A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2)

by John Hollenkamp

  ***

  On the Bruce Highway, just north of Townsville, a showroom-shiny highway patrol car with its lights spinning had pulled over on the shoulder. In front of it, a Porsche straddled where bitumen and grass verge met.

  In the patrol car the young police officer behind the wheel of the lowered, high-performance Commodore interrupted his senior officer as she finished writing the infringement notice for the woman in the Porsche. “They want us to look into a missing taxi.”

  The blonde-haired policewoman casually glanced at the rookie, “Be with you in a sec.” She left the comfort of the air-conditioned Commodore.

  Fiona Gibbs stepped to the Porsche, robotically she turned to face the driver, but without eye-contact. “You understand this notice will also trigger demerit points against your driving record.”

  “You’re too kind,” the offending driver said.

  “I beg yours?” Now with eye-contact.

  “Never mind. I promise to slow down.”

  “Good.” Fiona handed the notice through the open window, dropped it before the woman behind the wheel could take it from her. She turned on her heels and marched back to the Police Commodore. Fucking smartarse bitch, she muttered under her breath.

  “First day on the job?” As she settled into the passenger seat.

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’m not a sir, or haven’t you noticed?” Fiona stated.

  “Sorry, sir…err, I mean, Sergeant Gibbs.”

  “That’s better, probationary constable. What was your name again?”

  “Joel Shallowater. With a single double-u,“ answered the young Indigenous police-officer. “Joel, will do just fine,” he added.

  “So, what’s this about a stolen taxi?”

  “Sorry, missing taxi. Not stolen. We are to proceed to the Northern Taxi Company at the Glendale depot.”

  Although starting after lunch, it was Joel Shallowater’s first day on the job, fresh out of training, green to policing work, but deemed to be seasoned in Indigenous affairs. Part of a new initiative by Queensland Police to improve the Service by integrating more Indigenous police officers at the coal face, out in the street. Ironically, Joel’s dubious past had helped him get into the Service program. Joel had been lucky, one of the local elders had taken an interest in the young lad’s plight, and this man had contacts with the coppers, “You are not a bad kid Joel, you need to stay away from those cousins of yours. Cause if ya don’t, you gonna be in-an’-out of the lock-up. You’ll be another blackfella fuck-up.” Another blackfella fuck-up! Joel hated that description.

  “Suppose I should be a little more ingratiating,” Fiona said finishing with a sigh.

  Joel kept driving, not quite sure if he should reply. Another bit of advice from the tribal elder, “If ya don’t know what to do, don’t do it, and if ya don’t know what to say, just keep ya mouth shut. That way there’s no trouble.”

  “This was my day off. But your other babysitter called in sick,” Fiona said.

  “Babysitter?”

  “Yeah, get used to that term, because that’s what we do when looking after rookies – babysit. This is an extra shift for me, and I did have other plans.”

  “I’m sorry today didn’t pan out for you.”

  Joel eased the Commodore onto the driveway and parked in front of the Northern Taxi Company building.

  “I’ll be doing all the talking,” Fiona said as she put her cap on.

  Joel followed his new boss into the garage, the entry being to the side of the fibro and corrugated iron clad shed. The smell of a garage was unmistakeable: old oil, diesel and the LPG fumes from a cab exiting as they walked in. A short man with a full crop of grey hair and bushy eye-brows rushed to meet them with an extended hand. After brief introductions, he ushered the police-officers into his office and shut the door.

  “One of our cars is missing,” Pete hurriedly conveyed. “…And the driver is, as well.” His last words trailed into a whisper, his eyebrows bristled.

  The two coppers looked at each other.

  “From the beginning, please,” Fiona took out a notebook from her back-pocket, started scribbling. Pausing she stared at the Northern Taxi boss, “Go on.”

  “Well, he’s only new. A migrant. His last name is hard to pronounce, and long. First name is Bilal.”

