by Alan Carter
Publisher’s note: variations in spelling are consistent with the original publications.
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First published 2014 by
FREMANTLE PRESS
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(PO Box 158, North Fremantle 6159)
Western Australia
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Copyright individual stories © individual contributors, 2014
The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.
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Cover design Ally Crimp
Cover photograph Getty Images, ‘Moment Open’
Printed by Everbest Printing Company, China
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
White knuckle ride / edited by Naama Amram and Georgia Richter
9781925161250 (paperback)
Short stories, Australian. Detective and mystery stories, Australian.
A823.408
Fremantle Press is supported by the State Government through the Department of Culture and the Arts.
CONTENTS
Alan Carter
Fishy Business
Goldie Goldbloom
The Road to Katherine
Deborah Robertson
The Transfer of Tracy Green
Dave Warner
Jasper’s Creek
Peter Dockerv
Nana Was Right
Julienne van Loon
He Lost Her Twice
Adam Morris
Reunion
Jon Doust
To the Highlands
Martin Chambers
The Pit
Amanda Curtin
The Sound of a Room
Ron Elliott
Double Or Nothing
Robert Edeson
The Weaver Fish
K. A. Bedford
Aunt Julia Goes Under
Contributors
ALAN CARTER
FISHY BUSINESS
Wednesday, October 8th, 2008. Late morning.
Katanning, Western Australia.
The way the body was lying, it was obvious she hadn’t seen it coming. The limbs were splayed at a grotesque angle. A pool of blood beside the head had dried in the sun before it could make it the few centimetres to the side of the road. Blowflies hovered impatiently. The October sun was high and unseasonably nasty. Anybody with any sense was sitting under the shade of the only tree for miles. Or they were somewhere else.
The sergeant was crouched beside the rapidly ripening corpse, talking into a small digital recorder. Cato Kwong squinted at the sergeant and took a swig of lukewarm water from a bottle that felt like it was melting in his hands. On his iPod, La Bohème was reaching a screeching crescendo. He turned it off and removed the earphones. He checked his watch. Time seemed to move so slowly these days. The sergeant’s name was Jim Buckley: he chattered to himself, loving every minute, every detail of the task at hand. For a big bloke his movements were graceful. Pavarotti in a butcher’s apron.
‘Bullet number one entered just behind the left ear and exited through the right cheek; bullet number two entered the left eye. No apparent signs of an exit wound so we presume bullet number two is still lodged inside. I now intend to conduct an on-the-spot autopsy to confirm. Recording suspended at … 10.22 a.m. Detective Sergeant James Buckley.’
Buckley reached over and opened his toolbox. He pulled out a handsaw.
That’s one big difference between Homicide Squad and Stock Squad, Cato mused, you don’t have to wait for the autopsy, just do it yourself. He was still getting used to the idea: Detective Senior Constable Philip Kwong — Stock Squad. Homicide Squad, Major Crime, even Gangs, they had a ring to them that made you puff out your chest and stand a bit taller. Stock Squad? They were there to deal with cattle duffers, sheep theft, stolen tractors. They were touted as industry experts, they knew the farmers, knew the lingo. In Cato’s view they were washed-up has-beens recycled as detectives. Mutton dressed as lamb? The Laughing Stock Squad. So if you come across a suspicious cow will you take it back to the station and grill it? Or leave it to stew?
So far Cato felt like little more than a glorified agricultural inspector. Stock Squad. It kind of escaped from the corner of your mouth like a coward’s curse. Coward’s curse pretty well summed up his situation. He was here because he’d been hung out to dry by a bunch of cowards he’d once worshipped and he couldn’t do anything about it because of the Code, the Brotherhood, the whatever other bullshit name that might conceal a multitude of sins.
The Stock Squad was on tour: hearts and minds. The other two members of the squad taking the high road to the north, Cato Kwong and Jim Buckley on the low road south. A week of ‘intelligence gathering’ was how Buckley saw it: pressing the flesh, nosing around, random checks and a healthy per-diem budget — it would keep them in piss until they got back to Perth. A week of chewing straw, swatting flies and nodding sagely at stuff he didn’t give a rat’s arse about was how Cato saw it.
