The Cooktown Grave

by Carney Vaughan

  “All of them.” His eyes filled with lust as the girl’s nightdress slid from her body. There was a whining sound coming from the writhing body lashed to the balustrade and Benson’s penis began to search for room in his clothing. At this point he felt some sorrow for Kelly for she was indeed a beautiful young woman. But Kelly couldn’t be allowed to succeed. There had to be a lesson here for others with a mind to help themselves to his money. Benson couldn’t begin to imagine what horror was to follow or he may have killed Salazar on the spot as the Colombian removed his own clothes.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” Benson vomited on the floor. “What sort of fucking animal are you?”

  “Others must be dissuaded.” He fixed Benson with a warning stare.

  He was still naked. “I am going to bathe.”

  Benson vomited again. He’d known some hard men and he couldn’t have gotten where he was by being weak but no one he knew, and certainly not himself, could’ve carried out this act of carnage. Benson stumbled into a lounge chair. Even though the evidence was there before him he sat there stunned, unable to believe what he had just witnessed. He was fighting back his gorge when Salazar reappeared and started to dress.

  “Hurry up.” Benson said. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Not yet, there is more to be done.” And from his carry-on he took a Polaroid camera and graphically recorded his work from different angles. “It is needed as a deterrent to others. Come.” He headed for the door with his carry-on over his shoulder. “You have a phone call to make, I presume.” Christ Almighty! Benson thought, this went exactly to plan for this bastard. He packed a bag and even took his clothes off in advance. Not just for his deviant sexual gratification but so they wouldn’t become spotted with blood. “Not from here.”

  As the lift moved away from the top floor Benson’s stomach again erupted through his mouth, bile burned the back of his nostrils causing his eyes to water. The Colombian looked contemptuously at him.

  “It’s alright for you, you cunt, I’d have used a bullet.”

  “There is no great deterrent in a bullet.” Salazar fixed him with a cold stare. “And no amusement,” he mouthed.

  Benson’s mobile phone blinked on obediently with a green fluorescence. “Hello,” he asked it after dialling, “is that you, Ace?” There was a short pause, “There’s been an incident at the Castle Gardens.” Benson gave the address and hung up.

  Sometime later, around midnight after a hot shower, a change of clothes and several whiskeys, the horror of the early evening was receding when Benson’s phone rang. “What the fuckin’ hell happened up there?” Benson held the phone away from his ear but the volume was still uncomfortable, the voice continued, “It was a fuckin’ slaughterhouse, I threw up all over the place. Some other cunt had done the same. And in the lift. Jesus Christ!”

  “That was me, Ace, the spew I mean. The rest of the scene belonged to the Colombian.” Benson said.

  “You’ll have to keep him on a short rein; we can’t cover up things like this. Not without a lot of grease.”

  “I’ll try, but I don’t know if I can.” Benson said and then added. “There’s a big drink in this for you, you deserve it.” A drink was the local euphemism for a bribe.

  “Deserve it? I fuckin’ need it!”

  Next day, as testament to the worth of strategically placed parcels of money, the morning papers ran a couple of paragraphs in single column about the death of a promising young vocalist. Marilyn Marks had been the victim in a murder-suicide in the penthouse of an unnamed apartment block. That would cost Benson a few drinks.

  Chapter

  21

  Benson’s money laundering scheme was well under way. At least the establishment of the scheme was well under way. His drug sales network being nationwide had eyes and ears in gambling casinos, on racetracks, on the stock exchange and in the illegal starting price betting shops. And anywhere else large amounts of money changed owners. Benson’s lieutenants, in a more modest way, needed clean cash as well. Where they spent their money, the pubs, the clubs and the restaurants were also sources of information. An enterprising listener could earn a nice bonus from his boss if a person of public stature or power could be compromised.

