CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Cam awoke to inky darkness, his cheek pressed hard upon the rock floor as if a weight had been placed upon his head. Something had been tied with a thin rope to his wrist, but he couldn’t work out what it was. His cautious tug met with only weak resistance. Then he heard the clicking of nails upon the rocky surface, felt hot breath upon his cheek. Reaching out for Bella, he gripped her shaggy mane and pulled himself into a sitting position. The movement made his head swim. He touched his forehead and felt a tacky patch of matted hair, and had to push the dog away when she tried to lick it.
The kero lamps had blown out. With the dog’s lead still wrapped around his wrist, Cam crawled on his hands and knees towards the faint grey light at the mouth of the cave. He groped around on the floor, found his discarded torch and flicked it on. The light seeped through the slits of his eyes like burning liquid, making him wince. He squinted at his watch and tried to focus on the numbers. It felt as if he’d been unconscious for hours, and he was surprised to see only a few minutes had elapsed. Pizzle might still be within hearing distance. He called out, but heard nothing in return except the panting of the dog and his own ragged breathing.
Pizzle. Shit. Cam pulled himself to his feet and leaned against the table, every movement shooting dizzy pulses of pain through his head.
He must phone in, put out an APB. He reached into his pocket for his phone. Not there. Panicking, he slapped his hand against his empty holster; his gun was gone too. Christ! And there was nothing in any of his pockets — mobile, keys, wallet, they were all gone.
‘God damn you, Pizzle!’ he yelled, slamming his hand against the table. It served no purpose other than make his head flash with pain and Bella jerk like a fish on the end of a line.
***
Cam’s garden path swayed like the deck of a ship as the sound of the Good Samaritan’s V8 engine faded into the night. The boy at the agricultural college who’d found him staggering around the back of the building had wanted to take Cam to the hospital, but he’d insisted that all he needed was a lift home. On the way he’d borrowed the boy’s mobile to report the incident to Rod in Toorrup and place an APB on Pizzle.
Rod’s excitement at his finding Pizzle alive almost made up for the humiliation he’d felt at having to admit to his superior that he’d allowed the police ute and his gun to be stolen. It was a careless error; Cam would never have dropped his guard enough for his prisoner to do a bunk if Pizzle had been any other felon. But until now, Cam had never expected the words ‘independent thinking’ and ‘Pizzle’ even to occupy the same page on an incident report.
As if the situation wasn’t bad enough, Bella stubbornly collapsed on the path within a few metres of Cam’s front door. He heaved upon the lead, bellowing and cursing, but she refused to budge. He counted to ten and took a breath. Losing his temper with her wouldn’t get him anywhere; besides, the racket he was making would soon be waking half the street.
He was looking around for something to tie her to when his front porch light flicked on. The door opened, and to his surprise he saw Jo standing under the light, wearing one of his shirts and a pair of track pants. Despite her relaxed attire, her body stiffened when she saw him. Her expression told him he was not yet forgiven for his earlier performance on her veranda, and that this was to be a rolling-pin welcome.
In keeping with his expectations, she put her hands on her hips and said icily, ‘Where the hell have you been? Have you any idea how worried Ruby’s been?’
Ruby, shit. He opened his mouth, but she cut him off.
‘She rang me when you didn’t come home. A strange man turned up and wouldn’t leave until he’d seen you.’ She took a step towards him. ‘So I came over. I couldn’t leave her with him by herself, could I?’
Then she noticed the dog lying like a mound of discarded carpet in the middle of Cam’s garden path. She pointed at her, adding a dash of puzzlement to her angry stew. ‘And who’s this?’ She looked back up at him and took a step forward, her voice softer. ‘And what happened to you? There’s blood on your shirt and on your head.’
A variety of emotions chased across her face — anger, concern, even a small flicker of fear.
Cam gripped her hand, stopping it from moving to his head. ‘Help me get this damn dog into the house and I’ll tell you all about it.’
Together they coaxed Bella inside. ‘Where is he?’ Cam whispered as they stepped through the front door into the lounge room.
‘In the kitchen.’ She glanced at the closed door.
