The First Cut

by Sisters in Crime Australia

  'What's this guy's name; the nursery man?'

  'Er, Haynes, Francis Haynes.' He gave me the address and I took copies of Carol's birth certificate, licence number and medical history, which he'd brought with him in a tidy file.

  'I'll check whether your wife has used her passport or booked airline tickets somewhere. And I'll find out if this Haynes is missing too. Okay?' I smiled as winningly as I could under the circumstances.

  He nodded rapidly, running his finger nervously under his collar. 'Getting very warm, isn't it?' he said, in a sudden attempt at small talk. 'Soon be summer.'

  A thought struck me. 'Did your wife take summer or winter clothes, Mr Michaels?'

  'Winter, sort of. Some sweaters and a coat, you know the kind of thing. Er some slacks, a few long-sleeved shirts. Mostly she's taken to wearing those Indian-style clothes, cheesecloth baggy things - they're all gone too.'

  I studied the photo he'd given me - a blurry shot of a woman at a barbecue, her plate piled high with tabouli. She looked distracted; her short hair blew in her face. She could have been anyone. She looked like a librarian, or the lady at your leadlighting class. Her shirt was green-striped, with a long pointy collar, circa 1970s, and big red buttons.

  'I'd like to see some more photographs if I may; this one doesn't tell me much.'

  'Yes, I'm not much of a photographer. I have an album at home. Would you like me to bring it in?'

  'No. How about I drop by and see them tomorrow. Right now I'm going home to sit in a cold bathtub for a while.' I smiled wanly. The late afternoon sun was pouring through the window; we were both shiny with sweat, and my headache was still pounding at my temples.

  Mr Michaels stood and nodded. 'I just want you to find her and ask what's going on,' he said.

  'I'll make it my business,' I replied, rising to shake his hand.

  The next morning was just as hot, as I drove slowly to his house - a bigger anonymous suburban number than I had imagined - and flanked on either side by dwellings based around the same generic plan. A huge hole had been torn into the back lawn, like tooth from a gum. I glanced down into it then made my way around the idle earth-moving machinery to the outdoor furniture set where my client sat, his hand on a photo album.

  'Well, that's her pool,' said Bryan Michaels with a humourless smile.

  'I never realised they made such a mess.'

  'They have to dig down a fair way. Look at the rest of the lawn - it's ruined. And there's going to be another great truck here this afternoon when they come to pour the concrete.'

  Again I felt a tweak of sympathy for the man left paying the bill for his wife's dream project.

  'It might all be a misunderstanding, Mr Michaels' I offered lamely. 'Your wife might just need some, um, space.'

  'That sounds exactly like her,' he said bitterly.

  'Let's look at you photos then, shall we?'

  Here was Carol Michaels over a period of years. Bryan was right - her tastes in clothing had veered towards the floaty and ethnic of late; but she'd obviously always had individual tastes: a camel coat with a fur collar and kelly-green trousers, a pair of spotty bathers and a big straw hat. In each photo she smiled determinedly into the camera with mild blue eyes. It was hard to say whether she was shrewd or credulous, happy or sad. She had the kind of face that could slip into a crowd and not be noticed by airline stewards, hotel staff or the person at the corner shop. Tracking her down might be more difficult than I'd thought.

  Up in her room her wardrobe was pretty well cleared out, as well all the drawers. No jewellery left, no incriminating letters declaring ardent love for someone other than her husband, no notepads with hotel reservations conveniently outlined. I returned to the Mr Michaels and the photos.

  'Thanks for letting me see these, Mr Michaels. I'll take a couple for reference, if that's okay?'

  'Certainly and now, if you'll excuse me, I have to deal with the tradesmen about the pebble-dash.'

  I left and headed down to the local nursery, a patch of greenery in an industrial zone of hardware shops, car detailers and discount tyre marts. I wandered into the greenhouse area and gazed at some shrubs for a while, feeling guilty about my own garden or, rather, my eight square feet of decking.

  'Can I help you at all?' A tall, extremely handsome young man was standing behind me, a spray pump in his hand.

  'I'm looking for something that thrives on neglect.'

