by Ray Smithies
~ * ~
T
he symbolic trademark of Scorpio was still visibly entrenched in the minds of the local task force. Following the atrocity on Pedley Hill, Forbes’ determination to bring these criminals into custody had heightened. Whilst not detracting from previous attempts, it had now become a full-on assault to hunt these felons down. The public and media alike had clearly made their intentions felt. Pressure was mounting for quick arrests.
Forbes had randomly selected this particular evening to observe the local drug behaviour at the four designated locations disclosed by Hassan. At sixty-thirty pm, with his men positioned in pairs, they waited in expectation of Charlie’s appearance. The winter night air was bitterly cold, emphasised by the rising vapour that exhaled from each spoken word. It was going to become uncomfortable and time-consuming, waiting for the drug dealer’s arrival. Here was a situation that warranted its just reward, thought the detective.
Equipped with two-way at the delegated areas under Forbes’ interaction and command, all was in readiness for the imminent arrest. Forbes’ first pair - Doyle and Burke - were surveying the west end of Pitt Street, a block down from the bustling surrounds of the Esplanade. There was the usual array of revellers parading the main drag in search of dope or free grog. They were loud but generally non-aggressive and the two men chose to ignore them. Burke, in particular, having a better understanding of the locals, couldn’t envisage Charlie amongst this lot. To be seen amidst this crowd and the bright lights of Pitt Street just wasn’t his trait. After all, he would only draw attention away from these revellers, which seemed totally out of character.
The second duo of Gallagher and Carpenter had the unenviable task of beach patrol at the far northern end of Pitt Street. Weather conditions here were at their most deplorable. The sea breeze had strengthened and intensified the punishing waves against the nearby rock pools. The noise was intense and a resultant fine mist engulfed the air, saturating all comers who dared to walk within its perimeter. Carpenter believed a hardship allowance should be included in his pay packet for having been sent to this godforsaken area.
Gallagher was more realistic in his evaluation, wondering how two-way conversation could possibly be heard above all this noise. After what seemed around thirty minutes of surveillance, only two people had been observed. One imbecile was sighted jogging beside the water’s edge and a second decided to quickly retreat following a glance at Mother Nature’s onslaught. The odds were more favourable to win the lottery than to have Charlie suddenly manifest himself on this stretch of beach.
In the more receptive surrounds of the town’s central parkland, the combination of Forbes and Marsh had effectively been designated as group three. Their vigilance in surveying the full length of the park was a challenging proposition. The sheer number of trees and garden beds presented a difficult task in detecting the whereabouts of one individual.
If Charlie were to carry out his business in this vicinity, they would need to rely on voices close at hand. The trees effectively created a windbreak from the coastal breeze and the giant gums generated a loud whistling sound. To hear any potential discussion over this racket would be a near impossible feat. Nature’s presence tonight would certainly assist any forthcoming drug rendezvous.
The fourth and final group of Parnell and Martino had been directed to the car park in Williams Street, adjacent to the showground’s main entrance and site of the recent carnival activities. A low mist had gathered across the nearby oval, producing an eerie effect on an otherwise clear night. Similarly, this site was equally as cold and made more difficult by the lack of activity and patience required to uphold the surveillance. Their only moment of interruption was a party of three boisterous revellers who had wandered down from the Esplanade to take a leak away from the Pitt Street passersby. Parnell was beginning to wonder how much longer Forbes would keep everyone stationed at their respective posts.
‘Nothing to report’ became the repetitious response via two-way. Despite the negative feedback Forbes decided to persevere with the situation. He wasn’t going to surrender this easily after an hour’s observation. In his attempt to strengthen surveillance posts three and four, he instructed Gallagher to join Parnell and Martino at the car park. The sergeant in turn was redirected to accompany Forbes and Marsh at the Botanical Gardens. As to be expected, there was no unwillingness coming from the beach site pair.
On his arrival Carpenter openly expressed his gratitude, maintaining he would have turned to ice if left there much longer. Ignoring his subordinate’s remark, Forbes directed the sergeant to patrol the park and report any sighting no matter how insignificant. Forbes recalled Hassan telling them that Charlie’s preferred haunts were supposedly these gardens and the Williams Street car park.
After another half-hour, Forbes was beginning to accept this would not be their night. Perhaps Charlie had been forewarned, or maybe he had seen the constabulary lying in wait. If true, he knew that his retreat would be equally difficult to detect amidst all this vegetation. After contacting Doyle and Burke, who could only offer negative response, Forbes decided they would close up shop in twenty minutes. A further night of surveillance loomed as the likely outcome.
~ * ~
Back at the car park, Gallagher had joined Parnell and Martino and the threesome were observing some unusual behaviour from behind the camouflage of a high japonica hedge. Two men had walked the length of Williams Street and come to a halt beside the showground’s entrance. They had a brief conversation, appearing anxious, and then started the repetitive cycle of stepping around the entrance gates looking like a couple of expectant fathers. One looked at his watch and a few muttered words followed.