  ***

  A missing person was of grave concern; a missing employee could also be a case of someone pulling a sickie without notifying their employer. When a taxi and its driver had disappeared, there was cause for alarm – especially after two days. The taxi boss had not been able to get in touch with the driver’s emergency contact, a person with a long foreign-sounding surname. Another complication. Questions were mounting: Was the missing driver with his emergency contact? Had he contacted his family? Are they missing? Or are they in cahoots doing something sinister? Or did the taxi driver meet with foul play? Joel Shallowater’s mind was racing with excitement, and it showed.

  The interview had been brief. None of the parties were any the wiser. It was pointless hanging around the garage, Fiona left a contact number and on their way out she ordered Joel to drive. She rang her superior and reported back about the unsolved mystery.

  They were back out on the highway, five minutes later.

  “Take it easy, young man.” Fiona pointed to the speedo. ”Just because we’re cops doesn’t entitle you to drive like a person possessed.”

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “For fuck sake, call me Fiona, or Gibbs. Do not address me as ‘ma’am’.”

  “Sorry, Fiona.”

  “And stop saying ‘sorry’!”

  Joel slowed the patrol car to the speed limit. The road surface had dried up since the downpour an hour earlier, and traffic was light. Travelling in the cool comfort of the air-conditioned car gave him a false sense of security, a detached feeling from what was really on the outside; dark clouds building in a troppo environment. The heat from the sun bursting through moisture-laden clouds made the temperature soar even higher.

  “We will get a bite, and then we’ll start looking for that last pick-up address, and suss out the last known fare.”

  “Sounds good. Fiona,” Joel replied.

  CHAPTER 4

  YOUR LUCKY DAY

  Covering a shift for someone was a bitter pill to swallow on your day off when business was slow or nearly non-existent. Darren had been parked at the Breakwater Ferry Terminal for a while – one fare for: $ 6.40. After that, he cruised up and down The Strand half a dozen times, but no fares. The bitter pill really kicked in on his way back to the depot after lunch.

  Darren noticed the blue and red flashing lights straightaway. Taking his eyes off the rear-view mirror he signalled left to pull over; the police vehicle followed closely behind. Darren brought the taxi to a slow halt, left the engine running but opened the window. He waited. Wonder what these idiots want?

  She wasn’t in a hurry. Darren spied the female police officer coming towards him. Not a bad looker, he mused. She approached the open window without making eye-contact, looked around, then cleared her throat before looking at him.

  “G’day. Realise you were speeding?”

  “What was that?” Darren frowned.

  “The speed limit is sixty on this road,” the policewoman calmly replied.

  Darren sat up and inspected her name tag, “Gibbs, is it?”

  “Sergeant Fiona Gibbs, to be precise.”

  “I don’t believe I was speeding.”

  “You were travelling at sixty-four kilometres per hour according to our radar. To be precise.” A cold, robotic answer detailing the offense.

  “You’re fucking kidding me, aren’t you?” Darren started to open his door, the female officer reacted by stepping back. Sensing her apprehension, Darren released his fingers from the doorhandle, shut the car door and remained seated behind the wheel.

  “Are you going to book me for going over the speed limit by four kays an hour?”

  “Why
else would I be standing here?”

  “Because you’re bored and need to hassle a cabdriver who’s had a shit of a morning already. Fuck me. I don’t know.”

  Her blue eyes bore into his, the fire in her gaze was intimidating, Darren shuffled in his seat trying to work out if she was scary or just a complete arsehole.

  “You reckon your day is shit,” she suddenly blurted, “Try getting lumbered with a fresh Academy graduate on your day off, and then having to listen to your lame excuse for speeding.”

  “There’s no lame excuse, because going over by four kays is not speeding in my book. And I haven’t given you any excuse.”

  She was studying him. Darren was uncomfortable with her silence, the tapping of her pen on the notebook was irritating.

  “What do you think about a missing taxi and driver?”

  It was a left of field question, taking Darren off-guard. “I don’t know enough to give you my opinion.”

  Let’s see if that’s so. Still tapping her pen.

  “Do you know the missing cabdriver?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You never met him, even though you work in the same place?”

  “’Course, I met him. You asked me if I knew him. It’s not the same thing.”

  Gibbs scowled.

  “Anything about him, you thought might be strange?”