  'Hmm, you'd better get a cactus. Although people don't realise how much water a cactus actually needs.'

  'Well I can certainly simulate a desert environment,' I smiled. 'Actually I'm looking for a Francis Haynes, does he work here?'

  'He certainly does; we run the place together.'

  'Oh good. He's not on his summer holidays by any chance?'

  'We never take holidays around here,' the guy laughed, heading for the greenhouse door. 'Hang on, I give him a yell.'

  Francis Haynes, when he joined us a moment later, was the second most perfect specimen of manhood I'd seen. And both on the same day! I wondered if the heat was getting to me.

  'What can I do for you?' he asked, taking off his sunglasses and wiping his forehead.

  I told him my name and business. 'I'm wondering if you know a Mrs Carol Michaels?'

  'Sure I do. Nice lady with a drip-dry husband. She comes in here often. We're helping her design a rockery landscape garden.'

  'She seems to have left for parts unknown with person or persons unknown,' I said.

  He raised his eyebrows. 'How intriguing. Good for her.'

  'Her husband had a feeling she might have left with you.'

  Francis looked at his business partner then they both looked at me, their mouths twitching. I'm slow - it took me about five seconds; and then we all burst out laughing.

  When I took my leave with a cactus 10 minutes later, we were the best of friends.

  So absolutely no leads there, I thought with a sense of frustration. Maybe I'd phone the sister in Queensland and see if Carol had gone there, or at the very least confided in her.

  I'd just put the cactus in the car and was wondering if there was a café in walking or short driving distance, when I spotted the opportunity shop. Op-shops are my weakness. There's something about coming out with a bag full of stuff you've just bought for a couple of bucks that just lifts the spirits. I looked at my watch, decided I had a few minutes to spare and ducked inside.

  Humming to myself I wandered up the aisle of $1 BARGAINS! and past the WOMEN'S WINTER TOPS to the rack that said ANTIQUE CLOTHES AND FANCY DRESS. Op-shops always have a rack like this - it's where they put unusual stuff. Once, in a small country op-shop in New South Wales, I found a fabulous red ballgown made in 1952… but I digress.

  Something made me stop and focus on the $2 rack. Looking back, I marvel at the random set of circumstances that allowed me to fluke my best-ever find; and how close I'd come to resisting temptation and walking away to find some lunch.

  I slowly reached out my hand for the coat-hanger, as a cold wave yawned up and turned over in my stomach, because there was the shirt, the green-striped '70s number with the pointy collar and red buttons. And a little further back on the rack was a camel-hair coat with a fur collar.

  It was only later that I considered there could have been a different logical explanation for this. Carol Michaels could easily have cleaned out her own wardrobe on the way to her new life; she could have turfed all this old stuff into the op-shop bin on her way to the airport. I don't know why this sensible, perfectly feasible scenario didn't occur to me at once.

  But I just knew, somehow, that that wasn't so. I knew, without a second thought, that all Carol's clothes would be here somewhere; along with her suitcase and make-up and the poor woman's stockings and underwear. I knew, because I felt tears of pity filling my eyes as I stood there holding her shirt with the childish buttons.

  Fluking it - not a very professional investigative method I know, but there you are. And how can you say to a police detecti
ve you know and respect, 'Look, I just know she's dead because I'm already grieving for her.' Sometimes a person just has to take their stomach's word for something; and that's all there is to it.

  I arrived back at my client's house a few minutes before the police.

  I skirted a neat pile of pink and dove-grey pavers and caught the attention of the guy backing the concrete mixer up to the edge of that huge, dark, wet hole. When I flashed my ID he turned off the engine, leaving the mixer turning, and climbed out.

  Bryan Michaels emerged from the house looking polite and helpful - wearing the professional face that no doubt help him sell a lot of pharmaceuticals.

  'I'm sorry,' I said loudly to the driver, 'but you won't be pouring any concrete here for a while.'

  I watched Bryan Michael's face twist and sag.

  'You ruthless bastard,' I said, hearing the doors slamming on the squad cars in the drive.