Cato Kwong: Stock Squad. Cato, like Peter Sellers’ Chinese butler and martial arts sparring partner in The Pink Panther. A nickname inflicted on him at police academy. Cato hadn’t seen any of the movies so he’d rented the videos to see what they were getting at. Cato, the manic manservant? Cato, the loyal punch-bag? Or just simply Cato the Chinaman?
The beginning of day three and Cato felt like he’d been on the road for a month.
‘Oi, Kwongie, you gonna give us a hand, mate?’
Jim Buckley was already red-faced with effort as the saw bit into the back of the cow’s neck. Blood spurting, blowflies going berko, he was in hog heaven. Cato winced primly; he preferred his meat plastic-wrapped and barcoded.
‘Jim. Sir. Sarge …’
Cato still didn’t know how to address Jim Buckley. It wasn’t that he didn’t have any respect for authority, it was just that he was still working on it in Jim Buckley’s case.
‘Look, do we really need to do all this stuff? It’s pretty obvious. The cow was run over, finished off with a couple of bullets to the head. The back leg was chopped off with a chainsaw and taken home to the barbie. End of story.’
Cato took another swig of the mountain spring water. He didn’t function well in excessive heat. Maybe he should join the Canadian Mounties, or the Tasmanian ones, somewhere nice and cool.
Jim Buckley frowned, a tad disappointed with the younger man’s attitude. ‘It’s still a crime, Cato mate. And it’s our job to find the bad guys.’
Cato knew he was banging his head against the proverbial. Buckley, after twenty-five years in the force, had finally found his niche. Stock Squad was Jim’s domain and he was in no mood for negativity. He mopped a sodden brow with a wipe of his shirtsleeve and passed the blood-soaked implement to Cato.
‘So, as your senior officer, I’d advise you to shut the fuck up and start sawing.’
Four hours earlier. Hopetoun, Western Australia.
Her lungs were bursting and her left hip was agony: two kilometres from home and four behind her. For the last twenty minutes she’d been feeling a bit old, worn out. Too many twinges these days and getting harder to keep them at bay. But then she rounded the corner, hit the top of the sand dune and there was the ocean. Beautiful, she thought, gorgeous. A slight breeze rippled the surface and the sun was just coming up, dispelling the shadows on the hills in the national park over to t
he west. The huge open sky was striped orange, pink, purple, and blue.
And would you believe it, dolphins, two of them, splashing in the shallows near the groyne. She semi-sprinted the last two hundred metres along the sand where it was packed hard at the water’s edge, never taking her eyes off the dolphins. As she drew nearer something changed. The way those dolphins were moving, the shape of the fins, the frolicking and splashing; no, it wasn’t splashing — it was more like thrashing. Sharks. And there was something in the water with them, something brown, floppy, lifeless. A seal maybe, from the colony on the rock a few hundred metres out from the groyne. She quickened her step. This would be something a bit special to share with her primary class in news today.
One of the sharks seemed to be shaking the seal in its jaws, like a puppy with an old sock. Finally it let go and the seal flew a few feet through the air, landing with a soft plop at the water’s edge. From five metres away she could see they’d ripped the poor little bugger to shreds; just one flipper remained and the thing didn’t seem to have a head. She was right on top of the carcass now. She stopped, caught her breath, shivered. It wasn’t a seal; it was a human torso. It wasn’t a flipper; it was an arm — a left arm, no hand. She’d been right about the head though — there wasn’t one.
She bowed forward, hands on knees, and threw up. Behind her she could hear the sharks still splashing in the shallows like a couple of dolphins, playfully taking the piss.