  “No. Not really. He’s a migrant. They’re all a bit strange to me,” Darren replied with an amused frown.

  “Were you working the night he went missing?”

  “No. I wasn’t.”

  “Do you think there’s foul play?”

  “No idea.”

  “Do you think it’s odd, that no one reported him or the taxi missing for two days?”

  “It’s pretty slack.”

  “Do you think today is your lucky day?” Her voice was still interrogating.

  “Well I doubt that.”

  “It is,” she said.

  “How so?”

  “I’ve decided not to book you. Hope your day gets better.” Gibbs stuck her sunglasses back on her nose, and returned to the squad car.

  Darren ogled her from the rear-view mirror, she was short, well proportioned, a nice round arse. He liked her bop. Her voice was slightly raspy, it suited her. Beautiful eyes, a little angry perhaps, a very pretty face no doubt when it wasn’t on fire! Suddenly, Darren was overwhelmed by guilt, anguish: Cate – the image of her face appeared like a ghost. The memory of her still followed him.

  The Commodore hole-shot past him with a low roar. Gibbs was looking at him as they went past. Darren’s eyes followed the patrol car until it disappeared in traffic. Gone, he thought. He wasn’t sure if today was getting better. Was it really his lucky day?

  The two-way bleeped, “three from Castletown Shopping Centre …going to Kirwan…” Darren jumped on it.

  CHAPTER 5

  A NEW TOY

  The day before…

  Around lunchtime, in Dover Plains, one of Townsville’s northern suburbs.

  From the corner of the toilets of a Dover Plains servo, four Aboriginal boys spied their quarry. They bolted as soon as the pensioner opened the door to the Stop ‘n Go Fuel shop to pay for his petrol. Three boys reached the Mitsubishi sedan simultaneously, pulling open the car’s doors and piling in. The fourth kid was slower and showed his lack of agility when squeezing himself through the rear door.

  ***

  “Wooohooo!” Little Billy yelled out, as he bounced from the clammy backseat. Baz, next to the scrawny teenager, didn’t bounce much, he was too fat to be thrown around in the back of the Mitsi.

  Max, the young driver, had just speared the sedan onto the rough dirt track from the bitumen. Pressing his bare foot down on the accelerator he threw the sedan into a bunny-hop, but recovered quickly, continuing the joy-ride in a more controlled drive.

  “Fucken noisy shit you are Billy.” Max grunted from behind the wheel.

  “Yeah, gimme the fucken boddle you liddle drunk!” Charlie turned from his shotgun seat, and went to snatch the OP Rum from the twelve-year-old boy. “You fucken lucky you didden drop that!”

  “Come on then see if you can… --------- arrggh! ... Fuck you Baz!”

  “Shut up and give’m the bottle,” Baz said without looking at the young Aboriginal.

  The older boys in the front of the car took turns slamming the grog back. Little Billy sulked for a few minutes before resuming his exuberance, yelling like he was a rodeo cowboy.

  “Oughta throw his skinny arse in the fucken boot,” Max spat as he finished the last of the rum while trying to control the slewing Mitsi. “Faark…gitten too hard to keep this bitch straight, aye!”

  “Maxie, lezz go that way,” pointed Baz from the back.

  “Sure thing Bazzie!”

  The older boy driving the Mitsubishi Colt slowed and took the narrow dirt track to his right. The uneven dusty track, lined with overgrown and dry scrub branches kept brushing the sides and windscreen of the 1980 model car. A few more scratches and dents was not going to make much difference. It wasn’t as if the owner of the clapped-out Mitsi was ever going to see it.

  “Ya didden fucken leave me nutten!” And Charlie hoiked the empty bottle into the bush.

  “Yur a fucken whinja, you could be thankful to me for a free grog,” Max pointed out.

  “Cut it out you idiots. We got more in this fucken bag,” Baz held up a brown paper bag. And all four boys broke out laughing, because life was one big fucking laugh, brudda!

  ***

  “Wassup ahead?” Charlie pointed to a car parked in the middle of a clearing. The driver side door was open.

