The Cooktown Grave

by Carney Vaughan

  Thinking it was meant for him, “Yer musta fergot,” said the neighbour.

  Dave checked the main switchboard, the power was still on, he turned the main switch off to be on the safe side. If there was a fault the earth wire could be alive. He connected the cable and turned the main switch back on, it remained on. Had the earth wire been alive the Residual Current Device would have immediately turned itself off, or the main switch would have tripped.

  “No problems,” he said, “I’m off. If you see my brother around tell him Dave called.” He headed off down the path.

  Danny was inside the house, his sightless eyes unfocussed.

  A week had passed since Cade listed for Salazar, young Brannigan’s strengths and his habits as he knew them. He hadn’t seen the Colombian since or heard anything or read a word in the print media. As a matter of fact nobody had been around the office until just now. He heard sounds of movement behind the door that connected his office with Benson’s and then the intercom buzzed.

  “Yes,” answered Cade and released the talk button.

  “Come and join us, John.”

  “What now?” he grumbled to himself. “I suppose they want their arses kissed again.” Of the four main characters in the inner sanctum of Valbac Propriety Limited the one with the least to contribute was John Cade. Benson had the money and criminal connections. Sir Charles had community standing and judicial, and political clout. Salazar had all of the warmth and compassion of a Funnelweb spider, and he revelled in the cold blooded execution of his murderous plans. He was the enforcer of this panel of infamy. Cade weighed in with his fraudulently obtained degree in accounting. Now that VPL was an accepted and respected player in the field of cut-price food and household goods his value to this criminal syndicate was minimal. Cade realised this and he kept a low profile. He stood on nobody’s corns. Lately he had come to accept that Salazar was a dangerous ally, Christ knows what he would be like as an enemy.

  When Cade entered Benson’s office only Benson and Salazar were present. “Where’s Charlie?” he asked.

  “He’s overseas, don’t worry about him,” Benson was beaming. “Congratulations to you two, your little plan worked perfectly. Brannigan’s dead and his brother’s been charged with culpable homicide or manslaughter or something like that. It’s all over, we’re home free, a little grease in the right places and Brannigan’s brother should go away for a long time.” “Carlos is the one you should congratulate, Mister Benson, it was his plan and his execution, my part was nil.” Cade was wishing there was an eavesdropper who could be called upon later to absolve him of any blame for Brannigan’s death.

  “Don’t underestimate your worth John,” said Benson.

  Salazar asked the question that had formed in Cade’s mind. “What about the girl?”

  “She’s no problem to us. Not now. She found his body, she called at the house after work. A neighbour found her sitting on the front doorstep next morning. She was away with the fairies, she’s in a psychiatric hospital at Bankstown now. Forget her.”

  Salazar seemed disappointed but Cade was relieved. There’d been enough killing, thank God the girl was safe. He liked Jan. She would eventually get over this and the longer it took the more chance she had of becoming forgotten by this evil bastard.

  “Now, let’s get on with our business.” Benson mentally indulged himself with some unctuous rubbing of his hands.

  PART THREE

  Chapter

  37

  Harry Bernard hung the sheet over the verandah rail and kept his eye on the lone occupant of a dinghy anchored on an offshore reef. He watched as wind waves beat against the bow and blue outboard exhaust fought its way from the white wake signifying motion. An arm came up in salute. Harry acknowledged the waving arm with his own wave and soon Mac was pulling the aluminium dinghy high above the waterline on the pebbly beach. He picked a small dreadnought killick from the bow, walked a further ten yards and secured it behind the washed-up trunk of a coconut palm. He then jogged the hundred yards across the sand to the fishing club shack.

  “Hi, Harry.”

  “G’day, Mac. Everything OK?”

  “Yep, thanks,” said Mac, “anyone sniffing around in town?”

  “No. Nothing yet,” Harry answered, “except, that young cop came back to the hospital and roasted shit out of Bramble for letting you out.”

  “He didn’t, I did a moonlight flit.”

