The Cooktown Grave

by Carney Vaughan

  Byers walked through the passenger terminal into a hot midday sun reinforced by high humidity. He began sweating profusely. He was not going to enjoy this summer climate. He continued on to the unmarked car parked by the ‘police only’ sign. He looked up into the eyes of a tall young man just out of probation. Parsons was fresh faced, full of enthusiasm and currently propping up the signpost. “You must be Warren Parsons, pleased to meet you, Warren?” Byers stuck out his hand. “I’m Russell Byers.”

  “How do you do, Sir,” was not really a question. They shook hands.

  “Call me Russ,” said Byers. Parsons took an immediate liking to this old bloke with his informal manner and his open, friendly face. The stiffness which existed between himself and his own superiors was absent.

  “I may not be able to do that in front of my bosses, Sir...er...Russ, they get a bit up tight if they think I’m being what they call brash.”

  “Well I really don’t have any authority in your state. You’re the boss here, call me what you like when you have to,” Byers said. “Now let’s get out of this heat, I’m booked in at Hide’s. I’ve been there before, I like it there. But first the carousel and my bag.”

  On the way back to town from the airport Parsons filled Byers in on what he knew which was pretty scant. He questioned Byers about the fugitive’s past and what his crime was. As he finished the brief outline of Brannigan’s criminal history Byers concluded with, “I’ve always thought Brannigan got a raw deal.”

  “Why?”

  “Well it was one of those cases that could’ve gone either way. But it went against him and he got an extremely harsh sentence. I always thought, too, that he was full of remorse and genuinely wanted to atone. I was surprised when he escaped from custody.”

  “Will what you think make a difference to your chase?”

  “No! Of course not, I could be wrong.” There was just a hint of the pedant in Byers answer. He added a question, “Are you busy tonight, Warren?”

  “Nothing I can’t get out of,” said Parsons. “Why?”

  “I’d like to do a tour of the pubs and ask a few questions. If you could see your way clear I’d like you to be with me.”

  “Sure, Russ.” Parsons liked the intimacy he now shared with this easygoing old timer. “I’ll pick you up at Hides, after tea.”

  “I’ll wait in the lounge.” said Byers.

  He checked into the hotel and carried his battered suitcase up to his room. A shower; a shave and fresh clothes and he was feeling half fit. A couple of whiskeys fixed up the other half. He sat alone in the dining room and reflected on young Parsons’ question, “Will what you think make a difference to your chase?” His answer was a lie. Of course, it will make a difference. Christ, Brannigan must have been living in his own private purgatory for the last ten years.

  If Byers was to send him back there would be four and a half years of the original sentence plus three or four extra years for escaping. He’d be doing fifteen to twenty for a maximum of two if he hadn’t run away. Hardly fair but he brought it on himself; if Byers could find his trail it would confirm or deny his own opinion of Brannigan’s character. After all a ten-year long trail would have left some indelible character assessments along the way.

  “There you are.” It was Parsons. “You’re supposed to be in the lounge.”

  Byers laughed. “You found me. You’ll make a fine detective.” He gulped his coffee and got up. On the way to the taxi he said, “I’m sorry, I was lost in thought, time gets away. Where will we start?”

  “I think we’d better start down on the waterfront before they get too pissed, they get a bit stroppy around closing time down there.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  They worked their way from the waterfront towards the centre of town through eight pubs and as many beers. Parsons was thoroughly enjoying himself but feeling a little guilty. He could see their investigation was going nowhere. He said to Byers, “You know, Russ, I don’t think we’re going to have any success hawking this photo around the town. When Brannigan landed in casualty he had a full beard and long hair and that’s how they’d know him around the pubs. Besides I’m getting a bit pissed.”

  Byers smiled, “I know, but it’s basic stuff I have to do. That’s why I’m trying to get it over with now. I’d like to do a few more pubs before we call it a night but I know what you mean. I’m getting a bit squiffy myself. We don’t have to have any more grog.”

