Cold Cuts

by Calder Garret

  ‘Hey, babe,’ she said. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On the Whitney road,’ said Arbor. ‘I thought I’d squeeze in some traffic duty, if you get my drift. How’s things with you? How’s Amira?’

  ‘Oh, she’s fine,’ said Jenny. ‘Listen, do you fancy coming out for tea again tonight?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose I can.’

  ‘You can look forward to it. Amira’s cooking.’

  ‘Beauty,’ said Arbor. ‘I’ll be there. But what time? I’m supposed to be going to footy training.’

  ‘We can make it later,’ said Jenny. ‘Seven? Seven-thirty? Even eight, if you want.’

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ said Arbor.

  ‘Listen, Jen,’ he continued. ‘I was going to talk to Nathan, to see if we can use his trailer to shift my gear. Are you still all right with that?’

  ‘Yeah. But on one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We don’t have to sleep on that shitty old bed of yours again.’

  They had done it once. Not side by side, but layered, like a sandwich. She was the top. He was the meat in the middle.

  ‘Deal,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll see you later, then,’ she said. ‘Try not to get into trouble. Oh, and Danny?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That detective chick. Burke. How’s it going with her? Has she tried it on, yet?’

  ‘Nah. She’s been on her best behaviour.’

  ‘Yeah, well. She’d better be. She might carry a weapon, but I’ve drawn blood with mine.’

  Arbor laughed. So she had. Henry Hogg, the killer of Salim Rashid. She had crippled him with a shot from her .22.

  She was gone. He hadn’t mentioned the butcher’s hand. That was probably a good thing. He closed his phone and closed his eyes. He would let the sounds of nature send him to sleep.

  All he heard was the sound of the wind through the leaves and grass. And the chatter of the birds. The cockatoos and kookaburras. But the kookaburras disturbed him now. These supposedly jovial characters of the bush, he had only recently learned, had a dark side. They were known to steal the young of other birds and smash them against the trees, softening them up to make them easy to devour. He had never suspected. So much for the ‘laugh, kookaburra, laugh’ of the classroom, he thought. That laugh had an altogether different, more sinister, tone to it now.

  He heard a truck, too, in the distance, at work in a nearby paddock. They were spraying for weeds. Possibly a fallow paddock this season, he thought, but he didn’t know. Farmers these days had become much more enterprising. Most paddocks, if not used for livestock, would be used to yield some kind of crop. And equipment like the truck and its load would help avoid anything that might threaten either crop or livestock.

  He had seen it once, on a hill outside Toodyay: a stretch of purple flowers as far as he could see. He had commented on it to a companion, on how beautiful they looked. They were a pestilence, came the reply, deadly to stock and a bugger when it came to growing anything else.

  There were half a dozen vehicles parked on the verge and several players loitering by the toilet block. Arbor grabbed his bag and joined them. There was no one there he knew.

  ‘Hey, guys,’ he said, for some reason nervous. ‘Do I get changed in there?’

  ‘Yeah, where else?’ someone laughed.

  More laughter. Already, he thought. The air was thick with attitude. He gave a perfunctory wave and entered the change rooms.

  Inside, he could see that there was clearly no order. Gear had been dumped in all parts of the room and a stream of dirty water was flowing from the cubicles into the changing area. Bugger them, he thought. If they don’t give a shit, then why should I? He considered not changing at all, just staying in uniform, but then reasoned otherwise. At least some of them, he decided, would notice and appreciate him making the token gesture towards taking part.

  He kicked a pile of gear out of the cleanest corner and dumped his bag. He lifted a shirt and pair of pants from the nearest hook and dumped them, also. Then he undressed. For as long as it lasted, he decided, this would be his spot. His weapon and belt were safely locked away, his weapon in the station and his belt in the wagon. His shoes and socks he lined neatly against the wall. His shirt and pants replaced the orphans on the hook. His police issue cap joined them, sheltering the rest like a ‘Keep Off’ sign. He pulled his tracksuit from his bag and put it on. Then he sat on the bench and put on his runners.