Hot flush. Senior Sergeant Tess Maguire put down her coffee, opened her jacket and cracked a car window. The smell of rotting roadkill nearby forced her to shut it again, quickly. Tess swore and flicked on the air conditioning. Six-twenty on a sharp, spring south-coast morning and she was sweating like a pig. Suddenly cold again, she flicked the air conditioner back off. She felt completely out of sorts. How could she be getting hot flushes when she’d only just turned forty-two? Tess looked at herself in the rear-view. The short-cropped blonde hair was losing its fight against the wispy greys. She kept on threatening to let it grow out to all-over grey. It was natural. What’s so bad about grey anyway? She tried to think of some attractive, well-known, grey-haired women. She couldn’t get beyond Germaine Greer. Tess added hair dye to her mental shopping list and turned the radio on.
The interviewer sounded young enough to be her daughter. She’d countried her voice up a bit, talking with an authoritative twang to a primary commodities broker about the grain and wool prices. Apparently one was up and the other was down, in contrast to the stock market in general which was still in freefall. Tess couldn’t get her head around how a handful of venal mortgage-brokers in America could trigger what seemed to be a global financial tsunami and the end of the world as we know it. Never mind, it was unlikely to hit them here in Hopetoun — the end of the world and proud of it. This was Tess’s first posting since she came off sick leave. Nine months. Most of the first month in hospital and outpatients, the next three in physio, the rest in therapy. She wondered how Melissa would go: new to town, year nine in high school, sharing a classroom with a bunch of teenage hard-cases whose dads had come down to work at the new mine. She’d seen them hanging around the park —the kids, not the dads. Testosterone. The pushing and shoving, swearing and shouting: youthful high spirits, some called it. Only these days it sent her into cold sweats and panic attacks, fighting for breath, tears welling up. Even now, just at the thought of them.
A new life, a new start, new hope in Hopetoun, they’d promised her. The place hadn’t warranted a permanent police post in the past. For decades it had been a laid-back holiday or retirement spot for wheatbelt farmers. There was nothing to police except maybe the occasional drunk driver or domestic. Now, with the nearby nickel mine, the population had steadily grown from a stable four hundred in the old days to a whopping two thousand — and rising. It would still be a while before it was Gotham City, but with more houses, plenty of money being tossed around and the pub getting busier it meant more bad behaviour, temptation, vandalism, domestics and drugs. Hopetoun was a good place to put ageing or wounded or useless cops out to pasture. Tess ticked all three boxes. At first she’d turned it down. Senior Sergeant Tess Maguire — the bump up to ‘Senior’ was a reward for getting the shit kicked out of her — wanted to tough it out. But after a few weeks at a desk in Perth HQ with the concerned but embarrassed stares, the traffic, the noise and the crowds, Tess was sold on the sea change. Hopetoun. No crime to speak of, she reasoned, no stress, just sunshine and sea breezes to clear out the cobwebs.
As the sky brightened, Tess passed a convoy of white utes heading in the opposite direction out to the mine, forty kilometres away. On the outskirts of town she climbed the low hill to the roundabout leading off to the light industrial on one side and the new sprawling off-the-peg Legoland housing estate on the other. Cresting the rise she relaxed a notch or two at the view down the main street to the bright blue Southern Ocean at the bottom of the hill. After three months she still hadn’t got over how small, quiet and, yes, beautiful the place was. And she hoped she never would.
Tess pulled into the beachside gravel car park. Her colleague, Constable Greg Fisher, was on the beach talking to a middle-aged woman dressed in running gear, while the town GP crouched examining something on the sand; it was hidden from view by a makeshift canvas windbreak. Greg’s initiative: he was in his first year out of police academy and eager to impress. Tess had long forgotten that feeling. A pair of pied oystercatchers pecked the sand irritably with scarlet stiletto beaks. A small handful of early-rising onlookers strained to get a glimpse of the body, careful not to overstep the invisible line established by Constable Fisher.