  The quest was fruitless as Parsons suggested it would be. He dropped Byers off at his hotel at midnight with a promise to pick him up at eight next morning and continued on home in the taxi.

  Chapter

  42

  “I feel a bit seedy this morning, Russ, and there’s still about twenty bloody pubs to visit. I think I’ll stick to lolly water for rest of the tour.” Parsons pale face was backing up his complaint. He stole a piece of dry toast from Byers’ plate and a cup from an adjoining table. “Hope you don’t mind, I couldn’t face breakfast earlier.”

  “Drink Clayton’s or ginger ale, or something that looks like beer. I’ve been on lots of these grass roots type enquiries, more than I can remember. And I’ve learnt one thing Warren, you’ll never get into a bloke’s confidence in a pub with a schooner of lemonade in your hand.” Byers was finishing a big breakfast of bacon and eggs. “We’ve got plenty of time. We can do four or five places a night, that shouldn’t do you much harm. But today we’ll pay the hospital a visit, then go and see Jennison at the Cairns Sentinel.”

  The reception counter at the hospital at eight thirty in the morning was deserted on the customer side. Inside the small area behind the glass security screen outpatient strategy was being planned. A small staff was galvanising itself to face the daily siege. Parsons identified himself through a small hole in the glass and asked to see David Bramble.

  “I’m sorry, the doctor’s not on duty until tonight. They have rotating shifts, you know. I could give you his address, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me giving it to a policeman.” An attractive blonde woman, in her early twenties, seemed impressed by whom she thought was an extremely young detective.

  Parsons allowed her to continue being impressed. He asked, “Is there somebody on duty now we could speak to?”

  The blonde said, “Take a seat and I’ll fetch somebody.”

  She came out of her little fortress and disappeared down a corridor. She reappeared a few minutes later accompanied by a woman in the uniform and cap of a nursing sister.

  “Sister Bell, this is Detective Parsons, I don’t know who his friend is, I assume he’s another policeman.” The blonde gave Parsons a look of encouragement and returned to her station behind the glass screen.

  “How do you do, Detective, I’m Helen Bell.”

  “Sister,” Parsons took her hand. “This is Detective Byers.”

  “Hello Sister,” Byers shook her hand, “I’m Russell Byers, from Sydney, I’m with homicide and I’m trying to locate this man,” he passed her a photograph. “His name is David Michael Brannigan, he’s a fugitive. He escaped from a prison in New South Wales about ten years ago. I know he was a patient in this hospital recently. Can you help us?”

  God. It was a perfect photograph of Mac with a mouse under each eye and the hospital bandage still on his head. She recognised it as the photo from the Cairns Sentinel. In order to compose her thoughts, she studied the snap much longer than was necessary. Homicide was not what she expected Mac to be involved in but she did suspect he was at odds with the law.

  “What was he in gaol for?” she asked.

  “He killed a man,” said Byers shrewdly watching the woman for a reaction. He got it. Helen’s face paled and she sat down because her legs threatened to betray her. Byers told Parsons, in pantomime, to get her a glass of water from the cooler.

  “Thank you,” said Helen after she recovered from her initial shock. “
I’m fine. He was here for close to three weeks, but for the first two weeks he was unconscious. I wouldn’t have thought he was a killer. He seemed a nice, gentle man but he did leave in the middle of the night. Of course, then I knew he was in trouble but I didn’t expect it to be anything like this.”

  “Thank you, Sister I won’t bother you anymore just now, I may come back at a later date,” he turned to go but paused. “Is there anybody else at the hospital you think could help in our enquiries?”

  “Yes, there’s Harry Bernard, an aide, and Doctor Bramble, they were both on duty the night the ambulance brought him in. His name is, or was, Mac. By the way, he’s a fisherman.”

  “Where are they now, Bernard and Bramble?”

  “Harry Bernard is here on duty now but Doctor Bramble is not on until tonight,” Helen answered. “Would you like me to get Harry for you?”

