“Did you say you were staying somewhere in Fishos?”
“Yeah, some old woman, she rented me a room. She’s alright. Only fifty bucks a week and she’s fed me most nights. Just talks a lot. Shits me.” Martin explained with some blasé.
“Want some work?” Matt asked.
“With you?” Martin perked up.
“Yeah, with me. You can help me load and unload a truck. Start tomorrow.”
“What on a Sunday?”
“Who cares what fucking day it is, it’s a job, it’s got to be done, and you get paid.” Matt cleared his and Martin’s plate from the benchtop of the breakfast bar. Martin was too full to get up. He wondered if he should help with the dishes. He decided to wait to get asked.
“While you’re fucking thinkin’ if you oughta help with the dishes, just remember one thing. If you want to hang with me you can’t be no lazy bastard. You alright with that?” Matt turned on the hot water tap and started filling the sink to wash up.
Martin got up obligingly. “Thanks, Matt. I promise to help you.”
“And don’t be no pain in the arse either,” Matt added.
The alarm was set for 5am; an early start to a long Sunday drive. The mission: to pack fresh seafood from a fishing trawler and deliver the cargo to a Wagga Wagga seafood wholesaler. Although there would be an unannounced detour, before heading west.
“How come we’re stopping here?” It was a child-like question coming from a naïve-sounding but curious Martin. Matt didn’t respond and Martin watched his chubby cousin go to the front door of the two-storey brick home. Standing between two thick, round pillars painted brilliant white Matt knocked on the door. Within seconds it opened up. Light coming from inside brightened up the porch enough to make out that a man had answered the door. Martin spied on Matt as he took a parcel from the man at the door, who was still dressed in pyjamas. Before Matt turned to go back to the truck he slipped the parcel inside the front of his jacket. Well, that’s interesting. Martin thought and pretended to look elsewhere as Matt slid into the driver’s seat.
“Right, ready to roll now,” Matt said as he gunned the refrigerated truck up the hill. The diesel was chugging heavily and noisily but gathering speed. Once past the sign pointing to the light-house at Warden Head, Matt eased back on the throttle. Martin gazed at the dark ocean far ahead to his left. A strip of subdued light extending along the horizon was signalling sunrise. The start of a new day, the start of a new job, the start of a new life. Martin felt reinvigorated.
“How far to Wagga Wagga?” he asked.
“Six hours, maybe.”
Happy with that, Martin decided, it was a good opportunity to sus out his cousin. I reckon he’s got some secrets. I’m liking this already.
The trek up the King’s Highway, and then up and over the Clyde Mountain was slow. It was not quite daybreak. Martin yawned a few times and asked if they were stopping anywhere.
“Probably, Braidwood, there’s a café. Might have a coffee. But other than that, no. We need to push on, otherwise we’ll never get back.”
By 10am they were well on their way and cruising on the Hume Highway just having passed the Yass turn-off. The diesel engine of the 4.5 tonne Isuzu was a steady but slow performer.
“Matt, reckon I can bunk over at yours, from time to time?” Martin enquired.
“We’ll see how we fare in the next week.” Matt replied.
“So do you drive this truck all the time?” A lazy question while he was peering out of the window at the undulating, dry landscape.
“I do some in this one and some for another bloke, but I go to Melbourne in another one.” Matt was vague, but he added, “I go fishing, when the Italians ring me. We go out for a few days, or a week.”
“Reckon, I could get on one of those boats?” Martin was half-interested and trying to make a little conversation. He could see Matt was twitchy and restless.
“Tell me, what sort of work have you done since you left school. Mum says, you dropped out years ago.”
“Oh, yeah, how’s Wendy? Is she still around Ulladulla?” Martin asked.
“No, she’s moved away to Albion Park. Haven’t seen her for a while now. A year, maybe more. We didn’t see eye-to-eye much.”
“Know what you mean. Dee and I were always fighting.” Martin’s tone was resentful.
“I’m sorry about your mum, I didn’t know her much either. Wendy wouldn’t talk about it. She just said that she’d been sick. So I assume it was cancer. Some sort of girl cancer, mate?”
