Scorpio's Lot

by Ray Smithies

  ‘Graeme, you old scoundrel. It’s Alan Forbes calling from Pedley.’

  Bailey chuckled. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t my old partner in crime. Homicide’s sent you out to do the country runs now?’

  Forbes informed his colleague briefly of the Pedley murders and their link with the drug underworld. Bailey listened intently to the case progress, or lack of it, in addition to the malicious attacks and plight of Brigit O’Neill.

  ‘Graeme, I’ve come to the point where I need your help. Have you ever heard the word “Piedpiper” spoken of in drug circles?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Bailey told Forbes what he knew. The regional head and Piedpiper were one and the same. This person reported to a city-based leader known only as ‘the Keeper’. They had never been able to make inroads on this Scorpio operation, let alone discover the identities of the pair.

  ‘But why the name Piedpiper?’ enquired Forbes.

  ‘Hearsay has it that the Piedpiper was so-named because of the syndicate’s ability to lure the vulnerable. In some way it’s a bit like the trail of followers in the children’s story.’

  ‘And the Keeper?’

  ‘This one’s their supreme leader. I can only speculate that the name implies that he keeps control of the entire organisation, which includes drug distribution, finance, logistics, elimination, recruitment and so on.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how large this organisation is?’

  ‘Probably in the country’s top three,’ claimed Bailey. ‘They have strong representation in all states and have developed a very powerful network and logistics operation over the years. We have it on record that most of the heroin they import comes from Afghanistan. Most likely it comes into the country in containers and it’s off-loaded into three or four major shipping ports throughout the country. It’s rumored this southern region contributes to the interstate trade and boasts one of the largest annual revenues in the country, but we’re baffled as to where such a vast amount of drugs can be stored and distributed. We’ve conducted raids in the past but to no avail. Although it’s only speculation, our sources say the Pedley region’s only managed by a handful of people, possibly five or six and their lackeys, despite the reputed size of their operation.’

  ‘I’m aware of Pedley’s drug history and the failed attempts to arrest those responsible,’ Forbes said. ‘I took this case on anticipating there was a drug connection with the initial murders.’

  ‘Understandably.’

  ‘Graeme, this information is extremely valuable and it all stems from the one key word that Ruth Evans tried so desperately to complete.’ Forbes quickly described Ruth Evans’ attempt to leave a message.

  ‘A word of warning, Alan. This organisation has a history of violence and they’ll go to extraordinary lengths to protect their investment. There’ve been a number of gangland-related murders over the years, most of them committed within the city perimeters, but now it seems there are no boundaries to their bloodshed. Remember, I’m at your disposal should you require further backup, which I believe you’re going to need. Keep me posted on your progress. Hopefully this will become the investigation that exposes their syndicate once and for all.’

  Forbes hung up and pondered over this unexpected breakthrough.

  ~ * ~

  We had arrived at Hamish’s homestead. The entrance to the property still had the same familiar pine log arch bearing the inscription: THE GRANGE. We drove under its timbered spans and along an elevated gravel road that wound its way through a plantation of maple trees and two strategically placed dams that were filled to the brim. On the immediate hill stood a cabin of modest size, complete with a full-length verandah facing east. Smoke billowed from the living room chimney. As the car came to a halt we were greeted by Cain and Abel, who stood barking on either side of the vehicle.

  ‘Stay!’ a voice yelled and Hamish stepped down from the verandah.

  ‘Hamish, me old mate,’ I called out, shutting the car door behind me. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘All the worst for seeing you,’ replied a laughing Hamish, vigorously shaking my hand. His tight grip was one to be very wary of. If you only succeeded in meeting his strong hand halfway your fingers would suffer an excruciating pain that would nearly bring tears to your eyes. He was a strongly built man with a mass of ginger hair and a perpetual grin that seemed both alluring and comical.

  ‘Free!’ ordered Hamish, releasing the Dobermans from their last command.

  ‘Hamish O’Connor, meet my niece Brigit O’Neill.’

  ‘A pleasure, welcome to my humble abode.’

  ‘It’s beautiful and exactly how Tom described the views from the cabin. Is all this land yours, Hamish?’ asked Brigit.

  ‘Not quite. The border is to the second dam if looking east and halfway up the hill beyond the creek to the south. The north and west sides are heavy timbered and there’s a boundary fence that runs half a kilometre in from the house.’

  Cain and Abel, who seemed to have accepted our presence, were resting by my feet. Leaning down, I gave them both a pat and received a faint whimpering sound of acceptance. They were handsome and proud dogs with alert ears and dark, dancing eyes. Compactly built, they looked as though they had been poured into their shiny black-and-rust coats. Though powerful and muscular, they also had an elegance and nobility. Hamish had been a lifelong devotee of this magnificent Rolls Royce of dogs. He had looked after them well.