  OPERATION BLUEWATER

  Inga Simpson

  I sat hunched over my screen, squinting at the moving coloured tracks. The novelty of Monday morning had already worn off. We'd heard what everyone got up to on the weekend, consumed the organic apple cake Marilyn had baked for morning tea; now the week stretched out in front of me like a railway line to forever. Opposite, someone else's screen alarmed. Some boat, somewhere, had crossed into an illegal zone. I blocked out his call to local compliance and tried to focus on my own screen. The only zone where nothing ever happened. That's how it felt, anyway, after seven and a half months in this job.

  'Morning, Meg.'

  I sat up straight. 'Mr Brandt.' The manager of our office stood before me, all suited up.

  He sat on the corner of my desk, one leg swinging. His socks matched. What was going on? I watched as he leant in towards me, smiling. 'How would you like to get out on the water?'

  I grinned. 'You bet.'

  'Navy's running a big operation. Everyone's involved. Customs, Immigration, AFP, Quarantine. They need a bunch of Fisheries people. I put your name forward. Thought it might be good experience for you. You'll be at sea five to seven days next week. Whatever plans you had, cancel them.'

  I nodded, too excited to think of anything intelligent to say.

  'Briefing's at 1400. Conference room.'

  Our lunch room had prime view over Darwin's harbour. I stared out at the sandy line of soil between the cobalt sea and the green tangle of mangroves. Smoke plumes rose up in the distance; the last of the season's burn off. Across the table, Lars's mobile beeped. I watched him read the message.

  'C'mon, Kindred. We're to meet The Yaltala down at the docks. Looks like it's been up to no good again.' I stuffed the rest of my sandwich in my mouth and stood up to pull my overalls over my shoulders, conscious of the white letters on my back. No, it wasn't NYPD, or FBI, but out there on the water, 'AFMA Fisheries' carried some weight. I followed Lars out to the Hilux. He'd been my supervisor for the last three months and I still couldn't figure him out. He had the languid drawl and walk of most long-termers, but I got the sense there was something more going on underneath. He threw the keys over his shoulder. Apparently I was driving.

  'Heard you're going out on the op'.'

  He made it sound like an accusation. I nodded, watching the road.

  'You graduates don't know what an easy ride you get. Had to wait years to get out on a trip like that. Maybe I should get myself one of them floppy hats.' He half-smiled. 'What did you do your PhD on, anyway? Oceanography? Natural Resource Management?'

  I felt my cheeks grow hot. 'The life-span of the Patagonian Toothfish.'

  He laughed his slow chuckle. 'Well, you couldn't be further from your freaky little mates up here.' He looked out the window, nodding his head, the corners of his mouth turned down. Was that a hint of respect? 'Why didn't you apply for a job down in Tassie, or the Antarctic? Be better for that skin of yours.'

  'I did,' I said, pulling up in the government space right in front of the docks. A prawn trawler was making its way in, its gear folded up above it like an insect's wings. 'That it?'

  'Looks like it.' We waited in the ute, air-con running, while the boat moored.

  Lars got out first. I tightened my ponytail and adjusted my cap, squinting into the sun even behind our special-issue tropical shades.

  'Afternoon, Ben.'

  The skipper nodded. 'Lars.'

  'This here's my latest offsider, Meg Kindred. Mind if we come aboard?'

  I smiled but received no acknowledgement. You got used to it.

  I felt my body relax as soon as I walked on deck, adjusting to being on the water. We passed tanks of prawns, the first Tigers for the season. The cabin was low and pokey. I leaned on the doorframe while Lars checked the logbooks. 'VMS picked you up outside the seasonal zone.'

  All the prawn trawlers were fitted with a tracking device, the Vehicle Monitoring System, allowing us to gather data as well as monitor compliance with the various zones. I tried to look relaxed, staring at the screen-saver on the laptop, the logo of a footy team from down south. The Saints, I figured, from the colours.

  'Meg, do you want to do a quick check of the equipment?' So, I was Meg in front of people. Was he going to have a man-to-man chat with him about the incursion?