  Such a person was Sir Charles Horvath Q.C., the very public chairman of the board of directors of National Amalgamated Steel. Sir Charles was also on the board of a number of other public companies and banks, and still an active member of the firm Horvath, Hunt and Co., Solicitors, Attorneys and Conveyancers.

  It was a practice, of humble origin. It had been born in the early sixties with the marriage of Charlie Horvath and Maureen Hunt. They met in law school and their romance blossomed through the propinquity of shared assignments and studies. Maureen was a practising Catholic and premarital sex was definitely not on her agenda. Charlie was also a Catholic, but only by birth, he respected her beliefs and appeased his sexual hunger where he could. Usually in the brothels and when he got lucky, with casual women who frequented the pub scene.

  The marriage was some five years old when Maureen became aware of the aberration which Charlie was trying to introduce into her blinkered sex life. The oral stimulation; the attempted shift from the missionary position; the accidental anal entry; filming of their copulation and covert Polaroid photography of her body. It was all anathema to the strict dogma of Catholicism which Maureen embraced. In the end she strenuously rejected him completely. Until, in his perceived frustration, one night Charlie raped her. From that time on Charlie was banished not only from her bed but from her bedroom, the door of which she had fitted with a stout lock.

  They continued to share the same house, and she continued to be Missus Charles Horvath, until some ten years later when she became Lady Maureen. Charlie had received his knighthood for services to the legal profession, and fifty thousand dollars in a brown bag dropped on the right desk.

  Lady Maureen had long since terminated her association with the firm except for her name for which she received an annuity. Her interests now rested with the many charities which clamoured for her patronage. Because of her strict Catholic upbringing she remained married to Charlie.

  “I want photographs,” Benson told him, “it’s worth ten grand in your hand, plus expenses.”

  “Shit! I’d have to go to the Philippines, to Manila.” “I said plus expenses.” Benson’s tone was changing.

  “What about my customers, Mister Benson? They’ll be climbin’ the walls. They’ll go to someone else.” Bert Harris was one of Benson’s distribution agents who moved a couple of kilograms, more or less, of his boss’s product each month and was loath to neglect his clientele for any reason. He cut the stuff in his apartment and turned it into twenty five percent more, which netted him around twentyto twenty-five thousand dollars a month on top of his commission.

  “Leave your list and I’ll have Salazar look after them for you.” The tension in Benson’s voice was quite apparent now.

  “NO! N-no.” Harris fought for control. “No thanks, Mister Benson, I’ll be OK. I’ll manage.” He didn’t want the Colombian anywhere near him, not even in the same state.

  Shortly after Raymond Kelly’s death, when Benson had almost fully recovered from the nightmare of the Castle Gardens’ butchery, he sent Salazar on a nationwide promotional tour of his vice network. Benson with criminal cunning decided something positive could be gained from the horror of that night. Salazar with his photographs and all of that murder week’s daily newspapers set out enthusiastically on a mission to ensure loyalty through fear. Benson’s enterprise was a complete success.

  Harris memory of his first and only encounter with the Colombian would remain in his mind forever. It was as though the word, Salazar, was tattooed in reverse on his corneas.

  “Somebody’s at the door, Bert.” She was sniffing her way along a couple of lines she’d dealt from Harris’ personal stoke. She’d given
herself a little bonus for a night’s work well done, while Bert was showering away the memory of last night’s sex.

  “Well, answer the fuckin’ thing.”

  She opened the front door and couldn’t suppress an involuntary shiver as she looked at the lean, dark figure standing before her. “Mister Harris?” It enquired.

  It was the eyes, opaque, without expression; without anything.

  “Yes. He’s in the bathroom, he won’t be long,” she was going to leave him standing at the door like some encyclopaedia salesman but something told her not to displease this person. After a pause Trish said, “Come in and sit down.”

  Harris walked from the bathroom with a towel around his waist. He was taller than the newcomer, a bit of a poser and worked out regularly, he was proud of his body with its Gold Coast tan.

