by Derek Hansen
Grant rocked back on his chair, deep in thought. He had a place. The phone account listed the number under the Walgett exchange. And he had two names: J Downs, which he assumed was the name Linda was living under, and Billy Dwyer who, judging by Linda’s voice, was at the very least a close friend. All he needed now was an address. He rang directory enquiries.
‘Hi,’ he said brightly. ‘I’m after the number for a Miss or Mrs J Downs. I don’t have an address but I know she lives somewhere in the Walgett area.’
‘Hold the line, please.’
Grant was happy to hold.
‘Are you there? I’m sorry, there doesn’t appear to be anyone by the name of J Downs but there is a G Downs who runs a general store up on the Ridge.’
Grant frowned. He could imagine Linda doing many things but never running a general store way out in the bush.
‘Do you have an L Sinclair?’
‘There are four listings under Sinclair but no L Sinclairs.’
‘Do you have a Billy Dwyer?’ he asked. ‘Same exchange.’
‘I have a W Dwyer, Stony Creek Road. Is that who you’re after?’
‘I guess so, unless there are two W Dwyers.’
‘There’s only the one. I’ll give you the number.’
Grant wrote it down and double-checked it, thanked the operator and hung up. Where the hell was Stony Creek Road and what was the relevance of J Downs? There’d been a time when he could locate pretty well any place in Australia. He’d had a policy at Film Gate that any map bought for any production had to go into the map library after the shoot to supplement the maps they kept for each state and major city. The number of maps rapidly grew and they became a handy tool for finding locations and out-of-the-way places. Cameron had set up the same system but hadn’t yet done enough jobs to build a worthwhile collection.
Grant had trained enough producers to know how to think like one. He recalled shooting commercials at Collarenebri and Lightning Ridge and how every large property and patch of dirt that produced opals acquired a name that often never appeared on anything but local maps, and even disappeared off them when the mines petered out. Rather than drop down to the newsagents for a Gregory’s map of New South Wales, he rang the Department of Mineral Resources and asked if they had maps of the opal fields around Walgett. Of course they did. Did they have any maps that included farms as well? They had maps with all the major properties marked. Grant hopped in his car and within half an hour had all the maps he needed for the whole Cumborah, Grawin, New Angledool, Walgett region.
It was only when he’d had time to look at the maps in detail that the inconsistencies appeared. Trails that appeared on one map were absent on others and none were named. The main roads, if the dirt tracks between the dots on the maps could be called main roads, seemed fairly consistent although the distances between the towns varied, sometimes by as much as twenty per cent. None of the maps showed Stony Creek Road yet he knew that was the road Billy Dwyer lived along. Obviously Stony Creek Road was represented by one of the thin black or dotted lines, but which one? As he ran his eye over the maps a name jumped out at him. Jindalee Downs. J Downs. It was just a dot in an open area with no marked road running anywhere near it. With growing excitement Grant realised the answer to his search lay in somehow putting Stony Creek Road and Jindalee Downs together. His brain clicked into high gear. His life had regained both point and purpose and revenge was a powerful motivator. Once he found Linda, all his problems would be solved and hers would begin. Finding her was inevitable, merely a matter of process. It was the sort of thing film people did all the time. All he had to do was think outside the square.
Jimmy tried doing the quick crossword but didn’t have any heart for it. The gloom inside the stock and station gave an illusion of cool but that was all. The day had started out bad and only gotten worse, the last malicious gasp of an Indian summer. Even without the hot dry winds blowing in from the west the day would have been intolerable. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Peter, his offsider, was filling in time by stocking shelves. Neither expected to do much business that day. Every beast on four legs would have holed up somewhere in the shade out of the wind and every two-legged creature with half a brain would’ve done likewise. Jimmy knew he could fire a shotgun down any street in Walgett and not run the slightest risk of hitting anyone. Nobody came to town on days like this.
‘Why don’t you take an early lunch,’ said Jimmy.