‘And Ruby?’
‘She fell asleep not long after I came over. The man won’t tell me his name and won’t say why he needs to see you. It’s been bloody awful sitting in the kitchen with him, talking about nothing. He refused to leave when I told him to. I tried to call your mobile but it was switched off, then I tried to call Leanne but she didn’t answer hers either. I was about to call Pete when I heard you making all that din outside.’
At that moment a tall young man pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen, body-hugging striped shirt untucked, jeans fashionably flared. He took an impatient breath and opened his mouth to speak.
Cam cut him off. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment, Fielding.’
The young man did a double-take, obviously surprised at being recognised. ‘Look here,’ he said with a belligerent tone, ‘I’ve been waiting around long enough. I can’t stress how important this is.’
Cam was in no mood to pander to a prima donna. ‘You,’ he pointed a threatening finger at Fielding’s chest, ‘get back in the kitchen and wait for me there.’ He handed the dog’s lead over to him, adding before any kind of protest could be uttered, ‘And take this dog with you, like the dedicated RSPCA officer that you are. Lock her in the back yard and leave her a bowl of water. ‘
He turned his back on David Fielding and led Jo by the hand into his bedroom, where he gave her a brief rundown of events.
While she listened to his story, she fetched the first-aid box from the bathroom cupboard and began to dab the cut on his head with hydrogen peroxide.
‘Ouch,’ he winced as the cold solution began to bubble.
‘You’re lucky, I don’t think you need stitches, but I’ll put a couple of Steri-Strips on it just in case.’ She peeled the small strips from their protective backing and placed them across the gash, none too gently. It was her way of showing that despite her obvious concern, she was still angry with him.
‘Other than some ice, there’s nothing we can do about the lump. It’s the size of an egg. You really should get some head X-rays done — you might have a fracture, concussion at the least.’
‘If I had concussion I’d be nauseous — and I feel fine,’ he lied.
When she’d finished, Cam stripped off his filthy uniform. He’d have given almost anything for a shower, but knew he couldn’t keep Fielding waiting any longer.
‘So how do you know who he is? He told me earlier that you’d never even met,’ Jo said from the bed as she watched Cam change into a blue polo shirt and faded Levis.
‘No, never exactly met him. But I know what he is and I think I know what he wants.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Jo turned her head; Cam’s kiss, meant for her lips, brushed her cheek.
‘I won’t be able to see you tomorrow night, I have a fire brigade meeting,’ she said stiffly.
The fire brigade, always the bloody fire brigade. Cam pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes for a moment, not knowing how to respond. He dropped his hands and watched as she strode towards her car, parked in the street.
The job, he would concentrate on the job.
In the kitchen, Fielding had made himself at home, with a fresh cup of coffee steaming on the table before him.
‘Kettle’s just boiled,’ he said in a voice of forced friendliness, as if trying to make up for their bad start.
But it was hard to take kindly to the arrogant young man who had frightened his daughter and
bullied Jo into letting him wait in the house. Cam walked past him, pulled out a kitchen chair and used it to retrieve his hidden bottle of single malt from the top of the pantry cupboard. Usually a beer man, he hadn’t had spirits in weeks and was pleased to see from the mark on the bottle that Ruby hadn’t either.
With his back to Fielding he poured a generous amount into a glass, added some ice then held a cube for a moment against his aching head, careful not to dislodge the Steri-Strips.
Behind him, Fielding cleared his throat and adjusted his position, making the kitchen chair squeak. Cam put the bottle away; he was damned if he was going to offer Fielding any.
When he finally joined the increasingly uncomfortable young man at the table, he cut straight to the chase.
‘I don’t know who you are, but I know what you are. Start talking.’
Fielding blew onto his coffee slowly, then took a sip before removing a pen and notepad from his top pocket. After writing some phone numbers down, he slipped the pad across the table to Cam.
Several phone calls to Sydney later and Cam had confirmed Fielding’s identity. He resolved with difficulty to try to sweep any personal dislike under the carpet, and concentrate on the man’s story and the role he was expected to play in it. Before long, despite everything that had happened over the last few hours, he felt as if he’d been given a shot of adrenaline and found himself hanging on the man’s every word.