  “I come from Phillip Benson. I am Carlos Salazar,” he said ignoring Harris’ outstretched hand, “who is the woman?”

  “She’s one of my customers, a hooker.” “Get rid of her.”

  Harris had heard Benson had a Colombian working with him. So, what? He was about to object until their eyes met. Ahh…what’s it matter? “Go outside for a while, Trish,” he ordered.

  Trish was reluctant to remain in the presence of this stranger anyway. Her profession required her to be an astute judge of character or, as sometimes happened, she suffered a beating from her client or a loss of income. That also resulted in a beating, from her pimp. This bloke radiated bad vibes.

  When she had gone Salazar opened his carry-on and handed Harris the first of the series of photographs. Bert chuckled and said to nobody “What’s this crap?” He could see a couple of dummies, arranged in some sort of bizarre, modern arty pose. The Colombian handed over the remainder of the gory photographs in procession, Harris’ brow creased in an expression of disbelief. His legs closed tightly in involuntary protection of his genitalia. Salazar then pointed out the curt report of the murder-suicide in a couple of the newspapers, and the absence of any news in the remainder. “He was delinquent in the discharge of his duties. And as you must no doubt realise from these newspaper reports his death and that of his paramour passed without incident. This information should not pass beyond

  you!” With that Salazar left.

  Trish watched him enter the rented car and drive away, she went back into the apartment through the open front door and found Harris slumped in a lounge chair, slack jawed, his Gold Coast tan an ugly yellow.

  “Jesus! What’d he do to you?” “Nothing! Mind your own business.”

  Harris was sorry now that he had raised the issue of Horvath’s sexual deviation with Benson, and he cursed the barman at the Worker’s Club who had told him. He’d been having a quiet beer at the bar when Sir Charles Horvath, the eminent philanthropist, appeared on the television screen. The barman commented “Bastard! Rock spider!”

  “Who? Sir Charles?” asked Harris, ever vigilant for a chance to make money. The barman explained that he’d taken a trip with his wife to Manila. He had seen Horvath whom he knew from newspaper photographs walking the streets on a couple of occasions holding children by the hand. One day he asked their guide if Sir Charles was here to administer some children’s fund. The guide spat and said, ‘I know him well, he is a bad man. Bastardo! He comes here often to have sex with children. I hate him. I hope he burns in hell.’

  “And, frankly, I hope he bloody well burns in hell, too,” said the barman.

  He will, thought Harris, Benson will use him up. He rang Benson and the Colombian had become involved or at least he’d been linked in Benson’s mind with the project. Now the ten thousand was not enough for Harris, no amount would be enough and yet, to keep the Colombian away, he would do it for nothing if he had to.

  “Can you let me know when he goes back to Manila, Mister Benson?” “Can do, Bert.”

  Harris knew there were blokes in the Philippines who would kill for fifty bucks, let alone take pictures. But he felt his own life was insecure unless he, himself, went and stayed there until he had the evidence in his hands. And Sir Charles Horvath, Queen’s Counsel. became a pawn in Benson’s corruption and drug distribution network.

  Chapter

  22

  John Cade’s impatience set him up as an easy target for conscription into Phillip Benson’s twilight world. But if not him someone like him. Cade’s whole life had been one of impatience. While Benson had so much money it would take a battler two lifetimes to spend, he craved respectability. John Cade had a counterfeit cloak of respectability and a degree in accountancy but he craved money. Like opposite magnetic poles they were bound to meet.

  Cade was born three weeks premature and from that very moment he just would not or could not wait for anything and never tried. Throughout life he viewed important events as obstacles to be hurdled as they presented themselves. He refused to prepare for anything and in early childhood this characteristic stood him out in front of the pack. It caused people to believe he was a natural born leader. Until Cade’s latter school years this had been so, but it had been then he started to come back to the field. He began to fail in all of the ball sports in which he used to excel because his opponents could then `think’ him out. He just wouldn’t prepare, he would ad lib everything. Also, his academic results were beginning to suffer because up until high school his memory and his imagination were enough to cope. He had no need to study.