Peter stopped stacking and checked his watch. It was only half-past eleven.
‘Lunch won’t be on yet.’
‘The bar will be open. Have a cold one or three and I’ll see you back here around one.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Peter.
Deciding who should go to lunch first was the biggest problem Jimmy had faced all morning. He didn’t think there’d be anyone in the RSL yet, other than the usual deadbeats watching the horseracing, but the prospect of a cold beer was pretty enticing. What decided the issue was the fact that whoever went first had to come back so the other could go to lunch. Whoever went second didn’t necessarily have to come back at all. Jimmy had no intention of coming back after lunch. There again, he thought, he might just close at lunchtime and put the sign on the door that said where they could be found, not that he expected anyone to come looking, not on such a brute of a day. He watched as Peter took his hat off the peg and stepped outside into a heat that sucked moisture out of your body, your eyes and your lungs. Jimmy reckoned Pete would have more than twenty flies going for his mouth before he stepped off the pavement.
He turned back to his crossword and tried to think what a seven-letter word for trench or bomb shelter could be. When the phone rang its sudden sound startled him. He frowned. It could only mean somebody wanted him to deliver something, somebody who didn’t want to venture out in the heat himself. His voice was surly as he answered.
‘Jimmy Tremaine.’
‘Good morning, Mr Tremaine. I’m John Wilson, executive producer of Gunshot Productions. We’re making a film on the way communications shape society and we need a little help.’
‘You say you’re making a film?’
‘That’s correct. For ABC TV.’
‘And you need my help?’
‘Yes.’
Jimmy was suddenly interested. He didn’t know much about films, but the occasional film crews that had been through the region had splashed money around like confetti. The possibility someone might want to splash some his way had his full attention.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘We’re trying to locate the owner of Sydney’s largest commercial film company. We believe she’s living out your way temporarily. We need to film an interview with her.’
‘Don’t know about any film people living out here.’ Jimmy found it hard to hide his disappointment.
‘Her name’s Linda Sinclair, tall, light brown hair …’
‘Had a good-looking sort come through here about September last year looking for somewhere to rent. Real good-looking.’
‘That will be her.’
‘She’s not here. Last I heard she was in Dubbo.’
‘No, we know for a fact she’s living somewhere around Jindalee Downs. Do you know a man called Billy Dwyer?’
‘Yeah, of course. Jindalee Downs is his place.’
‘Apparently she’s staying somewhere near him.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘No.’
‘Well, bugger me!’
‘So you know where she is?’
‘I sent her to see Billy. Jesus, he’s a sly bastard. He denies ever laying eyes on her, but I reckon he’s got her shacked up in his parents’ old place.’
‘Where would that be?’
‘Now you’re asking. I know it’s on the western end of Billy’s property, but I’m not real sure how to get there. It’s somewhere off Stony Creek, but, mate, there are tracks heading off everywhere. There are rumours of opal up there. It’d take a bit of finding. I could giv
e you Billy’s number but I think you’d be wasting your time.’
‘There’s another problem there.’
‘What sort of problem?’
‘Apparently Linda Sinclair has taken a year off away from work and doesn’t want to be disturbed. Our only chance of getting an interview is if we arrive unannounced. I can’t ring Billy Dwyer without tipping her off. I want someone I can trust to be discreet to find her for us. We’re prepared to pay.’
‘How much?’
‘You tell me.’
Jimmy thought for a while. He had a pretty good idea where the house was even though he’d never been there. Given half a day and a bit of luck he was pretty sure he could find it, particularly if there was a buck in it.
‘I could do it but I reckon it’d take me a couple of days. Pretty wild country out there on the red ridges.’
‘But you can do it?’
‘Reckon. Thing is, we’re pretty busy right now. I’d have to pay someone to cover for me.’
‘What’s the bottom line?’
‘A hundred a day for each of us. That’s four hundred dollars.’
‘Be cheaper to get a helicopter.’