“Nah, no cancer. She fucking stuck too much shit into her arm.” Martin answered in a casual, but crass manner, “She OD’d in some fucking hotel room in the city.”
“What? My aunt into drugs? You’re kidding me, aren’t you?” Matt was genuinely astonished, “That’s fucking unbelievable!” Matt took his eyes off the road briefly and looked at Martin, who was staring ahead. “What my auntie Dee, a junkie?” Matt repeated his disbelief.
“And a fucking whore,” Martin replied nonchalantly.
“Hey, steady there, cousin, you’re talking about my auntie,” Matt chided.
“Yeah, your auntie, but my mum.”
They both shut up. The drive at ninety kilometres an hour on the Hume seemed to take forever. After a good ten minutes of silence, Matt ventured, “Do you do any drugs?”
“Sometimes have a smoke,” Martin replied dryly, “But no, mostly no.”
Matt nodded, “Mostly no for me. Only tried it a few times, didn’t do much for me. I like having a clear head. A few beers don’t turn me into a dopey bastard.”
Matt decided that for the moment, he wouldn’t question Martin further. Martin was flesh and blood, but that didn’t mean he should trust him with secrets. Christ, I barely know him. Good to meet up with him, though. He’s family.
Martin sat up more upright. “So, what have you been doing since school?”
“Bits and pieces. I keep my head above water.” Matt rested his elbow on the driver’s door, part of it hanging out of the window.
“So how come you’re driving a truck?” A pointed question. Martin half-regretted asking, but there was no way that detour was about a parcel of chocolates.
“Because that’s a side-line I got into in the last few years. Fuck you ask a lot of questions.”
“Sorry. Just curious.”
“Look, you’re my cousin. Flesh and blood. But I don’t know you from a bar of soap. Some of the shit I do is not exactly above board. Know what I mean?” Matt was a little frustrated.
“You can trust me.” Martin looked directly at his cousin, who shot him a quick look taking his eyes off the road. Matt concentrated on driving again without saying much for a few minutes.
“You’re my only family. We’re of the same blood. Doesn’t that count for a lot?” Martin asked with innocence.
“Of course, cuz. Blood is everything.” Matt put his hand on Martin’s shoulder and gave him a re-assuring squeeze. It was a soothing moment.
After a while Matt broke the silence. “I have a courier business. I pick up and deliver stuff for people that want gear picked up in Nowra, and brought back here. I take seafood to Wagga, occasionally I go to Melbourne to run an errand.”
“Long way for an errand.” Martin remarked.
Matt remained tight-lipped after that comment from.
“So you get a lot of courier work?”
“Yes. Fucking heaps.” Matt answered.
CHAPTER 17
HERE KITTY, NICE KITTY…
“Hello Des,” said the frumpy woman leaning over the scraggly timber picket fence, as she waved lovingly to her neighbour. Briefly she glanced down at her worn-out dress, and flicked a bit of black soil from the fabric where it covered her right knee.
“Oh. Yeah. G’day Daphne. Uh ... how are you today?” The grubby looking neighbour reluctantly shuffled over to the short fence.
Secretly, Des, her neighbour made Daphne tingle. Down deep, right there in her groin. Every tim
e they met over the fence, she could feel goose-bumps on her neck and when her nipples rubbed the loose cotton dress she often wore she could feel them harden. Most of her life was spent without the company of live-in men. But she was no stranger to stray blokes, and having worked in large factories and a few large clothing stores, usually in warehousing, there were always stray blokes. So getting a root was as simple as putting on a flirtatious show, and then when alone in the back of the warehouse she would just lift her dress. Because she had already removed her knickers beforehand. Most blokes couldn’t resist that bushy muff staring at them.
She silently fantasized. Oh Des, you’re such a lovely man. Look at you, all handsome and manly. And a bit of warm moisture was sponged up in the bottom of her undies. She wanted him badly. But this was Fishos. Using her old tricks would not be appropriate, word would spread very quickly indeed. It would be better if no one knew about her naughty past.
“So your boarder has been no trouble then?” Des asked for lack of anything else he could think of.
“No trouble at all. He’s hardly here.”