  Outside again, the troops were beginning to front. Mike Todd, Benjie Wood and Alan Wells were doing some half-hearted stretching against their cars. Tony Short was doing jumping jacks. Most of the other faces were still unfamiliar. But most, it seemed, had come already geared up for combat. Even Nathan. Nathan was sitting on the grass, putting on his boots. He was wearing an old Carlton guernsey. Sad, thought Arbor. He made a mental note. He would say something about it later. But, for the moment, he thought it best to greet Matt, to find out what was expected of him and, in turn, lay down a few rules of his own.

  ‘Are you joining us, Danny?’ laughed Todd. ‘Just a few easy laps to begin with.’

  ‘No chance,’ said Arbor. ‘I’m just here to watch, remember?’

  ‘Any suggestions, then?’

  ‘No. No. As I said, I’m happy just to watch you. For a while, at least. I don’t know what to fix if I don’t know what’s broken, do I?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Todd. ‘Come on, then, guys. Let’s get started. Half a dozen laps.’

  So they started, at a blue tongue’s pace, until, after barely a lap, they were spread out around the ground like a string of coloured beads. Matt Todd, Arbor noticed, was at the back of the pack, doing his best to encourage the tail-enders. He was fulfilling his role as captain, Arbor assumed. Encouraging. Coaxing. But he wasn’t much cop. There was too much laughing. Too much carry-on. Todd seemed to be enjoying the slow pace. He, Arbor, just wasn’t used to all the light-heartedness. Everything for him had been about intensity, application and peak performance. There simply hadn’t been the time or willingness for anything else.

  At the top of the field, a race was in play. Nathan Webb and Tony Short were hip-to-hip, going hammer and tong, at least twenty metres ahead of the rest. They were going fast. Too fast, Arbor thought. It was unlikely either could keep up the pace for long. But at least they were showing something, he thought, a willingness to compete. He decided to watch them. He laid a quiet bet with himself. Nathan would prove the stronger of the two.

  But he was wrong. As they completed their first lap, a gap had already opened up. Tony had taken a lead. It was only small, but Arbor could see the strain on Nathan’s face. He had been trying his hardest to stay in contact with Tony and, while he had opened up a sizeable gap on the rest of the field, Tony was leaving him behind. As others stopped for drinks, or gave up completely and lit cigarettes, for the next several minutes the pattern continued, until Tony had lapped most of the field and Nathan had fallen back to re-join the pack. By the time the six laps were complete, Tony looked fit for a dozen more. Nathan and the rest were fit to drop.

  ‘Right, guys,’ shouted Todd. ‘You’ve got a couple of minutes to get your breath back. Then we’ll get stuck into some drills. Danny, have you got any suggestions?’

  ‘No, not yet,’ said Arbor. ‘But I’m looking forward to seeing what you’re like with a footy in your hands.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Todd. ‘Who’s got them?’

  A large canvas bag lay near Arbor’s feet.

  ‘Is this them?’ he said. ‘I’ll grab them. I’ll do that much for you.’

  He bent, zipped open the bag, then poured out the contents. About a dozen Sherrins, of differing colours and conditions, spilled out.

  ‘Jeez,’ Arbor continued. ‘They’ve seen better days, haven’t they? Hey, I’ve still got a few contacts in the city. I’ll see what I can do about scoring a few new ones for you.’

  ‘That’d be great,’ said Todd.

  Arbor
reached in for the last ball. But with a single touch, he knew it wasn’t a ball. Although about the same size, it was both soft and hard to the touch. He could feel his fingers break through the object’s surface.

  ‘Christ,’ he said, withdrawing quickly. ‘What the fuck’s that?’

  ‘What? What’s wrong?’ said Todd. ‘What is it?’

  Arbor opened the bag further and looked inside.

  ‘Shit … I’d better call the sarge,’ he said, zipping the bag shut. ‘Nobody touch this. Toddy, keep guard on it.’

  ‘Yeah, all right. If I must. What is it?’

  ‘Don’t ask. You’ll find out soon enough.’

  Arbor headed to the wagon for his two way.

  How could he explain this to O’Reilly, he wondered. How could he explain it to himself? A bag for practice footballs was no home for a human head.

