by Dave Warner
And I would be sidelined again.
‘Chelsea Lipton’s flatmate called me. She brought a guy named Shane home one night. She identified Crossland off his photo. Odds-on that’s when he stole the phone.’
She was lucky to be alive and didn’t even know it.
‘Do we have his vehicle?’
‘He hired a white Toyota Corolla in Perth on August tenth, unlimited k’s. Mal has circulated the number plate statewide. He can’t hide for long.’
‘Any locator device on the hire car?’
‘Unfortunately not.’
I don’t know how long we’d been driving. The tea was lukewarm. I sat there uselessly holding the cup until we saw the ranger’s vehicle up ahead through murk, pulled off to the side of the road. We got out. Laidlaw advanced towards us. He was around six foot, big powerful shoulders, a gut that suggested he liked his tucker. Laidlaw didn’t give time for introductions.
‘I saw headlights in there. Nobody has come out that I’ve seen.’
We’d clearly beaten the Derby guys. Clement asked Laidlaw to wait for them while he and I went in. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t optimistic, that’s for sure, not after my latest theories had been blown sky-high.
‘The techs left at one am, apparently.’ Clement had already started in.
‘You think somebody was waiting for them to go?’
‘It’s possible.’
I’ve had longer conversations from a phone company’s automated voice menu. That was fine with me, I shut up and followed. He seemed to have some idea where he was heading. There were a number of big trees, gums I supposed. I think we both saw the light at the same time. I was pretty sure it was a torch. It was about eighty metres away.
‘By the mangroves,’ he whispered. We edged closer. He added, ‘Look out for crocs.’
I don’t know how good he thought my eyesight was but it was still dark grey all around us. We closed another twenty-five metres. I could hear something now, somebody moving, like in a small area, fretfully. There was the light again. We began to edge forward more rapidly.
Radio static suddenly cut the air, off Clement’s hip.
‘Alpha One, this is Bravo. We can’t seem to find you guys.’
The Derby cops at the worst possible time. The light up ahead doused. We were talking twenty metres. I heard somebody breaking away.
Clement yelled, ‘Stop, police!’
We both charged, Clement faster than me. Up ahead came a splash as somebody entered water. Clement burst through shrubs to a muddy, mangrove flat. Just visible in the middle of the creek was the churn of water, somebody swimming.
‘Fucking idiot,’ said Clement and yelled ‘Stop!’ again to no effect.
I don’t know why, maybe it was the shame I was still carrying from Craig Drummond’s death and my hesitation then. Maybe it was thought of twenty years of mental pain and its potential relief being so close, or maybe I was still not quite conscious through lack of sleep. I knew there were crocs around, I just didn’t care. I ran to the creek and started wading. I heard Clement shrill behind me but I couldn’t tell you what he screamed. The creek was narrow, twenty-five metres perhaps. I began swimming, fast. Where my quarry was I had no idea. I didn’t look up till I was within five metres of the opposite bank. I heard somebody up ahead, running, probably just topping the shallow bank as I reached shore. All of a sudden the light was pale grey. Sunrise somewhere. Too late for me to catch a glimpse, the rim of the bank truncated my line of sight. Then came my mistake. When I reached the edge of the creek I tried to run straight up the bank ahead of me but it was pure mud and I slipped straight back down to the water’s edge. I lost valuable time picking myself up and tackling the bank at a slower pace where strips of wild grass provided a foothold. When I topped the rise I heard an engine catching and a vehicle pulling out. The sound of rubber and metal and broken bush taunted me. I ran blindly yelling, ‘No, No!’ as if my frustration was powerful enough to hook an anchor on the car’s bumper.
It wasn’t.
His heart was beating through his shirt like a foot pedal on the skin of a drummer’s bass drum: boom, boom, boom. Where the fuck had they come from? He drove haphazardly through bush, hit a connecting track, he thought it was the thin one he had used while surveilling the tech team. They had pulled up stumps last night. They had taken down the tape but he waited to make sure they weren’t coming back. He had meant to go in sooner, around 3.00 am, but had fallen asleep and not started till about 5.00. Was it a trap? Had they found the iPod and lain in wait for him? Were they already aware of his identity? Though terrified, he’d jumped into the creek; what choice did he have? All he could think of was the crocodile. He’d expected to feel the vibration of his own bones being crushed as monster jaws closed around him and dragged him under. The death roll. He could imagine his lungs bursting. But it was a risk he had been prepared to take.
No vehicle seemed to be following yet. It was still too dark for aerial surveillance. His pulse was slowing, finally. You’ve been through this, he told himself, what’s done is done. You have to move on. You moved on once before, you left it behind you, you started again.
The first rays of light were just starting to creep through the trees but it was still dull.
Create space. Cameras, think cameras, they’ll be looking for vehicles on the roads around this time.
No cameras on this strip. He’d taken the precaution of removing the number plates, and it was dark. He didn’t think the police had seen him, that bark of the radio gave him just enough warning. Now was a crucial time. Avoid Derby at all costs, drive across country, loop around south, cross the Fitzroy River if needs be or head to Willare. You’ve brought a tent, fishing and camping gear. Even if they have the iPod what does that prove? The kid was a thief. He could have stolen it without you knowing.