The police lay low in expectation, gaining the impression that a rendezvous had run slightly over schedule. Was this to become the long-awaited arrival of the infamous Charlie? The two men continued their nervous ritual, smoking and pacing the length of the entrance. From a distance it was difficult to distinguish any facial or familiar features. Martino could only surmise they were locals having knowledge of the general drug haunts, if indeed this was to become the unfolding scenario.
Suddenly the figure of a man wearing a full-length coat and tilted hat appeared through a low mist that had gathered on the oval. Walking slowly, he seemed cautious of his surroundings. He stopped to survey the two men ahead of him, in addition to a careful observation of the immediate vicinity. Satisfied there was no undue threat, the man recommenced his walk toward the intended rendezvous. Parnell knew his superior had to be informed. In a low voice he asked for backup in anticipation of what was about to follow.
The burly six-footer reached his objective. Their little get-together had all the hallmarks of illegal trade. An exchange commenced amidst the checking of contents and cash. With both parties seemingly satisfied that the deal was acceptable, a brief discussion followed their transaction.
The police swooped for the intended arrests.
‘Stop and put your hands above your head!’ shouted Parnell, emerging from the hedge with his two backup companions.
The three men froze.
‘What the hell!’ Charlie raged. ‘You bastards have set me up!’
The drug dealer screamed obscenities at the approaching constabulary. He had suddenly found himself in a precarious position that warranted some quick thinking. He observed the two-way and realised more cops had been alerted. He drew a gun, taking one of the two men as hostage. Retreating towards the oval, his one way of escape was to reach the obscure safety of the blanketing mist. Closely holding his captive, he fired a shot at the advancing police. The bullet narrowly missed Martino’s left shoulder, but it had the effect of slowing down the men in blue. Charlie cursed on seeing further cops arrive at the oval, but his perseverance in pressing forward had paid off. He had reached the fringe of the fog.
Now surrounded by a blanketing mist, Charlie decided to release his prisoner to improve the possibility of escape. To lessen the threat he pis
tol-whipped his captive, causing the man to stumble with concussion. Charlie then leaned down and with his long bladed parang in position, stabbed the man’s arm with one quick downward thrust. Such was the force, the knife protruded through the limb and embedded itself into the ground beneath. The concussed man was now pinned and secured to the oval surface. Charlie would leave him to the mercy of the police. Mobility would hasten Charlie’s retreat, providing his sense of direction was focused on abandoning the fog at the far end. Succeed and his passageway would be a path to freedom.
Forbes spread his men across the oval and commenced a straight-line assault. Entering the fog, visibility was dramatically cut to ten metres, enhancing the confusion that lay ahead. Charlie fired again to deliberately unnerve the police.
Fear had suddenly become an unavoidable issue. Forbes and his team refused to relinquish their duty. No visual presence could be detected between his men, and an eerie silence accompanied their onward assault. Was the man to their immediate side friend or foe? Like passing ships in the night amidst this pea soup, thought Alan Forbes.
Suddenly Parnell’s voice could be heard above the ice-trodden grass. ‘Over here! Found someone wounded!’
Forbes immediately responded equally as loud. ‘Don’t leave your line, men. Continue forward. I’ll check this out.’
In what could only be described as having comical inclinations, Forbes went searching for Parnell in a series of repetitive circles. It was as if the man were trying to exit a mirror maze. Puffing and grunting, he was now generating more vapour than the fog. Finally locating his subordinate’s position, he lent down to take a closer look at the man’s condition.
‘He’s alive. Copped a nasty swipe across the head, though,’ he diagnosed and then added, ‘Is that a bloody knife stuck in his arm? Better call for an ambulance once we’ve captured this Charlie fellow.’
‘What did you do with his mate?’ asked Parnell, who, with Gallagher and Martino, had progressed further onto the oval when the backup team arrived.
‘We handcuffed him to the entrance gate for safekeeping.’
‘I wonder where this blighter’s got to. If he’s found his way out of the fog he could be anywhere by now,’ declared Parnell.
‘Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of’, said Forbes. ‘Keep pressing forward until we clear this bloody mist. We’ll attend to this man shortly.’
The pursuit continued in single file across the oval. No further gunfire was to be heard, which begged the question as to whether the hunted desperado had actually fled. The fog at the end of the oval had finally cleared, enabling Forbes and his men to congregate for a further briefing. The rear end of the show grounds provided little or no opportunity for refuge. No buildings stood in the immediate vicinity other than a locked toilet block in one corner. Tin fencing embraced the boundary line and a gate left wide open completed the nearby surrounds. It was obvious where Charlie had given them the slip.