As she got closer, Tess recognised the woman as a teacher from the primary school: she’d seen her around, hard not to in a town this small. The teacher was a bit green around the gills; her eyes were puffy, her lower lip trembled as she talked, Greg taking notes. Tess left them to it and walked, white sand squeaking beneath her feet, over to the doctor and the body. The torso glistened in the morning sun; green tendrils of seaweed sparkled on the mottled, lightly tanned flesh. There was no head, no legs, only part of one arm and a pale grey mush where the missing pieces should have been.
The doctor stood up, broad-shouldered, early fifties. Tess had met him once before, a few weeks back when she dropped in a young miner who’d been on a bender and tried to punch out the pub ATM when it argued with him about his PIN number.
‘What’s the word, Doctor Terhorst?’
‘Well he’s dead, that’s for sure.’ His lip curled slightly at his little joke, then he continued in his clipped Afrikaans accent. ‘But at this stage I can’t accurately say what age bracket or even, for sure, what race. From the torso length I’d estimate medium height, medium build. Don’t ask me for a time of death, with something that’s been in the water it’s too hard without the proper tests. Ball park? Less than a week.’
‘Shark attack?’ Hopetoun. Southern Ocean. Not an unreasonable question.
‘Well I’ve seen a few of these back in Cape Town and the injuries are consistent with sharks.’
Tess pointed to the mush at the base of the spine where the legs were meant to start. ‘Looks like they bit clean through him.’
The doctor nodded grimly then scratched his chin. ‘Possibly. I’d be more worried about the sever wound at the neck.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s very neat compared to the punctures and tears everywhere else. The spinal column looks like it’s been sheared with a clean straight edge. Either our shark had meticulous table manners … or somebody cut this poor man’s head off.’
Sergeant Jim Buckley was heaving, puffing and fit to have a coronary. His normally flushed drinker’s face was nearly purple and his ginger-grey sideburns glistened with sweat. The cow’s head was now separated from the body after a joint effort by himself, Cato and three hacksaw blades. Its neck was flat to the ground and the eyes were staring skywards to cow heaven. Buckley had a foot planted firmly on either side of the
head, pinning the ears to the ground. With his left hand pushing down hard on the nose for extra leverage, he gave one last mighty tug with the right. His hand emerged triumphant from the cow’s face, pliers gripping a small blood-soaked lump of metal.
‘A .22, just as I thought.’
Cato finished pissing against a ghost gum and zipped back up. He had retired to the shade and was halfway through today’s cryptic from the West. He’d managed to snaffle it from the neighbouring breakfast table at the Katanning Motel. It had been a close shave though, the guy had only gone to the toilet and when he came back for his paper Cato had to plead ignorance and suggest that the breakfast lady had cleared it away. Buckley had shaken his head in disgust.
‘Why don’t you ever buy your own, they’re only a dollar, you tight-arsed bastard.’
‘Dollar thirty. All I need is the crossword, I don’t need to read all the other crap.’
His father had taught him how to crack the cryptic codes a couple of years ago and now he was hooked. There was something about the search for clear reasoning among the insane ramblings, and identifying the cold calculation behind the crafty wordplay. It came in useful in the interview room sometimes. Dad meanwhile had moved on to Sudoku to enrich his widowed dotage; he’d knock them off in ten minutes if his hands weren’t shaking too much. He’d tried to get Cato onto it, reckoned the process of patient, logical elimination would be good for training his detective brain. Cato was sticking with the cryptics; intuition, flights of fancy, twisted logic and inspiration backed up later by the facts —that was more his style.
Merit Cup for perfect roast.
Cup, roast, something to do with coffee? The heat was curdling his brain. Cato stretched out his long legs and smiled encouragingly.
‘Good work, Sarge. Any idea whose gun it came from?’
Jim Buckley’s good mood had withered in the heat.
‘Get fucked. Bag this evidence while I clean up.’
‘What, the head as well?’
‘In the esky; sooner it’s on ice the better.’
‘No worries,’ Cato sighed. He wondered if he should resign now or after next payday. That was the intention after all: disgraced, demoted, demeaned, despised — until he had taken enough and went of his own accord. They wouldn’t sack him; he knew too much. But they certainly had their ways.