  O’Reilly arrived, Burke and Cole arrived, Doc Phillips arrived and, before long, half the town arrived. Close on a hundred townsfolk, whispering, gossiping, and pushing their way against the flimsy barrier of cordon tape Arbor had constructed around the bag.

  ‘Hey, Danny,’ said Mike Todd. ‘Can we keep training?’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ snarled O’Reilly. ‘We want statements off you. All of you. You and all, Arbor.’

  ‘Me?’ said Arbor. ‘What did I …?’

  ‘You were here. You saw it. You found it. You make a statement.’

  ‘What exactly is it, Sergeant?’ said Gloria Bennett. She had pushed her way to the front of the pack.

  ‘More bits of Butch, I reckon,’ laughed Drew Jones. Being small enough, the brothers had weaved their way through the bodies and now had front row seats under the cordon tape.

  ‘Come on, you lot. Back a bit,’ said Arbor, doing his best to herd them back. They didn’t move.

  ‘Constable,’ said Burke. ‘Start taking statements from your footy mates. I’ll get yours later.’

  Arbor looked at his watch. It was six o’clock. He was due at Jenny’s at seven. Even if he managed statements from only half the team, that would take at least an hour. Good luck, Danny, he thought. Good luck explaining to Jenny. He was putting business ahead of pleasure.

  It was well after seven by the time they were done. Written statements from twenty-two players, an extensive search of the area and, under protest, the seizure of the Blue Tongues’ bag and all of their practice footballs. All were completed, yet none gained results. No one had ‘seen nothing’ and, despite Arbor’s best efforts, there was no other evidence to be found. By the time Matt Todd spat the dummy and killed the floodlight, the constable had just about had enough. He gained the last of the players’ signatures under the paddy wagon’s spotlight.

  ‘Aren’t you finished, yet, Arbor?’

  It was O’Reilly, coming out of the darkness and a chat with Doc Phillips. Be blowed if he was doing any work.

  ‘Yeah, just about, Sarge. Here’s the statements. Do you want them? No one’s seen a thing. At least that’s what they’re saying.’

  ‘Yeah, okay, then. Let the buggers go. I don’t know what Minnie Mouse and Pluto have planned, but you and I can pick it up in the morning. Mind you, you’d better see if they want anything else from you before you piss off.’

  ‘Yeah. Can do. What’s happening with the evidence?’

  ‘The head? The doctor’s taking it all back to the clinic.’

  ‘Bag and all?’

  ‘Yeah, well, we couldn’t very well pull it out by the hair, could we? Butch didn’t have any.’

  O’Reilly laughed at a joke that he shared alone, before continuing.

  ‘We’ll check it all out for prints tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Look, Burke there’s holding court with the Blue Tongues’ back line. Go and separate them. See if she needs you for anything else.’

  ‘Yeah. All right.’

  Arbor thought carefully about what he would say. He would make no mention of needs or wants, or, without warning, she would have him in one of those change room cubicles with his tracksuit around his ankles.

  ‘Sergeant Burke,’ he said, aware the players were listening too. ‘Sergeant O’Reilly and I are finished. Statements, area search, there’s nothing more to be done. I’ve been invited out for dinner. Do you mind if I shoot through?’

  Burke looked him up and down and grinned.

  ‘No, I guess not,’ she said. ‘Just make sure you’re in early, tomorrow. We’ll have a mountain of crap to get through and we’ll need someone to run for sandwiches.’

  She laughed, and some of the players joined in. Terrific, thought Arbor. So much for trying to earn the team’s respect. Nevertheless, he didn’t waste time. He headed straight for the change rooms and, after scrubbing his hands for an endless time, he stuffed his uniform into his bag.

  O’Reilly, Matt Todd and Nathan were blocking his path to the wagon. He thought it best to make his goodbyes.

  ‘Sergeant Burke says it’s an early start, Sarge,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ said O’Reilly.

  ‘And Toddy,’ Arbor continued. ‘I’ll be in touch. We’ll sort something out, eh?’

  ‘That’d be great, Danny.’

  ‘Hey, Danny,’ said Nathan.

  He was still wearing that damned Carlton jumper. Tragic.

  ‘Any chance of you giving me a lift?’ he said. ‘Mandy’s got the car.’