‘You still gotta know where to look. Maybe I can do it in a day and a half. Three hundred.’
‘When can you start?’
‘Tomorrow. Bit too hot today and I’ve got things to arrange.’
‘Okay. I want detailed maps and instructions. I’ll send you one hundred dollars up front, one hundred dollars on receipt of your maps and instructions and another hundred on the day we do the interview. There’s no point in you finding her if she’s not there when we go to do the interview, understand? You can’t say a word to her or anyone until after the interview, okay?’
‘Sounds fair.’
‘We might want to interview you too, explaining how we found her. People always like a bit of local colour. That’ll be covered by a separate fee, normally four hundred dollars.’
‘Four hundred dollars?’ And he’d be on TV? Jimmy couldn’t believe his luck.
‘That’s the going rate and not negotiable. Take it or leave it.’
‘I’ll take it. What address do I send the information to?’
‘Do you have a fax machine?’
‘No, but I can use the one in the council office.’
‘I’ll ring you in two days’ time with a number. Send the material to me as soon as I give you the number because I’ll probably be out on the road somewhere.’
‘No worries.’
‘I’ll get the first one hundred dollars off to you this afternoon. I haven’t got time to get a bank cheque. Will cash do?’
Grant allowed a grim smile of satisfaction as he hung up. The promise of cash and the possibility of appearing on TV was a combination that rarely failed to get him what he wanted. The only issue was what fax machine to use. He didn’t want to give a number that could be traced back to him. There were public fax machines he could use at the post office and in the library which were suitably anonymous, but also fax machines in the restaurants he frequented. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d had material sent to him during the course of a long lunch. It was what people in his industry did.
Grant leaned back in his chair, satisfied that in two days’ time he’d have a map showing him exactly where to find Linda and surprised that she ever imagined she could hide from him. She disappointed him. He thought he’d trained her better than that. He picked up the phone again and made an appointment with a law firm he’d singled out the previous day. They had a reputation for being smart and, importantly, he’d had no prior dealings with them. He needed them to do a company search on Film Gate and draft an agreement which would transfer all of Linda’s holdings in the company to him. The agreement had to be watertight and incontestable. He wanted Linda to know exactly how it felt to have her company stolen and to be left with nothing.
Well, next to nothing.
His next task was to make sure that, when he finally caught up with her, he’d have her full and undivided attention. He dialled an acquaintance who’d begun a business supplying props to the film industry and subsequently built it up by supplying props of a different kind: marijuana, ecstasy and cocaine. He claimed he could provide anything at a price. He heard Grant out then told him his terms. The two-week hire of the rifle would cost five hundred dollars, with another five hundred dollars on top if the box of cartridges was opened. The fee would be deducted from the two thousand dollar deposit, which would be forfeited if the rifle was not returned. Grant accepted. That was something else Linda would have to pay for.
Jimmy closed the stock and station at midday when the temperature hit forty-two degrees. Keeping it open was a lost cause. Instead of going straight to the club, he went to the council offices and asked for the records to Billy’s property. He had to smile. As he had expected, Billy had taken out a development application before beginning work on his parents’ house. It showed the location of the house and a track leading up to it. But Jimmy knew better than to trust tracks indicated on maps. They tended to change every time there was a decent downpour or when trees fell over and blocked them. He looked at a larger map, which showed the boundaries of Billy’s property and those of his neighbours, and used it to get a clearer idea of where the house might be. He worked out where it was in relation to Rodney’s house and Stony Creek Road, which was one of the few named tracks on the map, and concluded that the house had to be up on one of two sand ridges. In country that sloped northwest at the rate of two centimetres every kilometre, the red ridges were hard to miss. The three hundred dollars was beginning to feel like easy money.