“He tells me when he has to go away, you know, for work…he goes away to work”, and the conversation went on, “He drives a truck, you know, for a friend, and he’s away sometimes for a week, and sometimes longer…”
“Pays his rent on time?”
“Well, sometimes he hasn’t got much money, and so, oh, look it doesn’t matter. You know, he helps me a lot, like you do sometimes. He’s gone to work though, won’t be back for a while, he said. He left yesterday, his mate’s come and picked him up,” and she dropped her gaze to the ground. “Not sure if he’s coming back.” Unsure, but already disappointed, she bowed her head. “He took all his stuff. Best I go now, Des. Have to go into town.” She waddled away from the fence, leaving the bored and indifferent balding neighbour dressed in dirty dark blue shorts, and a tight brown T-shirt which didn’t cover his sagging beer gut.
But before she went through her back door, she turned and yelled out, “Seen Bells around, Des? She hasn’t been home for a couple days.”
“Nope, haven’t seen it, Daph.”
Bloody cat. Bastard of a thing. Bird killer. The middle-aged gardener ambled back to his brewing shed. On the way, he thought, Jesus, those tits look like fat bananas, a bra probably wouldn’t go astray. Although she was a good neighbour, generous and not a bad cook either, Daph did talk a lot. Often before venturing outside, he made sure she wasn’t out hanging out washing, or picking weeds from the veggie patch. Like a spy peering through a slit in the curtain, he would survey the grounds before sneaking out to the brewing shed, or the wood-shed. His two choice hang-outs.
It was May. The weather could be pleasant, sunny and quite warm, like today. Although, still and comfortable at a sunny 22 degrees now, that probably would not last. South Coast weather, a jack-in-the-box affair, full of surprises. Better get some wood sorted for the fire. It’ll be cooler later.
Behind the beer-brewing shed, the tin lean-to roof cast a shadow over the wood-splitting area. He cast his eyes down to his right. Blood on the block-splitter. Blood on the chopping block. He saw just the head of a black tabby, like a misplaced object on the ground resting not far from the heavy stump where it had rolled off after being separated from its life. It was covered in a mixture of wood splinters, soil, saw shavings and dried blood. A couple of blowies were buzzing around, searching for a new place to lay their eggs. A black furry corpse was lying next to the ironbark chopping stump, where it had slid off, leaving a thin red line.
What am I going to tell Daphne? Des pondered shaking his head.
CHAPTER 18
INNOCENCE LOST
The sign said: Heathcote National Park; Horace Sjolker-Jones was relieved to unclip the dog-lead from his tan-coloured companion. Wilbur, the Weimaraner, pulled like a runaway train. On this Saturday, Horace changed his jogging route, deciding to try out the National Park, instead of his usual suburban trek. A relative newcomer to the Heathcote area he relished the opportunity to explore his new surroundings by jogging in the National Park on his Saturday fitness regime. Of course in the company of his trusted mate, Wilbur, who also loved the outing after spending most of his week confined to an enclosed backyard, staring at fence palings all day, while Horace went to work in the city. Information Technology afforded Horace a wonderful new home in a relaxed and crime-free outer suburb of Sydney.
It was a beautiful late morning in the Heathcote National Park. Horace was very happy with himself to have risen so early from his bed, at 9.30am. After a bowl of muesli, and a milky coffee, he put on his new jogging outfit and set out. It only took ten minutes for them to reach the Heathcote National Park. He breathed in the fresh air funnelled from the mountains far away, courtesy of a breezy south-westerly. Wilbur catapulted forward as soon as the clip was off the collar. Horace watched in horror as his hunting dog who had never hunted, bolted off into the distance, as if trying out new turbo-charged legs.
“Wilbur. Wilbur, come back. Wilbur. Come.” But the dog just ran, leaving Horace little choice but to pick up his jogging pace. A hundred metres ahead, Wilbur suddenly stopped and turned, checking to see whether his master was coming. Horace quickly gained ground. Out of breath, he approached his dog. “Naughty boy. Come here.” He reached for his dog’s collar. Game on, thought the wily hunter, and Wilbur turned on his haunches and ran. Horace watched in despair, his hands resting on his knees while bent over catching his breath. Oh you bloody pain in the backside. The lean and thin-faced man in his thirties stood erect and started a slow jog following his dog. Wilbur’s pace had slowed and now he was darting from left to right and occasionally circling around, stopping for a sniff at random spots.