Fielding was working undercover, just as Pizzle had said, posing as an RSPCA inspector in an attempt to crack a national stock-stealing ring.
‘They have cells in every state,’ Fielding explained. ‘Our sources lead us to believe that they are being controlled by a central command post operating through the Wetherby conglomerate. It’s a huge operation, Sergeant Fraser. Every year the country loses millions of dollars in stock theft, and these people are hefty contributors to those figures. One road train loaded with good-quality stolen cattle can fetch up to a hundred thousand dollars a pop.’
Cam whistled air between his teeth. ‘Not bad for one night’s work.’ He took a sip of scotch. ‘But why’ve you taken so long to reveal your identity to us?’
‘One of the biggest problems we have with cracking these rings is the nature of the state police system. State police are shifted around frequently; often city police who know nothing about country policing are seconded to country areas. Through no fault of their own, these guys wouldn’t know a stock thief if they caught him red-handed.’
Cam nodded. ‘Sounds like Sergeant Harris.’
Fielding smiled. ‘His was an unfortunate accident, but it couldn’t have worked out better for us.’
Cam had a strong suspicion that Fielding would have pushed Harris into the rubbish pit himself if he’d known it would help with his case.
‘Now we have someone local to work with, someone who understands the situation, namely you. It means we’re in a position to move.’
Move? Cam held back his questions, not wanting to interrupt the man’s flow. A slight indication of his head encouraged Fielding to continue.
‘We used to have quite a few rural experts and stock squads in the country areas, but many have been abolished due to government cutbacks. The farmers themselves are slow to report thefts these days because so few of the cases get solved, plus rural insurance is so hard to get they think the whole thing is just too much of a hassle for no kind of compensation. They’d be a helluva lot more cooperative if they knew they were working with police who understood the difference between a Hereford and an Aberdeen Angus. Many of the farmers become vigilantes, and I tell you what, we don’t want any amateurs unwittingly tangling with this Wetherby mob.’ Fielding looked at his watch. ‘My boss in Sydney should have contacted Superintendent Cummings by now. All I need is a few more checks and the sting should be on.’
Cam felt as if he’d been given a jolt of electricity. ‘Sting? When?’
‘Operation Long Horn, tomorrow night.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Make that tonight.’
‘Christ, you’re cutting this pretty fine.’
‘You used to work undercover, I’ve heard all about your former exploits. You know how crucial timing is. This is a big tip – off, one we can’t afford to ignore.’
True, Cam had spent several years with the National Crime Authority in New South Wales, his speciality the busting of drug rings. After listening to Fielding talk, he was beginning to understand that this stock-theft ring was just as dangerous. The stakes in this crime, though not quite as high as in the drug trade, were still lucrative enough to make men kill.
Cam tossed in his discovery of Pizzle in the cave and his subsequent escape, then asked, ‘So who’s behind all this? Pizzle seems to think it’s Raul Wetherby.’
Fielding shook his head. ‘I let him think that — he has quite an axe to grind with Wetherby, something about insulting his wife. I thought it would make him cooperate more if he was under that impression, and I was right. Since I’ve been at the yards, though, I’ve found no proof of Wetherby’s involvement. He’s into his own business scams and tax evasions, which I’ll make sure the money boys find out about, but he leaves the actual day-to-day running of the operation to Harry Giles. Wetherby is so busy ripping people off on a corporate level he has no idea he’s being ripped off himself, right under his very nose.’
‘He thinks he’s bought Giles’s loyalty with a hefty pay packet,’ Cam mused. ‘So how does it all work?’
‘The network’s made up of a lot of small allied enterprises which, when added up, make Giles and his son Timothy a very tidy profit — ’
‘The son must have been the character who posed as a dee to Pauline Copley,’ Cam interrupted. ‘She said he had bad skin.’
‘That’s right.’
How did Fielding know this? Surely Pauline would have told Cam if she’d been approached by Fielding? Fielding must have read Cam’s report on the computer. Cam missed the departmental accessibility he’d had when he was a Fed — it was about the only thing he did miss.