You fucking idiot. He banged his head on the steering wheel. You risked everything and you could simply have denied it. ‘Yes the iPod is mine but I never saw that pendant.’ Maybe there would be prints, but maybe not. The kid’s prints would be all over it. Or whoever he might have sold it to. The police probably don’t have it. The kid was in hospital, unconscious, may never regain consciousness. He’d overheard that last night while lying there in the deep grass just out of range of their electric lights. He’d given serious consideration to just leaving. They weren’t even searching in the right place. But then he thought, if they do have the pendant, then the iPod would betray him. Again he’d panicked because, as he had now just figured out, the kid was a thief. There were alternative explanations. Even if the kid came to and said where he got it, who was to say somebody else hadn’t left it there? Yes, he’d been interviewed about the killings but so had thousands of others. A good defence lawyer would make short work of that. He wound down the window. No pursuit yet. The advantage of having parked on the opposite side of the creek, just in case. He checked his car clock. Twenty minutes now, still not light. Put the plates back on, suspicious otherwise.
He stopped, got out the car and screwed the plates in. He listened carefully for car engines but heard none. All he needed was for that luck to continue.
It was an hour or so after my dip in the creek. Clement and I sat in a coffee shop in Derby, an old-fashioned type where you got a toasted sandwich on laminex and the coffee was scalding but never tasted quite right. I’d just demolished a ham and cheese toastie, Clement was only halfway through his. I supposed I had forfeited my free breakfast from Clement and would be paying myself. He went to take another bite of his sandwich, put it down.
‘What the fuck were you thinking?’
The question had no doubt been festering but Clement had been too polite, or busy, to chew me out publicly. He’d had to wait for me to circumnavigate the creek, then hike back towards Laidlaw who he’d radioed to drive in. We didn’t know where our quarry had gone and by the time I joined the others, he had a fifteen to twenty minute start. The Derby police were only just arriving as we
were leaving, so there was nobody on the northern side of the creek where the vehicle had disappeared. It took another forty minutes to get a chopper up. Nobody had seen the vehicle, nobody had seen whoever it was I had pursued. I could not even be sure it was a man. In my heart I expected it was Crossland, though why he’d be out there was a mystery. As big a mystery as why I’d jumped into that creek.
Clement was still waiting for an answer. I had a stab.
‘What was I thinking? A hundred things, nothing. I didn’t want him to get away again. I didn’t want to be a coward. I didn’t want to toss and turn at night telling myself I suck.’ I told him then about Craig Drummond. ‘I still wonder if I’d have been quicker …’
I wasn’t trying for empathy. Clement gave it anyway.
‘You were in shock. I’ve seen it a thousand times. Doesn’t matter how much you train, part of you is telling yourself ‘this isn’t real’, and it’s only when somebody moves, you get that validation. It’s not cowardice, it’s sheer bloody disbelief.’
The fact that he made the effort to justify my behaviour did make me feel better. But only better like when the horse you back runs second: you’re still a loser, just not as hopeless as the other losers. I felt obliged to state the obvious.
‘It may not have even been Crossland.’
‘I don’t think you believe that. Otherwise you wouldn’t have jumped in.’
‘You should be a detective. What would he be doing out there?’
Clement threw up his hands. An idea needled me.
‘Perhaps he lost something when he dumped Turner.’
‘The techs didn’t find anything special but they’re running fingerprint checks on cans and other crap.’
‘But they weren’t looking there, right? They could have missed something.’
‘They’re on their way back out anyway, see if they can find tyre marks or paint, anything we could use at a trial.’
We sipped our hot, weak coffee.
‘So, the task force has been informed?’
‘Yep.’ He wasn’t any happier about it than me but we both knew it was for the best. He rethought his answer. ‘Well, there isn’t a task force any more, just a cold-case team of two detectives. But they’ll increase that now. They were on their way to Crossland’s parents and brother last I heard.’
‘What about his own phone? Can you track it?’
‘Not at the moment, which means he could still be in this neck of the woods. Last call was to Brisbane. The task force will follow that up.’
I asked him how long he thought before it all became public.
‘Forty-eight hours if they are ultra-careful.’
‘What about Turner?’
‘It’s not looking good. He’s not improving.’
Shit all round.
A young woman entered the coffee shop. Even in her sunglasses I recognised Ingrid Feister. Her hair was wet, probably freshly washed, worn out. She sported shorts topped with a plain t-shirt, light blue, some kind of sandal. She was slimmer than a racist’s logic but there was no sign of her being off-colour. I nudged Clement as she studied one of those menus where little white letters and numbers are pushed onto a black background and invariably go missing. Right now I guessed she was looking at ‘COFF E $2.50’.
‘Miss Feister.’ Clement stood. His chair scraped. ‘Detective Inspector Daniel Clement, Kimberley Police.’
She looked his way, removed her sunglasses, checked him up and down, and in that moment I caught something of the rapier that was also present in her father’s gaze. Her voice was surprisingly sturdy.
‘I’m so sorry if we caused a problem. We didn’t understand people were looking for us.’