  “I know,” Harry said with a mischievous twinkle, “but I told the cop I thought he did. Anything to give that arsehole a hard time. Here’s some groceries and fuel for the outboard and kerosene for the stove. Don’t forget, no lamps, or flashlights inside the shack at night. If you have to leave in a hurry just leave the dinghy on the beach or take off in it. It’s mine it doesn’t belong to the club.”

  “Thanks, Mate.”

  Harry emptied the contents of two cardboard boxes onto the rough table. Green vegetables, potatoes, carrots, milk, butter, meat, rice, bread, biscuits, soft drinks and a plastic container of 15+ sunscreen.

  Mac picked up the sunscreen and said. “That’s thoughtful of you, Harry.”

  Harry’s face clouded and he said. “Helen sent it.” There was an awkward silence.

  “Harry,” Mac said, “Billy told me about you and Helen and I want you to know, Mate, I’ll never try to get under your neck. You’ve been good to me Harry, too good. I’ll never be able to repay you for what you’ve done. That goes for Helen and Billy, too.”

  “Aaah, that’s nothing, I’ve got no rights over Helen it’s just that I’ve never had a chance before with a woman like her. She’s like no one I’ve ever known.”

  “Half your luck old son, she’s lovely, I’ll never intrude but if you ever leave the scene I’ll be in like Flynn,” Mac promised.

  “I’ve got to get back, is there anything special you want next time?” Harry asked.

  “No thanks, old son, just give everyone my regards and say thanks to Helen for the sunscreen.”

  “Sure,” Harry answered and added under his breath, “pig’s arse, I will.” He waved as he headed back down the road to Cairns.

  After Harry left, Mac sat in a deckchair and reflected vaguely on his life and the recent events which landed him in that very chair. If it hadn’t been for the attack by those three thugs in the waterfront pub he wouldn’t have met Helen, or Harry. And, although he had only suspected, he now knew for certain Billy was as square as everybody had assured him he was. The attack was premeditated. He was sure of that because more of his memory had returned. He remembered that as he left the trawler at the dock the three goons who attacked him had been talking to Fat Jack from the Harbourmaster’s office.

  They were good. Whether by luck or design they left him no avenue of escape, and they wouldn’t have been noticed by a real drunk until they were ready to act. There had been quite a few mugging victims among the fishing fraternity over the last couple of years. And in each case two or three attackers were involved. But it was Mac’s memory of something said by one of the three before he woke up in hospital after the garbage tin hit him on the head. One of them had complained, “Ten fuckin’ lousy bucks. Where’s the rest?” Where’s the rest? The bastard had had some prior knowledge and had been disappointed.

  He knew he had plenty of time on his hands now since Billy told him there was a mother ship up in Princess Charlotte Bay. It would buy the catch and supply provisions and generally provide welfare for the part of the fleet fishing there. The Monterey Star could be there for another couple of months. Or until Reg and whoever was his deckhand now wanted another taste of civilisation. When Mac’s present crisis evaporated and he could be sure no one from the south was looking for him he would return to the waterfront and do a bit of sleuthing of his own. He wanted these bastards locked up.

  Chapter

  38

  If Eleanor Beckett wasn’t happy
she was at least contented. She hadn’t yet seen a punter from the Harold Park Trotting meeting and already she had five hundred dollars in her whippy. She spotted a familiar face. “Hey, Marjie. Come and have a coffee break.”

  “I can’t, love, I haven’t made a damn razoo yet. Johnny’ll skin me.”

  “Fuck Johnny! Come on, I’ll shout. There’ll be nothing much around until after the Harold Park mob gets here, anyway. Be another hour yet. Should be some money around tonight, a lot of favourites got up.” They walked arm in arm into the Palms Coffee Lounge and sat in a booth.

  “Oooh! Oh, Ellie, Love. You shouldn’t do this,” Marjie complained. But she grasped the two crisp fifties Ellie slid across the table. The donations had become a bit of a habit for Ellie and the other young high earners in the Cross. It was like welfare for Marjie who’d been administering her sexual favours in the golden rectangle of King’s Cross since Adam was a boy. Now Marjie was just a faded, long-wilted flower. If there were no deviates about she found it hard to make a quid. Johnny, her bloke, thought the money she brought home she earned. He kept sending her out each night for more.