  Brigit stood on the verandah admiring the scenery. Most of the land had been cleared on the east side, providing uninterrupted views to beyond the second dam. At the bottom of the valley Friesian cows grazed on the lush vegetation and a flock of sheep drank from the first dam. There was no shortage of feed and water. The winding creek to the south boasted a row of willow trees along its far bank and there was a hint of mauve emerging from the lavender planted on the hillside. Coupled with the blue sky of a winter’s afternoon and the sun streaming down upon green pastures, it was indeed a picture worthy of postcard status.

  The interior of the cabin was surprisingly spacious. Three small bedrooms and a bathroom come laundry were to the left off the entrance, while the remainder was entirely living area with a kitchen located in one corner. An open fire was flickering at one end and there was the usual array of cabin paraphernalia on display along its pine log walls. The decor and mood of the place reflected Hamish in every respect, for it combined a personality of simple but effective character in line with his bachelorhood and bush-living ways. This was no place for frilly curtains, flowers and the like.

  Brigit spotted a framed picture of Hamish and a lady friend resting on the mantelpiece. Picking up the photo, she smiled and said, ‘What a lovely-looking person.’

  ‘Who, me or the young lassie?’ Hamish responded with a broad grin.

  ‘Don’t be silly. The young lady, of course.’

  ‘She was my fiancée for a short time.’

  ‘And does she have a name?’

  ‘Barbara Haven. When we first met I came straight to the point and asked her if she was married. When she said no I told her I’d call her “Misbehaven”.’

  ‘You’re priceless!’ responded Brigit grinning back.

  Hamish gestured for us to sit by the fire while he poured some whiskey and ouzo. The dogs immediately took up their positions on a thick woollen mat that lay in front of the hearth. Following a few earlier anxious moments, Brigit was now starting to come to terms with the Dobermans, which prompted a comment from Hamish.

  ‘You okay with my pets, Brigit?’

  ‘I think so, but which dog is which?’

  ‘Cain is the dog to your right and Abel in front is the bitch,’ replied Hamish.

  ‘Oh, I thought they were both male like in the Bible story.’

  ‘No but that’s me to a T - I just had to be different and confuse everybody. In the world of Dobes the males are known to be territorial and normally they won’t accept other males in any situation.’

  Brigit seemed to be pleas
ed they were of opposite sex. ‘Maybe the bitch should’ve been called Mabel.’

  ‘Hamish, did you by any chance receive a phone call from a Detective Alan Forbes?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. He warned me there might be a drug syndicate here as a result of your visit.’ Hamish handed me my drink.

  ‘He phoned me as well and said he would send two policemen to -’

  Hamish cut me short. ‘But you’re jumping to conclusions, Tom.’

  I decided this was a good time to enlighten Hamish on the seriousness of the matter. He listened to me intently as I recalled the three murders, the chase and the malicious attacks. Still unmoved, he responded in his typical stubborn Irish way.

  ‘As I mentioned to you over the phone, we have the shotguns and dogs to take care of that lot.’

  There was no point in continuing with this discussion, for Hamish had already made up his mind there would be no immediate threat. I decided to change the subject but Brigit had beaten me to the mark.

  ‘Tom tells me you emigrated from Ireland when you were thirteen years old.’

  ‘I was actually twelve when the family came out. My parents still live in the city, as do my two sisters. My brother now lives interstate so we don’t see as much of each other as we’d like.’

  ‘And what part of Ireland did you come from?’ continued an inquisitive Brigit.

  ‘We lived in Cork, but my father’s folk came from Limerick and my mother’s from Killarney, which today has been made very touristy by the Americans. Probably has something to do with the Ring of Kerry and the Lakes District being nearby.’

  ‘I’ve heard of these places. My dad told me stories about Ireland when I was young.’

  ‘So when did your O’Neill ancestors make the voyage?’

  ‘My grandparents came out in the fifties from a place called Galway. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. It’s near the Connemara National Park which, together with the Dingle Peninsula, are my favourite areas in all of Ireland.’

  All this Irish talk was starting to get the better of me. I thought a change of subject was needed before I started hearing stories about the Blarney stone, leprechauns and shamrocks.

  ~ * ~

  Trailing along Somerville Road North were Charlie and his lackey Mick. They had seen Tom and Brigit arrive at The Grange and had parked their 4WD behind some thick bushes around fifty metres from the entrance. Their orders were to immediately notify the Piedpiper.

  ‘We’re here, boss, and we’ve got the 4WD well hidden near the entrance,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Good. Stay there until my further instructions, which I’ll give tonight. It would be pointless to carry this out during daylight hours for we may forfeit the element of surprise,’ replied the Piedpiper.

  ‘We’ve got a problem though.’

  ‘And what might that be, Charlie?’

  ‘The owner of this place has got two Dobermans, which we’ll need to get rid of if we’re gonna get near the O’Neill girl.’ Charlie was of the opinion that the dogs were now the bigger threat.