‘They had to remove the wool brand from among Ivanovich’s possessions because they knew it would lead you to Wetherby’s,’ Fielding continued. That was their first mistake. If they hadn’t gone to so much trouble to take it, if they’d just left it there in the first place, you might not have given it much thought.’
‘Even professionals cock up eventually. But they still can’t have been sure at that stage that Ivanovich was dead. Giles was questioning Leanne Henry about the body in the wool bale only a couple of days ago.‘
Fielding sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘Ivanovich, dead?’
Cam told Fielding what he’d learned from Pizzle about the circumstances behind the body in the wool bale.
Fielding let out a sigh Cam could relate to. ‘Shame we didn’t find all this out earlier, might have saved Mrs Pilkington.’
‘I reckon it must have been Giles and son we saw fleeing the scene,’ Cam said. ‘I think they might have realised that Pizzle was still alive and tried to beat his whereabouts out of her. It also looked like they’d been searching for something, probably the wool brand, which I found in a lean-to.’
‘Any proof it was Giles who killed Rita?’
While Leanne and Cam had been interviewing Raul Wetherby, Pete and the Toorrup officers had secured the crime scene and the pathologist had made his preliminary examination of Rita’s body. SOCO had taken measurements and drawn diagrams, videotaped the scene and taken Polaroids. Once the body had been removed they had conducted a meticulous search, gathering everything from fibres to fingerprints, tyre treads from the driveway to blood samples from the walls and carpet. So far Cam’s initial assumptions had proved correct: Rita Pilkington had been beaten to death with a baseball bat and a stock whip. That there were no signs of sexual assault was small comfort.
Cam took a large gulp of scotch. ‘SOCO haven’t been able to find anything concrete so far. These men knew exactly what they were doing, departed the crime scene without leaving a
trace of themselves behind.’
‘Shit, it’d be bloody frustrating to get them put away for anything less than murder.’
Both men sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the situation. Cam stared at his whisky, swishing it in the glass.
‘Reckon Pilkington has anything else to say about it?’ Fielding asked.
‘I’ve no idea. Even if we find him I’m not sure if he’ll tell me any more. I don’t know what you said to him, mate, but he wasn’t ready to share much with me. He’s the guy you got your info from about tonight’s operation, right?’
‘It’s against policy to give out the names of our informants. You should know that.’
Cam tried to ignore the patronising tone. ‘They did try to kill him, I’d have thought he’d want to get back at them.’
‘Jack Ivanovich and Shane Brock tried to kill him and they’re dead. I don’t think he knows anything about Harry Giles.’ Fielding flicked his wrist and the gold identity bracelet jangled. ‘Something will come up, I’m sure.’ He stared at the table, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Cam glanced at the young man, knowing what the secret smile meant. While he was in no position to speculate aloud, he had come across enough ambitious cops like Fielding to know that something most certainly would come up. Cam had a sudden desire to erase that smug grin with his fist and had to bite his lip and remind himself they were both on the same side.
‘So, how’s it organised? ‘he asked, embarking upon some vigorous finger-flexing.
‘First of all there’s the stock theft itself,’ Fielding replied. ‘A variety of animals are taken in a variety of ways from rural areas all over the country. Giles employs men to help him on a need-to-know basis only. Each man only knows the identity of the man immediately above him in the hierarchy and the men on his own particular team. Many of them are ex-cons, all with prior agricultural experience, enlisted through the prison network.
‘Their MO varies with the geography. In remote station areas they turn off the stock’s water supply bar one trough. The thirsty animals straggle in gradually from miles around to the only remaining water and the guys nab them there. In other remote regions they use helicopters. In most cases the stolen stock are kept on Wetherby’s land while the altered brands heal, then they’re transported in trucks down to the saleyard bearing the Wetherby ID. The cleanskins just have Wetherby’s brand burned straight onto them and can be shipped to yards all over the country almost immediately.’
Flare-up: a tense, taut mystery (A Cam Fraser mystery) Page 20