  “Please, Sister,” Byers answered.

  Helen found Harry at the coffee urn in the canteen. “Harry there’s two policemen, detectives, they’ve got a photo of Mac and they say he’s an escaped prisoner from Sydney,” she told him and added, “you don’t seem surprised.”

  “I knew he was a runner; did they say what he did?” asked Harry.

  “One is a homicide detective; he says Mac killed a man. His real name is Brannigan. We could get into trouble, Harry.”

  “Now I am surprised. I wouldn’t have picked Mac for a killer. Wow.” Harry turned his mind back to the night Mac fled the hospital. When Harry had asked him if he did something bad Mac had replied, `They say I did but I’m sure I couldn’t’ve. I know I couldn’t’ve.’ Harry decided to defend Mac and Helen felt a flood of relief when he said, “I don’t think he is.”

  Helen sent Byers and Parsons out to the canteen to interview Harry. They sat at his table long enough to have a coffee each. Harry added very little to what they already knew and what he did tell them was useless to their investigation. Byers thanked him for his help. Harry said “Anytime.” Out on the street Byers asked Parsons. “Well. What did you make of those two?”

  “Although she doesn’t remember me I’ve seen a lot of the sister,” Parsons answered, “she’s a good sort and she’s got a reputation for being true blue. I don’t know Bernard but I did interview him last week sometime. I was in uniform and he probably doesn’t remember me. But he told me the doctor, Bramble, discharged Brannigan. The sister said he left in the middle of the night. I wonder why Bernard said that. He seems a square Joe but I got the impression he was protecting Brannigan.”

  “Exactly.” said Byers. “So did I, and the good sister was visibly upset when she learned Brannigan was a killer. He seems to have won them both over. Maybe there’s some internal politicking going on here between the staff. Let’s go and see Jennison.”

  Byers and Parsons turned in off the street and fronted the receptionist at her desk in the lobby of the Cairns Sentinel building. She directed them to Jennison’s desk at the rear of the office. As they approached Jennison ended a phone call and rose to meet them; he smiled at Parsons and said, “Hullo, young fella. Plain clothes, have you had a promotion?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry for the interruption, Mister Jennison, if you’re busy we won’t keep you long.” Parsons said, shaking his hand. “This is Detective Sergeant Byers from Sydney Homicide, Bill Jennison, Sir. I’m just showing the detective around Mister Jennison,” he added.

  Byers thrust his right hand into Jennison’s and with his left he dragged Brannigan’s photo from his coat pocket, “G’day officer. That’s one I took. Homicide eh, what’s he done?” Jennison asked.

  “Call me Russ. He’s an escapee from a prison farm just outside Sydney.”

  “I’m Bill…I mean what’s he really done?”

  “Manslaughter. He killed his brother.”

  “Well! I wouldn’t have picked him for a killer.” Jennison fumbled in a side drawer of his desk. Parsons had picked up on the avenue of investigation down which Byers seemed to be travelling. He noticed each time Byers confronted an interviewee with the brutal fact Brannigan was a killer he was carefully eyeballing for a reaction.

  Jennison found what he was looking for and pushed a larger photo across the desk. “He was a supposed amnesia victim as you no doubt recall, Constable.” Parsons nodded. “But when he did the flit,” Jennison continued, “of course we knew that wasn’t so. The hospital staff said he had a beard when he was admitted so I put his mug in the computer and put his beard back on. Then I hawked the photo around the town. His name’s Mac, he’s a fisherman, a bit of a pisspot and a loner. He’s off the Monterey Star and before that he was on the Paragon for quite a long time.”

  “Where are the two boats now?” Byers asked.

  “I don’t know, Russ,” Jennison answered, “but the Harbourmaster’d know.”

  Byers held the computer-generated likeness in his hand. “Could I have a copy of this Bill?”

  “Sure.” Jennison walked across the office to a colour copier and ran off a dozen copies. Byers thanked him and he and Parsons headed for the waterfront. The Harbourmaster’s office placed the two trawlers in Princess Charlotte Bay.