  “Itsa cab.”

  “I kin fucken see that,” Charlie said to Max.

  “Lezz check it out,” Max turned the Mitsi towards the parked taxi.

  Both boys in the back sat up with equal curiosity; cars abandoned in the bush were not unusual, but a parked taxi warranted further investigation.

  “Betcha there’s coin in that cab.”

  Not much evaded the boys’ attention where an opportunity presented itself, whether it was a Mitsi with keys in it parked at the servo, or a parked taxi in the middle of nowhere with a few hundred bucks stashed under the seat, or in the cabbie’s pocket.

  Fucken easy pickings!

  Max inched the car closer until they were a few paces away from the open door. Better to be in the car in case some cunt runs out with a fucken gun, he mused. Little Billy hopped out, the first one to claim the prize. “Money’s mine if I find it first!”

  “Stupid liddle shit, he needs a smack!” Charlie was out next, straight to the taxi, grabbed Billy’s singlet and tore off it his cousin’s back. “Fucken liddle shit, you com’ere.” Charlie’s hand clipped the smaller boy’s head hard.

  “Look at them two, they always blueing.” Max shook his head while having a chuckle.

  “They’s cuzzens, thas why. Now lezz have a fucken squizzie at this cab.”

  ***

  They looked like Laurel and Hardy; Max and Baz stood next to each other inspecting the taxi. Charlie and Little Billy were still sorting family differences. He gonna be a handful that Billy, Baz mused as he was momentarily distracted by the arguing boys. Then he turned his attention back to the task at hand, look for the money.

  “Lezz check out the insides,” Baz said.

  Like a pair of hungry dingoes they scavenged the taxi; the bootie was a handful of change. The only consolation being, change with lots of gold coins. Still not enough to score more OP, or Maccas for four.

  “There’s nuthin’ here,” Max yelled out to the other boys.

  Charlie and Little Billy turned to face the others, forgot about their grievances and joined. As if rehearsed, they stood quietly surrounding the taxi contemplating the next move, like they were deciding the fate of a wounded animal.

  “I kin hear flies buzzin’,” Charlie suddenly said.

  “And?” Baz looked puzzled.

  Little Bi
lly giggled, “Betta give me cuzzen some more OP.”

  Charlie had already spun around, slowly walking towards the focus of his curiosity. His dark eyes scanned the ground before him. There. A dark patch on the dirt with a thousand blowflies droning; at the edge of it was a sharp rock, protruding like an axe head out of the ground.

  “Looks like a shitload of dried blood,” Charlie muttered.

  The others quickly joined Charlie. Standing in a semi-circle, the living patch of ground appeared grotesque; even without the presence of a body they knew something sinister had happened here. The boys eyed each other and separated from the gruesome sight.

  “Do you reckon them white bits was skull?” Little Billy asked.

  No one volunteered the answer.

  “Lezz have some of that shit you got in that bag, Baz.”

  “Yeah, come on brudda, fucken open the cunt!” Charlie yelled out.

  “Woohoo! You tell’m cuz.”

  Party time again. Baz reached into the Mitsi, grabbed the brown bag, tore off the paper and unscrewed the bottle cap. He brought the bottle to his lips, tipped it up and got the first slug of hot liquor. It burned its way down his throat, while sending a shot of coolness to his head. “Fucken good this shit, aye.”

  “Gissa smoke, Billy!” Charlie rasped, jealously eyeballing Baz’ bottle. “And stop this fucken woohoo shit, you sound like a fucken girl! Maybe I’ll send ya back to Palmy anyway.” Charlie broke out laughing while Billy’s face froze with sudden hatred. The others joined in the laughter. Little Billy didn’t.

  ***

  The bottle went around twice and already halfway to empty before the boys got a little restless. Max and Billy started to wander off towards the thicket; it was Billy who stumbled upon the keys from the taxi. But it was Baz who found a whole carton of Northern in the boot of the Mitsi. So, the questions about: what the taxi was doing there and who the blood on the dirt belonged to? – made way for new questions: who’s gonna to take the cab for a spin first? And how long before that carton would be finished?