, for all her pretensions to wisdom, did not know the answers but was adamant, if pressed, that she had a career to pursue that would never be subordinate to the demands of any male partner. No matter how much of a SNAG he may be.

  “Arsehole.” Brad had arrived. And not happy by the sound of it. No steam coming out of his ears but by the way he thumped into the spare plastic seat you could tell something seismic must have happened to dent his normally happy demeanor. “Fucking arsehole. He is insane. What a prick.” A couple of heads turned. Any display of raw emotion stood out in this domain of uber-cool and disinterestedness.

  “Hey, settle for a second.” Amanda had never seen him this agitated and was temporarily taken aback. “Sit tight, drink some water and breathe for a bit.” Brad acquiesced and his shoulders dropped slightly. “Right. Now in a calm voice tell me what’s going on. Without the expletives, if you can manage.”

  “Bloody Cartwheel.” Amanda frowned. “You know. That dickhead Pol Sci bloke. Cartwright.”

  “Oh, right. What about him?”

  “He’s only gone and whinged to the Devils’ board. Reckons I’m bludging on the scholarship system. I could lose my money. Bastard.”

  “Brad, stop. Go back. Who did he talk to, exactly, and what was said? And go slow and quietly. The whole café doesn’t have to hear.”

  He breathed slowly and deliberately. “OK. Cartwright called Doc Randall yesterday. Told him about the ‘incident’.” Accompanied by an exaggerated finger gesture in mid-air. “Said my behavior ‘was not in accordance with the standards expected of a sports scholarship holder’ to quote the snitch. He’s an old friend of the Doc. Doc Randall’s on the board at the club and also here at uni. He believes the snake and so gets stuck into me with a long lecture about privileges and responsibilities. You know, the old ‘role model in the community’ stuff. Really gave it to me. Said my scholarship would be re-examined if it ever occurs again. I can’t afford not to be here. Footy’s a good earner but you’re one injury from forced retirement. I have to graduate. And all hell would break loose at home if I stuffed up.”

  Amanda allowed for a pause. Gears started very quickly clicking into place. “Right. Well we can safely assume you’ll do that. You’re one of that club’s best ambassadors and as for here, you’ll pass without hassle. Just keep your head down for a while. Skip you-know-who’s lectures for a bit. I’ll get you the notes. Attend every tutorial. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

  “What about Cartwright?”

  “I think I know how that can be fixed.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Friday 5th March 8pm

  “Like bees to honey, mate,” Roger Sproule enthused as his gaze took in the room.

  Bruce Randall didn’t get the reference at first. “Do you mean the players at the bar?”

  “Nah, Brucie. The female players, the girlies. All over our blokes. Reckon a fair few of the squad will need sticks soon to beat ’em off. Not that they will.”

  The penny dropped for the board member of the fledgling Tassie Devils Football Club. The inaugural President had a point: the room swarmed with what, in his day, were called ‘sweet young things’. The talent of Hobart was out in full force. “I see what you mean. We’ve certainly got good numbers in tonight.”

  “Bloody masterstroke. Rang a few modelling agencies and booked all their decent talent. Told the agencies we needed as many good-looking girls as they had for the Season Launch. Tell ’em to dress up and we’ll provide the transport and refreshments. Your agency will get a good mention in the media. No booking fees. Practically a 100% take-up.”

  “It certainly appears to have worked.”

  “Too right. Couple of coachloads from the pick-up point in town and they get dropped back in there to hit the nightclubs. Properly fired up. Bit of red carpet out the front and the prospect of the cameras. Not many of the local lookers are going to pass that up. Good incentive for our boys to show up in decent clobber too.” Sproule’s appreciative scan of the room took in some of the more senior figures. “See, all the politicians and business guys are here too. Can’t get enough of us, Brucie. How good is that? Flavor of the month.”

  Randall conceded as much. “Yes, great publicity. Good chance for you to press the flesh. I think the Premier could do with a greeting.”

  If Sproule felt at all chastened by the reminder of protocol he didn’t show it. “Yeah, better get over. After all they have coughed up a fair whack of dough for us. Thanks to Fothers. He gets his way.” With that he was off to the bar to pretend to be grateful for the presence of various dignitaries.

  Randall remained standing by the huge plate glass windows of the Elwick Racecourse Function Centre. Sproule was right. All and sundry were in attendance: all and sundry from the well-heeled end of town, that is. Without fail, various business owners, department heads from the public service and parliamentarians had accepted invitations to the gala event. The middle-aged men and women who believed they exerted influence hovered together or simply threw their noses into the trough. The Sports Minister looked as if he’d already enjoyed a long lunch before arriving for the 6pm function.

  Aside from this group were the players, laughing and drinking with the bevy of local beauties. Cocktail dresses seemed to have gotten a lot shorter since Randall was last out. Admittedly that was a while ago but these little numbers looked less sophisticated and more, well, obvious really. So much healthy flesh on show. And the promise of more revelation later in the evening if the champagne kept flowing at this rate. And it would, as well as the beer and the top-shelf stuff. Everyone wanted in on the act so any company associated with hospitality was donating product and services. The whole Bacchanalian frenzy would not cost the club a cent. Rental on the function center waived. Good publicity. Waiting and bar staff provided gratis by government trainees. Good experience. All the food and drink supplied free by various local businesses vying for contracts with the club or the government. Good exposure.

  Great deal for the club. Randall could not fault the acumen of Rory Fotheringham. He may have concerns about the man’s scruples but he sure knew how to get things done…to people’s advantage. Principally his own, of course, but the
flow-on effect to the club was beneficial.

  In front of him the lurid face of modern sport was playing out. The prosperous identities who had already booked the corporate boxes for every home game this season. The second tier supporters who would pay through the nose to attend the match day functions and lap up the trite commentaries provided by guest speakers. The media which helped fuel the frenzy of attention that came with local participation in the big league. The players with their lucrative contracts that ensured they needn’t be distracted by everyday jobs. Their days could be easily filled with training, preparation and meeting media commitments for sponsors. Some studied part-time. For most it was the time of their lives. Living the dream. Playing footy. Papers reported their mundane utterances. Beautiful women along for the ride. Who wouldn’t be seduced by the package?

  It was a stark contrast to his playing days. Modest didn’t come close to describing the conditions in the 1960s at the local football clubs. The money was such that it really only covered expenses. No such thing as a season launch. The only comparable gathering being held on the Thursday prior to the start of the season in April. A jumper presentation attended by the team, training staff, committee and the publican of the hotel where the players drank. Woolen jumpers, muddy grounds and boots with stops that you nailed in yourself. How antiquated was that?

  Yet Randall still would not swap any of the current advantages for the days of yore. Even allowing for misty-eyed nostalgia they were glorious days. In 1958 he had debuted as a 19 year old with North Hobart under the tutelage of the legendary coach, Len Hibberd. Hibberd had fought on the Kokoda Trail in World War 2 so he knew a thing or two about sacrifice and commitment. Players were drilled as if a Sergeant-Major was running proceedings. The training was brutal: pure and simple. But the message wasn’t fire and brimstone. Unusually for the era, the coach cajoled and inspired his players. The addresses had volume but never vitriol. An ethos of selflessness and bravery pervaded the senior players. Youngsters learned from the example of those already in the club.