  “Marjie, why don’t you get a day job?”

  “Johnny won’t let me, Love.”

  “I’ll take some of the girls around. We’ll talk to him.”

  “He won’t listen.”

  “He’ll listen to us, Love.” Ellie promised. She pointed to the street, “It’s getting a little busier out there, looks like party time. I’d better get out there.”

  They parted at the coffee shop and went in opposite directions. Ellie began her promenade at the El-Alamein fountain. Marjie headed for William Street where the taxis emptied out the thrill-seekers.

  A tall, slim, well-dressed John of an age which Ellie couldn’t guess approached her. Coldly handsome there was a Latin inference about him. He whispered in her ear.

  “Get someone else, I don’t do that,” she looked him up and down, when she was satisfied she offered, “I’ll give head, but no butt fucks, I don’t do that.”

  He whispered again.

  “Jesus!” A grand, there were not many times she could remember she made a thousand dollars in one night. A grand for one trick, it’d set tongues wagging around the street. “It’s not as though I haven’t had a cock up my arse before,” she thought, “but not a stranger’s.” She silently rationalised for and against. Out loud she demanded, “Show me your money.” Nineteen fifties she counted, she saw the twentieth and stopped the count. She’d been taught never to count the last note in case there were two stuck together.

  Ellie put the money in her handbag, put the strap over her shoulder and took his hand. She led him into Rose Park. “There’s a lane down here, it’s safe, Sweetie.” she told him.

  In the dark obscurity of her safe lane Ellie rolled a condom over an unimpressive penis, she handed its owner a tube of KY lubricant, “Put this on,” she ordered.

  “What is this?” the client asked.

  “Starting gear,” she told him, “just put it on and we’ll get on with the business, Sweetie.”

  “I am wearing gloves, you do it.”

  Ellie eyed him suspiciously, “Why the gloves? You don’t have anything wrong with you, do you?” She studied him for a while and then thought of the thousand dollars. She applied the gel. “Let’s get on with it.” She arranged her clothing.

  With her hands supporting her against the paling fence, Ellie’s mind was unconcerned with the action going on at her rear. She was mentally accounting her night’s work. A grand for this trick was more than a promise; she already had it in her handbag, along with the earlier money she’d earned. The night had just begun; the potential was there to turn it into two grand, maybe three.

  Something was happening. Although he still filled her the activity behind her had stopped. She glanced over a shoulder and caught the dim glint of the blade reflecting the rays from a distant streetlight. She mistook his intentions. “You thievin’ cunt!” she screamed as she swung her handbag, backwards by its straps, “I’ll fuckin’ fix you, you bastard.”

  The heavy bag caught her tormentor a glancing blow above the temple. It stunned him for an instant, but in that instant his reflexes did the work for him. Ellie’s abuse was cut short, her blood painted the palings of the fence which no longer gave her support. The contents of the bag, when its seams burst, were distributed over a wide area around the girl’s still convulsing body.

  The dark figure’s own blood was saturating a handkerchief he held to his temple. “Curse the girl,” he muttered as he groped on the ground for the wad of fifties. Somebody was at the only entrance to the lane. He ran. He collided with a woman who called, “Are you there, Ellie? Ellie? Are you alright?” They both fell. He scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the dim-lit night.

  The drunk fell into the gutter after the cab driver released him. The driver extracted a fifty and then threw the drunk’s wallet at him.

  “Don’t take it all,” Marjie warned, “I got your number.”

  “I didn’t. I should’ve. He spewed in the back. I’m off the road now until it’s cleaned. Pisspots! I hate ‘em.” The driver had a rethink, he picked up the wallet and took another fifty, “He’s got plenty, what’s it to you, anyway, y’old bag?” His tyres screeched as he took off.