  When the curriculum became more complex and Cade needed to apply himself he didn’t know how, but here he had a solution. With sport when the umpire ruled against him there was nothing to do but concede defeat. With his academic career, however, he could cheat and there were so many ways. He cheated his way through high school and through most of his university degree in accounting. The open book exams he took himself. For the critical yearly finals, he paid someone to take his place.

  With his degree which an impostor had won for him with credit Cade secured an accountancy position with a leading patent drug manufacturer. His professional colleagues wondered if they were as dumb as he, when they started their working career. Were they just as dangerous they wondered? Straight out of university perhaps they were.

  Cade’s impatience overcame prudence when several years into his working life his affluence had still not arrived. It was literally dragging its feet and to give it a helping hand he started gambling; small time at first, and with safety and some success.

  He had, as a child, watched his father gambling on Saturday afternoons on the horses. The old man’s stakes were never very large but he regularly grafted a profit. He bet only on a combination of current form and statistics. The family had dined out at fancy restaurants on many a night on the proceeds of the previous Saturday afternoon’s gambling. Cade emulated his father’s system but it was far too slow and in no time at all he was a regular visitor to the racetracks. His wagers had grown substantially and he no longer bet on the place tote. Instead, he bet on the nose with the bookies. He maintained a slight degree of success and when he was losing he bet to recoup. The bookies came to know and respect him and often advanced him credit when on a losing run.

  Cade’s real trouble began when a long string of short priced favourites were beaten. He owed Valance United Chemicals Pty Ltd a debt of somewhere around forty thousand dollars. It was a debt of which they were unaware but they were soon to find out. The company was to be examined and the auditing was to begin in the next week. Saturday found Cade again at Randwick but this time he had stable information about a certainty in the last race. Desperately using up his good graces he obtained credit around the betting ring to the tune of fifty thousand dollars. He averaged a price of even money. It meant that, when it won, he would clear his undisclosed debt to Valance United and put ten thousand in his own bank. He would then ease up and take a break to contemplate his future direction in life.

  The jockey rode a perfectly judged race. When the barriers opened h
e settled the horse at the rear of the field on the rails. The stable-mate quickly went to the lead and scooted along. At about the six hundred, just before the home turn the second favourite made a move around the outside to go to the front. The stable-mate went with him and kept him wide on the turn. The two of them went, hammer and tongs, up the slight incline at the beginning of the straight. By the time the two battlers for the lead had topped the rise their race had been run. Not so Cade’s horse. It strode to the leaders at the start of the cutaway rail. Halfway down the straight it had put four lengths between itself and the second horse.

  He felt exhilaration and relief and he mentally upbraided himself for allowing the situation to develop which could have resulted in his imprisonment. Daylight was running second so he turned to go. No need to see the finish he would leave before the mob and get out before the traffic jam in the car park. The bookies would settle up on Monday morn ing at the club. The auditors could be fooled by Cade’s self-deprecating incompetence.

  The cheering suddenly stopped, it was followed by a collective gasp and a split second of silence which turned into groans of dismay. Cade wheeled nervously, and there, just short of the winning post a jockey in familiar colours was sprawled unconscious on the track. His horse was making pathetic attempts to get to its feet on a broken leg as the rest of the field thundered past.

  Cade called in sick on Monday morning and that was no lie. He had no idea what he could do to wriggle out of this one. Ninety thousand dollars he now owed. He had to find forty thousand before the end of the week to sidestep the auditors, but where would it come from? There was no hollow log or honey pot he could rob. Where would he get the money? He had decided to attend the settling session at the club on the Monday morning and appeal to his creditors. But for a twisted fetlock he would’ve been ten thousand in the black instead of ninety thousand in the red. He was sure they would give him time to pay, probably no more credit but at least time.