  I hurried around the boat, checking the booms, nets and lines. Nothing out of the ordinary, apart from beginning to smell like prawn guts. I slid down the rails of the ladder and back to the cabin. As I ducked into the doorway, I saw Lars take something from Ben's hand. I kept my eye on that hand as we said our goodbyes. It slipped into his overalls pocket and came out empty. 'Reckons they weren't fishing there, just passing through. The books all check out, so there's not enough to get a warrant. We'll follow up on the catch quota after weigh-in and keep an eye on it, though, eh?'

  'Fair enough.'

  We sped towards the Customs chopper on the horizon. I stood up front, looking through high-powered binoculars. I had to concentrate to keep the smile from my face when I spotted it. A 20-foot timber vessel painted blue-grey; an 'iceboat'. Stupid name for anything in these waters, if you asked me, but it referred to ice chests down below. I could see puffs of diesel smoke and half a dozen crew busy on deck. They were already on the run, making for the invisible line that marked the edge of our fishing zone. I felt our engines pick up through my legs. Surely the boat didn't have a chance of outrunning us?

  We drew level, keeping a distance of a hundred metres. One of the Customs guys ordered them to stop over the megaphone. No response. A second message, in Indonesian this time. The crew had disappeared below. The machine gun above me fired a single shot over their bow, like some old-fashioned pirate movie. These were modern day pirates, I reminded myself. Then two shots together, loud echoing cracks.

  They didn't stop. We were so close to the line now it was going to be touch and go. Our dinghy was in the water but they'd have to board while the boat was at full speed. I watched as our guys pulled along side. The older one, Craig, crouched, connected by a rope to his buddy, ready to try and jump onto the boat. There was a shout and he was flat on his face. A shot had come from somewhere. The cabin? The dinghy dropped back, and we all breathed again once Craig signalled he was okay.

  I looked up at the machine gun. It stayed silent. They were going to get away. Around the ship, everyone was dark with disappointment, scratching their heads, hands on hips, arms crossed.

  'Some fucker tipped them off,' the Customs woman said, coming down from the upper deck. 'They were off before the chopper got anywhere near them. Makes you wonder what they had on board.'

  Shark fin, probably. 'But who'd do that?' I asked.

  'Well, no one from Customs, that's for sure,' she snapped.

  Day three was looking more promising. My eyes were tired after a night shift but the time had been worth it to try out the night-vision goggles and the infra-red scanner. We'd picked up three small boats loaded with reef fish and trepang, now being towed back to Darwin.

  I set my feet apart, grabbed hold of the r
ailing and turned my face from the spray; we were in full pursuit of another iceboat. It was so low in the water with its catch it didn't have a chance. They just cut the engine and sat down on the deck, cross-legged.

  There was no resistance as our team boarded. Most of the crew didn't look more than sixteen. We watched as Craig held up two huge shark-fins, still bloody. I felt sick. Whatever you thought of sharks, the idea of them being thrown back alive, swimming around in circles until they drowned, or were eaten by some other predator, made me hate humans.

  Mal tooted as he drove off. At least I'd made one friend from Customs. I lifted my arm in a tired wave, smiling with the satisfaction of the best week's work I could remember. Maybe I could get used to living up here after all.

  The letterbox was full of junk mail, despite the sign asking for none. There were two damp letters. One for the previous residents, and one for me with a government logo, 'Environment and Heritage'. I slipped them into my pocket, binned the rest and started up the pastel stairs of 'The Sands' apartment complex. The locals disparagingly referred to it as 'The Blands', which was about right.

  I slid a beer into a stubby holder, and opened up the doors to the balcony. The afternoon sun sparkled on the water, tropical jewels. I gulped down a few mouthfuls and ripped open my letter. I'd applied for a policy job with the Antarctic Division months ago. About time they sent me the rejection notice. I nearly lost my grip on my beer as I read. I had till Monday to accept the job.

  Lars leaned on the partition above my desk. 'Want to sit in on the interviews with the crew of that boat you brought in?'

  'Sure.' I grabbed my notebook and pen and hurried after him.

  It was a short drive out to the naval base. We waited at the boom gate while the uniforms checked us out, then drove on to park in the thin line of shade by the reception building. There was a book to sign, passes to clip on, and we were inside. It was cool in the interview room. I set up the triple-deck tape recorder while we waited.