  “C’mon, Love. Get up. The cops’ll be ‘round soon.” Marjie supported the drunk and they hobbled off into a side-street. “Would you like me to be nice to you tonight, Darling? I can be as nice as you want me to be.” She sat him on the footpath and propped him against a fence. He dribbled froth which Marjie took to mean yes. “Let’s talk terms, then, Love.” She fished his wallet out of the pocket she’d put it in after the cab driver extracted the second fifty. “Let’s start at fifty, Love.” She opened the wallet; there was a squillion in there. “Did you say, ‘make it a hundred’?” more dribble from the drunk, “why thank you, Sweetie.”

  Marjie unzipped him and gazed at his flaccid flesh, “Brewer’s droop. Just what I thought.” She took another fifty for her trouble. She’d had an excellent night so far, she had to tell someone and went in search of Ellie

  “Seen Ellie?” she asked at the fountain. A thumb indicated Rose Park and she set off through it to the lane. At the entrance she heard what she thought were sounds of a scuffle, she called, “Are you there, Ellie? Ellie? Are you alright?” A male figure ran from the darkness, he disappeared after knocking her to the ground.

  “Bastard!” she called after him, she picked herself up and ventured into the lane, “Ellie,” she called again, “Ellie, are you there?” She stumbled over something and barked her knees when she went down, “Shit!” she hissed. Her hand closed around a small parcel, she held it up to identify it in the available light. As her eyes became accustomed she saw the blood-soaked money in her hand and at the same time saw Ellie and her grisly smile. She ran in panic still clutching the bloody thousand in the only direction she could. The same direction as the man who knocked her down.

  Chapter

  39

  Valbac Propriety Limited was located in the prestigious office belt, on the north side of the harbour. It had been there for five years. The company moved there after the tragic death of Sir Charles Horvath, Queens Counsel.

  Horvath had never been forgiven for the pompous, cavalier fashion with which he put down Benson’s move for respectability when Valbac Proprietary Limited was born. And he did it in front of Salazar and Cade. On top of that Horvath showed no signs of ever handing back the reins. A public sacking wouldn’t do because Sir Charles was a legend in his own lifetime. The adverse publicity which such a sacking could generate might cause some media hound to start sniffing. Benson called up Salazar and sent him on a mission.

  Charlie was walking the streets of Manila, clinging to the hand of a small boy when a man purporting to be the boy’s father came from the crowd. He came with a pistol, a
nd a passion which could not be cooled. Real justice was served during the few seconds it took for Charlie to realise he was going to die by Salazar’s gun. ‘Father and son’ then disappeared into the gathering, sympathetic crowd.

  Salazar dragged the boy roughly by the arm. A safe distance away from the murder scene he thrust a wad of money down the boy’s shirtfront and said, “Tell no one, or I will come for your family.” He made a gun of his hand and put his outstretched finger against the forehead of the boy. The lad shook his head and ran off in wide eyed terror.

  Sydney newspapers and electronic media were full of the story of the death of Sir Charles. He died at the hands of a communist terrorist in a crowded Manila street in broad daylight. They were demanding revenge, calling for punitive action against terrorism. It was a fiction which became fact after a few sums of money were strategically placed by Salazar among the news correspondents in Manila.

  There followed days of eulogies and testimonials by recipients of Horvath’s philanthropic grants. VPL quietly announced Phillip Benson would be promoted to managing director of the company. Sir Charles’ funeral became a state occasion. There were representatives of governments, state and federal, and members of the police and the military in attendance. City flags were at half-mast. Civic groups caught up in the hysteria of the moment were calling for Sir Charles posthumous elevation to the status of Australian of the Year.

  VPL gained an added amount of respectability and prestige after media reviews of the company and the good work it did. Under Sir Charles stewardship it had allowed the battlers of many cities across Australia access to low priced goods and foodstuffs. Sales soared and Benson finally took on the vicarious respectability he sought. His plan to hit Horvath in the Philippines was a masterstroke. Salazar realised this and begrudged him a little admiration. John Cade knew nothing of the plan and could only guess. But he was shrewd enough to suspect Benson and his assassin and he grew more nervous for his own safety.