Jimmy went to the RSL, ordered a plate of crumbed cutlets and chips, bought a beer and started making plans. If he was going to go snooping around somebody’s property it made sense to do it in fading light. He didn’t want to blow his three hundred dollars by being spotted. Allowing an hour for the drive and another thirty minutes to get his bearings, he figured five o’clock would be a good time to set out. The temperature would have dropped to bearable levels and, if he discovered he’d jumped the gun, he could always drive into the bush and hole up for a while. He looked forward to a pleasant afternoon slowly sipping on a succession of beers, followed by a profitable evening.
The temperature hadn’t fallen as much as he’d hoped when he set out in his four-wheel drive Toyota ute but it was headed the right way. He kept the windows closed and cranked the air-conditioning up as high as it would go. Even so, the heat kept him dipping into the esky on the passenger seat for a can of beer. Cumborah was like a ghost town from a western movie as he drove through it, with clumps of roly-poly blowing along the road like tumbleweed. He turned onto Stony Creek Road and drove straight towards the setting sun. There was no dust in the air, which was a sure sign nobody had come by in the previous hour. The chances of encountering another vehicle grew ever more remote.
Jimmy started paying attention once he passed the track leading up to Billy’s place. He slowed to a stop as he crested the first of the big sand ridges. According to his calculations he was still a kilometre short of where he should start looking seriously. He engaged gear and motored along in second, searching for a promising track. The first track he took petered out into the bush. It didn’t worry him. He hadn’t expected to get lucky first time. He spotted fresh tyre tracks and followed them into the bush, but they terminated at a campsite where somebody had spent a night. Half a kilometre further on he came across a track that was obviously more used. He followed it full of expectation, only to discover that it looped back onto Stony Creek Road. He’d noticed trails radiating out from the loop and backtracked to investigate them. He chose the one with the freshest tyre tracks and drove slowly up it, heartened when the track began to climb and arc towards what looked like a knoll or rocky ridge. Natural caution and a desire to protect his three hundred dollars made him turn off the track and park out of sight among the cypress pines.
He’d barely covered a cou
ple of hundred metres when the track forked. The right fork speared off into the bush but the left one, scoured by fresh tyre tracks, continued to climb. Jimmy kept to the bush so he didn’t leave any telltale footprints on the track and followed the left-hand fork up the hill. When he spotted the Toyota parked in the car shelter he knew he’d struck gold. Even so, he had to be certain the four-wheel drive was Linda’s, although he couldn’t imagine who else it could belong to. He knew most of the cars in the area and the fact that he didn’t recognise this one strengthened his conviction. He circled the carport, climbed up to where the rocks poked through the soil and sat down behind a boulder. The sun had dropped below the opposite ridge but it was still too light to go nosing around. He figured he had a twenty-minute wait and cursed the fact that he hadn’t thought to bring a beer with him. His shirt was soaked with sweat and his throat was so dry it hurt to swallow. He thought of the three hundred dollars and the beers still in his esky. Happiness was just half an hour away.
The sandflies found him just as he recommenced his climb. He cursed. Forgetting to take a beer with him was an oversight. Forgetting to spray himself with repellent was sheer stupidity. They attacked his face, his legs and his hands. Cockatiels flitted among the mulga which had taken over from the pines. Jimmy looked up and realised immediately why the sandflies had begun to swarm. The wind had finally died down. He cursed again. Why couldn’t it have kept up for another half an hour? He climbed higher, impatient now, and stopped abruptly when the dark solid shape of a house appeared in front of him. He crept further up the ridge until he was level with the windows, froze when a light turned on. Then he saw her come to the window. The sandflies feasted on his exposed skin but he didn’t dare swat at them in case the movement caught her eye. She had a towel wrapped around her and was drying her hair with another. The light was behind her so he couldn’t see her face clearly, but her build was right and he remembered her having long, slim legs. In truth, there was no one else she could be. He briefly thought about hanging around in case she dropped the towel covering her, but just as quickly dismissed the idea. His three hundred dollars were in the bag and the sandflies were giving him hell. He turned away but not without regrets. The woman was really something.