‘But you weren’t in touch with anyone since Hedland.’
‘That was the whole idea. Well, Max’s idea. You know, no phones, no iPads, no Facebook. It was okay for a while. And then I found there was no reception anyway.’
Very neutral, Clement said, ‘You didn’t even visit any roadhouses.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Max. He wanted to be Bear Grylls, you know, catch our own food. He thinks he’s Indigenous.’ Her eyes strayed back to the menu.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you from ordering.’
A pimply girl slouched behind the counter like she could care less anybody ordered anything.
‘No, that’s fine. Is there anything else?’
‘There is, actually. Your family hired a private detective to find you. He was assaulted at Adcock Gorge. You know anything about that?’
Her hands went to her face. It was a narrow face, more pretty than plain, but she wasn’t going to be the Yoghurt girl on a bus billboard anytime soon.
‘Is he alright?’
Clement pointed at me. ‘That’s him there.’
She gushed at me. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m fine, Ingrid. Nice to meet you, finally. Your family was very concerned. Me too.’
‘My brother and sister will probably be disappointed.’ That acid tone again. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
I told her I was sure.
‘It was an accident … well, not an accident exactly, but we were scared.’
Clement said, ‘Max denied it.’
‘He’s not going to be in any trouble is he?’ Her eyes pleaded with me. ‘Poor Max, he gets frightened of authority figures and panics. Just being with my dad turns him into a blubbering mess.’
That I could understand.
‘He was just trying to do the right thing, to protect me. All my life I’ve had it drummed in to me to be on the alert for kidnapping. It’s second nature to me. And I had quite a bit of cash. Max came back to me in a panic. He said there was a man snooping around the car and he’d hit him with a stick. It’s as much my fault. I just wanted to get out of there. We knew there was no way to call for help.’
Clement pushed out his bottom lip. ‘You could have gone to the next roadhouse.’
‘We were scared. We only heard about you last night when I rang home. I am so, so sorry. Please, I’m sure Dad will …’
‘That’s taken care of.’
She turned back to Clement. ‘Are we in trouble?’
‘Mr Lane says he’s okay, so, as for the assault, I think we can let that slide. But I would advise you to tell Max not to lie to police in future. We could charge him with obstructing an investigation.’
‘Of course. Max is on his way here. I’ll let him know.’
I said goodbye. She shook my hand, thanked me again and once more apologised.
Outside the sun was flexing in preparation for a big day.
‘You don’t think he was beating her up, do you?’ I asked. He’d met Coldwell, I hadn’t. Going on his photo, he was as dangerous as a sheep. But he’d given me a solid whack and there was something about her manner, like milk left a smidgeon too long out of the fridge. I didn’t buy her being sick. She looked thin, tired, but not worse than the people on Survivor.
‘No physical sign. You?’
I agreed in the negative.
Clement said, ‘I think they had a blue, maybe about hitting you or maybe general lover stuff. She said ‘fuck you’ and took the money. He got to keep the car.’
I wondered if that reflected something of Clement’s personal experience.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘she’s no longer my problem, but Jane Doe is.’
We were heading back to Clement’s house so I could get my car.
‘Are you going back to Perth?’ he asked.
‘What do you think?’
‘Chance in hell?’
‘Less. What happens with Crossland? Are you off the case?’
‘No. If he turns up here, we’ll be involved. But first priority is going to be the corpse in the desert.’
I said I couldn’t believe there had been no missing persons reported.
‘It’s a different world here, Snow. None of that parking every day in the same underground car-space. Very few things defined. People a
re wandering thousands of k’s on their own, or in small groups. Some of these remote communities, the kids just take off and there’s nobody to look for them.’
‘Your Jane Doe is not Indigenous, though, is she?’
‘Indigenous or not, it’s a transient world. People fly in from Sydney or Brisbane, work, fly out two weeks later. You’ve got holiday-makers and adventurers and wanderers, people who don’t fit in. She might not have been missed yet.’
‘But employers …’
‘A lot of them take it for granted they’ll lose staff. People just up and go. Say it was a girl about to fly back to Melbourne. She never makes her flight. The airline calls her mobile. It could be anywhere out there, good luck finding it. Or she could be somebody touring through, hitching.’
Something he’d said pinged on my sonar. We were pulling onto the wild grass that did for his front lawn. What was it? Something about employers taking it for granted. And then I saw the above-ground pool he’d done for his daughter, and pieces got sucked together, images and words: Pool, Employer, Young Woman. I was back at the Boab Apartments, music was stopping and starting over and over. Alex was teaching the redhead replacement: the other girl, Kelly, had left without notice.
Clement had turned off the engine. He was looking at me now. ‘What’s up?’
‘The desert girl died around the time sExcitation played Port Hedland. We know that because we thought it might have been Ingrid and that was when she’d been last seen. One of the girls in the show quit suddenly. I’m pretty sure Hedland was her last gig. I wish I could remember what Alex, the owner, said: something about drugs or rich guys, the girls think they have it made and quit at the drop of a hat.’
Clement was already on my wavelength. ‘And Shane Crossland was at the Hedland show.’