Furious at their failed attempt, Forbes conceded that Charlie would live to fight another day. Unimpressed with the handling of the search, both Gallagher and Parnell insisted the men should have circled the fog and lay in wait for his eventual reappearance.
‘Yes, isn’t hindsight a wonderful thing!’ stated Forbes sharply.
This pathetic comment to justify an otherwise monumental cock-up did not sit well with his subordinates.
~ * ~
W
here in the hell did I leave my glasses?’
‘Try looking in the usual place,’ responded Emily.
‘You mean the office?’
‘Of course! What time do you plan returning from the city?’
‘Around six if Arthur and Hamish hurry up and arrive soon.’ I looked at my watch, which signaled seven am.
The day’s itinerary would encompass a visit to the Lands Department and include two of the city’s major press houses. There was an optimistic feeling that further evidence would come to hand, given the wealth of records these establishments kept on file.
According to Arthur these facilities were far superior to those of the Advertiser, in addition to providing computer access to speed up research. As if on cue, both Arthur and Hamish arrived at precisely the same time. Both men looked like a couple of fools dressed in their apparent archive attire. Hamish wore a dark green tracksuit that looked three sizes too large and was complemented by a scarf that appeared longer than that worn by Doctor Who. Arthur sported a Sherlock Holmes lookalike outfit that had all the hallmarks of something worn a century ago.
‘You both look bloody ridiculous,’ I said, ‘We’re not candidates for some fancy dress audition.’
‘I’ve got to look and feel the part, Tom. It helps stimulate the brain,’ confessed Arthur.
‘Brain deficient, if you ask me.’
‘And I’ve got to feel comfortable and allow my body to breathe,’ Hamish added.
‘You can’t be serious. Don’t be surprised, Arthur, if someone hands you a pipe looking like that.’ I shook my head at these two clowns.
All was in readiness for departure as Hamish volunteered to take the honours and drive us to the city. We said our goodbyes to Emily, who was making a conscious effort not to laugh at the sight of these jokers.
The trip to the city took a little over an hour. Hamish was fortunate to score a metered car park five minutes from Perkins Press, a major publishing house responsible for two daily newspapers and countless periodicals. At 123 Stewart Street a large and imposing building stood before us. We were perhaps a step closer to solving the Pedley mystery. We approached the ground floor reception, currently attended by a rather serious and preoccupied middle-aged man.
‘Can I help you gentlemen?’ he asked, glancing at Arthur and Hamish’s clothing.
‘Certainly. We wish to delve into some past records covering the township of Pedley in the Shire of Ripley,’ I replied.
‘Could you be more specific about the type of records you wish to pursue?’
‘Preferably the earlier editions, say in excess of fifty years or so.’
‘Take the lift to level three and proceed to the room directly ahead. There you’ll find some computers to assist with your research. Will Doctor Watson be joining you?’ he asked with a straight face.
‘Not today. He’s been called away on duty,’ I acknowledged with a wink.
The so-called archive room was no more than a small computer workplace with no visual evidence of stored newspapers, unlike its Pedley counterpart. I could only surmise these editions were off-limits to the general public, being maintained in a climate-controlled environment to preserve their frail condition. Four workstations were provided, together with the convenience of a Canon photocopier located to one side. The Perkins Press website address was displayed above each terminal screen.
‘Okay team, grab a computer each and see what we can come up with,’ I encouraged, deliberately seating myself between the two.
‘Here we go, here we go, here we go,’ sung Hamish as if standing and watching a soccer game in progress.
We commenced our research. I entered ‘Pedley news coverage’ and waited. The system finally responded with an abundance of web pages, some of which would require further investigation. To my right Hamish continued to stare at his screen with folded arms. I looked across at what might be delaying his input and was astounded to read his first search criterion:
Where would I find the subterranean passageways?
‘Do you really believe for one minute the answer will simply appear on the screen that two hundred years of research couldn’t uncover?’
‘I prefer shortcuts. Anything’s worth a try, my friend, and besides, it’s still thinking ... wait a moment, something’s finally happening ... um ... I don’t think that’s the answer we’re looking for, Tom.’
The screen displayed the result:
The Vatican City, Rome, Italy.
‘Words fail me, Hamish. Try referring to Pedley, which may narrow the list next time.’
<
br /> Returning to my screen, I opened a web page only to discover it made reference to livestock sales back in March 1952. A second caption offered a drought report with serious consequences, while a third covered some bridge being erected over the Tidal River to enable direct passage into Pedley. This wasn’t working the way I had hoped. In order to extract something more meaningful I had to be more specific with my enquiry. I tried an array of different approaches.
Pedley underground network ... cannot display.
I tried again.
Pedley subterranean passageways.
That one generated numerous web pages. Many articles were found to be contemptuous of the fabled site. No substance to warrant further investigation was the most common response. Having been down this path with the Advertiser critics, I decided to push on with further possibilities.