  It was out of his way, but …

  ‘Yeah, I guess so, Nathan,’ said Arbor. ‘I’m headed out to Jenny’s, but five minutes won’t make much of a diff. Are you heading home or to the pub?’

  ‘Home. I haven’t had a drink in more than a week.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  That was O’Reilly faking a sneeze. He and Matt Todd laughed.

  ‘Good on you, Nathan,’ said Arbor. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here before things get any worse.’

  He dropped off Nathan and was on the road again, heading to Jenny’s, by twenty to eight. Free of Nathan and free of Chatton, he decided to ring her. She was unlikely to be annoyed, he knew that. Both were aware that while most jobs came with hazards, being a cop came with more. But he knew he was cutting it fine. Besides, it would be better to forewarn her. He didn’t fancy a meal with the image of Butch Paterson’s head hanging over it.

  ‘Hey, Danny. Where are you? Are you still coming? We were just thinking about serving up.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that. I’ll be there in ten. It’s been like … Well, the Nightmare on Palm Street continues. How’s it going there?’

  ‘Oh, everything’s fine here. What’s happened with you?’

  ‘Ah, you’d never guess. This morning I found Butch Paterson’s hand in a box on the bonnet of the paddy wagon. And tonight. At training. I only found his head, didn’t I?’

  ‘Oh, God. Hell. You didn’t?’

  ‘I did. In the ball bag.’

  ‘Oh, fuck. That’s gross.’

  ‘You’re telling me. Listen, don’t say anything, eh? I’d hate for us to freak out Amira with it, too.’

  ‘Yeah, no worries. I’ll wait outside for you.’

  ‘That’ll be great.’

  He hung up and focused on the road. It wasn’t totally dark yet but it was raining hard. And it was that in-between time, just past sundown, when many drivers decided that lights were optional and when roos and loose livestock became potential killers. He kept to 90 for the next few klicks, but then slowed to 75 when the road began its snaking path through the gum trees near the turn off to the farm. He felt relieved to feel the dirt of the farm track under his wheels. He flicked his lights a couple of times at Jenny, standing in the shelter of the verandah. She shielded her eyes. Arbor pulled to a halt and alighted, then joined her. She greeted him with a hug.

  ‘Hey, babe.’

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Crappy day?’

  ‘To end all crappy days. The pits. What about you?’

  ‘Me? I’m okay. Do you want a wash or something before you go in?’

  ‘No
. I’m fine,’ said Arbor. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m kind of starved. It seems a month since I ate last.’

  ‘Well, come on in, then.’

  She took his hand and led him into the house. Her finger, he noticed, was tickling his palm. He grinned. It was one of the ways that she chose to flirt. Too bad though, he thought. They had company and, in not much more than an hour, he would be heading back into Chatton.

  ‘Has anyone been sniffing around Amira’s place?’ asked Jenny, as she collected the plates.

  Each had enjoyed several helpings of Amira’s curry and, while her eyes were beginning to close, at the mention of her name, the girl looked up with interest.

  ‘What can I say?’ said Arbor. ‘I’m hearing noises all the time. But I’ve seen nothing. Just give them some time, I reckon. I’m sure that whoever it was that wrote that note will be good to their word. They’ll try something stupid.’

  ‘Even with the paddy wagon parked out front?’

  ‘Even with the paddy wagon out front.’

  ‘Have you any idea who it might be?’ asked Amira.

  ‘I’ve some ideas,’ said Arbor. ‘I reckon by the handwriting it might be some of young Hoggy’s knobhead mates. They’re as thick as shit. And, if I’m not wrong, a few of them were involved with Rusty Piper and that NPL crowd.’

  The National Purity League. A pack of white supremacists.

  ‘I’m thinking,’ continued Arbor. ‘I reckon I might chase up Nobby Rodgers. I had him in at the station a few days ago. I seem to remember that he was a mate of Hoggy’s. Maybe he’s heard something. But don’t worry, Amira. I won’t send you back into town until we get it all sorted.’

  ‘Good,’ said Amira.

  ‘So, Jen,’ said Arbor. ‘What’s for afters?’

  ‘Dishes,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s about time I was shooting through,’ said Arbor. ‘Planes to catch. People to see.’