  “How far away is that, Warren?” Byers asked. “By chopper,” he added.

  A helicopter, Parsons was getting to like this bloke more and more each day. “‘Bout an hour north,” he answered.

  “See if you can line one up for tomorrow. We’ll have an early day today. You take the car, I’ll walk back to the pub, I want to nose around here for a while.”

  Byers walked the entire waterfront of Smith’s Creek, from the deep-water berth to the Cannery wharf several kilometres up the waterway. On approximately twenty trawlers tied up and in various stages of repair or refit at least one person on each boat recognised Mac. And not one had a bad word for him. Although they all agreed that he was a pisspot and a loner.

  Chapter

  43

  It was dark. Russell Byers had dozed past his evening meal; the walk along the waterfront had tired him. After he returned he’d stretched himself out on his hotel room bed. The bedside phone had rung, it was what had woken him, “Hello, Byers speaking.”

  “It’s Warren here, Russ, I’ve got a chopper lined up for the morning, I spoke to the pilot. He does this trip often, taking drunken deckies up to their boats. He reckons we need floats and a dinghy on the chopper, and we need to be there about dawn. They fish for Tigers and Endeavouri at night up there. We’ll get there early and talk to the blokes before they bunk down. I’ll call for you about three.”

  “OK. Thanks, Warren.” Byers put his head back on the pillow and peered through the gloom at the slowly rotating ceiling fan. He mulled over all of the information on Brannigan mentally available to him. He lay there for a while lost in thought and concluded that so far, but for his past, Brannigan was a model citizen. Even though he was a drunk, he was a loner who caused no trouble. Byers decided that the tenor of tomorrow’s interviews would decide just how relentless would be his pursuit of Brannigan. He dropped off.

  “Wha… Who…Christ what time is it?” Parsons was shaking him awake.

  “It’s sparrowfart Russ. C’mon, hands off cocks, on socks,” the young constable roused him.

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Cadets,” Parsons grinned, he added, “I’m hungry. Can we get breakfast here?”

  “Me too, but it’s too early for the dining room. We’ll have to pick up something on the way.”

  They drove past the airport passenger terminal to a disconnected set of buildings. They left the car in a small parking area in front of an office with a sign that read `Cape Helicopter Service’. A leather-jacketed man behind a desk said, “Go on through, Jim’s waiting.” The machine was warming up. Although the whirling blades were a couple of metres above their heads they made their way in a crouch to the safety of the cabin.

  Parsons made the intr
oductions and soon they were airborne and heading north along the coastline. It was Parsons first ride in a chopper and he was glad he hadn’t eaten. If it hadn’t been for the sensation of his head being forced down into his chest cavity he thought it was like looking through a telescopic lens, backwards. As the office buildings fell away beneath them the only outward sign of his inexperience were two sets of white knuckles.

  Byers watched the city lights fade to a glow. The streetlights in the suburbs became pinpoints; they were next to be left behind. He looked down and saw a campfire six or seven hundred feet below on a deserted beach. It went the way of the other lights. He was beginning to warm to this region and to the uncomplicated lifestyle of the locals; he would like to be able to afford the time to enjoy it.

  Parsons pointed to landmarks as they slipped by, Cape Tribulation, Cooktown on the Endeavour River and further north out on the horizon was Lizard Island. Byers included this area in a mental list he would consider in his retirement. His mind snapped back to the job at hand.

  The morning star was climbing out of the sea. The sun was not yet visible but the promise of a new day was warming the eastern horizon. They came in low over Cape Melville where the Coral Sea gave in and became Princess Charlotte Bay. Grey fingers of subdued light snaked across the water and the backdrop of violet hills was taking on shades of gold. Before them was King Island, two trawlers were sheltering in the lee. The pilot put the helicopter down up current of one of the boats about fifty metres away. He immediately dropped the killick and gradually drifted back to the trawler until he reached a close, safe distance.