Horace marvelled at the grandeur of the natural beauty of the surrounding bush and rocky terrain. The further he went into his exploration the closer he came to the small ravines and canyon-like peaks and drop-offs.
A lull in the south-westerly wind; a slight change of wind direction. Wilbur pointed. Nose in the wind. Eyes peeled forward. A guarded motion forward. A hunting dog’s instinct. Wilbur advanced to the edge of a crevasse. His nose to the ground, then up for some air, another sniff, back down to the ground. Then, a loud bark, tail wagging.
Curious and innocently poking his head over the edge of the crevasse, fully expecting to see some wildlife that had sparked Wilbur’s attention, Horace’s stomach and throat immediately reacted. He heaved. Feeling instantly unbalanced and faint, he retreated and fell to a kneeling position. Wilbur was still wagging his tail and making soft growling noises. Horace’s world of living with the fairies had been shattered.
Heathcote National Park, at the scene of the crime two detectives discussed the facts surrounding the murder of a teenage girl discovered by a bushwalker some months earlier.
“Let’s run through this again.” The pudgy detective lit a cigarette.
Vince Rosso was a patient man, you had to be in this business. But he was certainly getting irritated with what seemed to be a lack of focus from his senior counterpart. Because the case had not progressed towards any resolution, the murder case was being referred to another homicide section, one headed by a senior detective called Kevin Thompson. A veteran of police investigation. Vince was not impressed so far.
The pudgy senior inspector had a reputation for repetitiveness. Some fellow detectives likened him to Columbo, as they would describe him to the newcomers. You know that pain in the arse detective from TV. Kevin Thompson is a bit like him. Although not as good as the TV character in solving crimes.
“The murder victim was a sixteen-year-old girl. She was reported missing by her older sister. She lived about 2 kilometres away, in a house which borders this park.” Vince Rosso pointed in a direction behind him.
“Any neighbours?” Kevin drew heavily on his smoke.
“Yes. But suburban neighbours, the kind that go to work really early, and come home late and don’t keep an eye out for anything other than what’s on T
V. The crime scene had little to offer, because weeks had already passed when a bushwalker discovered the body. He was walking his dog and it was the dog that alerted him.” Vince recited.
“Lucky for the dog owner,” Kevin remarked.
Vince was baffled, “Lucky for the dog owner?”
“Yes, did he get fined?”
“For what?” Vince snapped.
“Walking his dog, in a National Park, of course.” The senior detective answered.
Vince Rosso was not in the mood. The pudgy detective broke out in a wide smile. A moment later he put his hand on Vince’s shoulder. “My dear colleague, don’t stress yourself. This homicide is one of many unsolved mysteries. One day it will make sense.” Kevin was good at appeasement.
Vince was silent for a moment. Then he continued, “The girl was pushed or perhaps she fell off the edge. About here.” The stocky detective moved towards the edge of the crevasse. “But, she was also stabbed in the neck. Forensics found evidence of sharp instrument damage to several of her cervical bones, pointing to a knife of some kind pushed forcefully into her neck up towards her brain-stem.”
Vince Rosso reflected at the words. Wonderful way to die for a young girl. He shook his head and sighed.
“Any leads?” Kevin was peering into the distance. Beautiful spot, what a paradox.
Vince turned away from the edge of the ravine. “The best lead we have is a diary entry by the victim describing a male friend. She describes him as skinny and short. She makes special mention of his dark eyes which appear scary to her. She also describes him as really nice. The files are in my car, and I’ll hand them over to you. Feel free to buzz me, if you want any other info, or my opinion about your findings,” Vince offered. Kevin Thompson was intrigued. But he was intrigued by all his cases.
CHAPTER 19
SURPRISE, SURPRISE
Martin had never learnt how to keep his room tidy. So it wasn’t long after he moved in with Matt, that his cousin tripped over the backpack in the sun-room, which was poking out from under Martin’s bed.
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