  ‘Not so difficult, Charlie,’ the Piedpiper responded coolly. ‘If I remember correctly there’s a large metal box in the back of the 4WD that was put there some days ago. Look inside and you’ll see an arsenal of weapons and aids at your disposal. I suggest you use the Schitz trail scent and spread that around the place where necessary to confuse the dogs. Additionally, the use of the tranquilising gun would be most appropriate, but remember there are only three darts left so ensure your aim is accurate.’

  ‘But, boss, they’ll be hard to see at night. These critters move pretty quickly.’ Charlie was suddenly having doubts about his marksmanship skills.

  ‘Charlie, do I have to do all the thinking for you? Attach a night lens to the barrel and the problem’s immediately solved.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to just shoot the dogs?’

  ‘You’ll only attract attention from the neighbouring farms and then there would be bigger problems to deal with. No, under the circumstances the tranquiliser will be a suitable and effective solution.’

  ‘Um ... how long will the dogs sleep for?’ asked Charlie, wondering if they would be back on their feet in five minutes.

  ‘The drug wears off in a bit over an hour.’

  ‘Okay, boss.’

  ‘And Charlie, remember to abide by the rules if the police intercept. I’ll phone back tonight if there are no more questions.’

  The Piedpiper hung up, leaving the two men to lie in wait. Charlie hoped it wouldn’t be too long because patience wasn’t an attribute he excelled in.

  ~ * ~

  While at the caravan park, Forbes decided to interview the residents on the off-chance that further information would come to light, given Kurt Muller’s testimony. When he approached the office to ask Emily for a list of tenants he heard the sound of someone sobbing in the adjoining living room. Ringing the attendant bell, he was surprised to see Martha Kellett come to his assistance.

  ‘Detective Forbes, please come through. Poor Emily’s having problems coping with the thought of Tom being exposed to all this danger.’

  Forbes entered the room. ‘Mrs Harrison, I’m sorry to trouble you again but please be assured we’re doing everything possible regarding your husband’s predicament. I have two of my men about to leave for Peterswood in case the circumstances change for the worst. It’s just a precaution but a necessary one as we discussed earlier.’

  ‘Thank you, but hopefully it won’t come to that. I’m sorry you’ve seen me in this state. I’ve been trying to keep a positive view on things, but in the end it just gets to you. I asked Martha to come over for some company, which I’m very grateful for.’

  ‘Very commendable, Miss Kellett. Good to see support toward your fellow neighbour. Mrs Harrison, please don’t apologise. It’s quite a natural reaction given the circumstances. The reason for my call is to obtain a list of tenants. I need to interview these people in the hope that someone may’ve seen something last night.’

  ‘But most people have already left the park this morning because of Ruth’s murder. I can’t blame them for not wanting to stay,’ said Emily, reaching for the tenant’s book.

  ‘But surely some tenants still remain. Unless we have further startling dilemmas to deal with.’

  ‘Spare me your cynical humour, detective,’ Emily said. ‘Here’s the shortlist.’

  ‘Have you heard from your husband yet?’

  ‘No, not as yet. I tried phoning him a short time ago but got his voicemail. I don’t think the signal’s very strong in that area.’

  ‘Not many tenants remain,’ Forbes said. ‘I count only five sites, excluding Ruth Evans of course. These interviews should all be concluded by early evening.’

  With a slight tilt of the head, Forbes left and resumed his duties with Marsh.

  ‘That man makes my skin crawl,’ Emily muttered to Martha.

  ~ * ~

  T

  he light-hearted discussion being exchanged at the farm was in strong contrast to the surrounding dangers. Brigit continued to speak of the Irish connection, with Hamish and myself sharing the occasional joke and reminiscing on days gone by. It was a relaxed reunion, which the three of us were enjoying immensely. The sun had now disappeared, making way for the brewing clouds in the west, and the night outside was becoming dark and cold. Hamish had continued to add red gum to the open fire, and the dogs lay on their mats lapping up the heat.

  ‘Shepherd’s pie and veggies for dinner, everyone!’ called Hamish from the kitchen, much to our approval.

  As we sat down to eat, Brigit said, ‘Hamish, what do you do with your spare time?’

  ‘Besides a little TV and socialising with the locals, I make some furniture pieces from various woods like pine, cedar, maple and birch. My favourites are mahogany and rosewood, but these timbers are so expensive today.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. You always did have a love of timber,’ I said.

&nb
sp; ‘What sort of furniture do you make?’ Brigit enquired.

  ‘Sometimes I get requests in certain woods for bed frames and drawers or maybe tables and chairs. It can be just about anything. I was once asked to build a two-storey kennel for five beagles. According to their owner, these hound dogs need to sleep together,’ Hamish chuckled.

  ‘I guess it’s challenging and time-consuming,’ Brigit said.

  ‘Not really. It’s a case of practice makes perfect, so to speak, after you’ve been doing it for twelve years or so. It can get a little tricky when I’m asked to reproduce period furniture. These clients generally bring their picture or drawing of a Queen Anne, Chippendale or Edwardian piece. This is where the real money is to be made because these people are generally not short of a quid and will pay top dollar for reproductions.’