A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2)

by John Hollenkamp

  “Vaguely,” Darren interrupted.

  “This is how the story is told: some local Aboriginal boys steal a car, drive to Stony Creek, get drunk, somehow wind up where the cab is parked, and for some reason set the fuckin’ thing alight. A fifteen-year-old kid goes up in flames, but his body turns up in the boot of the stolen car, after said car is dumped in the creek.” Joel took a moment, using the pause to gauge Darren’s reaction.

  “You think those boys might’ve killed the cab driver?” Darren asked.

  “That’s a good question. The consensus is: not likely, but not excluded either.”

  “Still doesn’t explain why you’re here with copper’s business. Last time I checked I was still driving cabs.”

  “I was wondering if you could tell me about Simon Rowe. What he was like, you know, at school. When he was suspended for dealing drugs. Amphetamine, to be more precise. Do you think he was still peddling drugs, until he got murdered?”

  “I’m not into dealing fuckin’ drugs. So don’t even go there.”

  “I’m not here to accuse you of dealing dope, my friend. But a bank manager doesn’t wind up as crab bait, with his throat cut and four fingers chopped, because he refused someone a bank loan.”

  Although Darren didn’t blink, he stopped breathing for a second or two.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Darren stiffened.

  “Mean? I don’t think Simon Rowe was a random victim of crime.”

  “I think you’d better get on with your day …Brother.” Darren took seven steps to the gate and opened it without another word.

  Joel considered the downturn in hospitality, took the hint and proceeded through the gate.

  Darren stayed at the gate until the battered Honda Civic was out of sight. Old friends, my arse.

  CHAPTER 21

  NOT MY CUPPA TEA

  It was his own fault. Joel hoped that his stupidity wouldn’t cost him. A week prior, Joel had managed to convince Dick Wilder to take him under his wing. Unofficially, to help Joel in his ambitions to become a competent investigator. The deal was: share information, no matter how insignificant, or explosive. Although Wilder would have a much greater degree of discretion in deciding what to share.

  But Joel fucked up.

  He shouldn’t have lied to Wilder about his visit to Darren Mangan; the taxi driver was under investigation, not a prime suspect, but possibly the last person to see the murder victim.

  He stood with his back straight, face square and lips tight; opposite him, an angry but composed Dick Wilder read him the riot act. The sentence ended with, “I’ll send you packing with your cock in your arse.”

  Joel got caught out. He lied about not knowing and visiting Darren. Joel’s eyes flickered at the last words, imagining that a cock up his arse would hurt. Some stories from the lock-up were nothing to look forward to.

  “Well?” The pudgy man stood forward, his knuckles resting on the paper-strewn desk. His pose wasn’t from rage in so much as trying to balance his rotund body-shape when leaning forward.

  “Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” Joel remained straight and arms tight to his side. In his schooldays, he would adopt this posture to help protect his arse from his teacher’s cane at the mission, until she moved behind him. It was all over Rover, then. She certainly knew how to swing that stick.

  Wilder pushed himself off the desk, checked his chair was still behind his knees and plonked with a sigh. The office was stuffy, despite a window wide open the box aircon was an old rotary knob unit and the compressor had seized.

  “I will let you in on my secret.”

  “Thank you. Sir.”

  “Simon Rowe and Darren Mangan had a dodgy arrangement with a mortgage. Mr. Mangan wasn’t a customer of the bank, but appeared on the books as having paid a deposit of one hundred and sixty thousand dollars. But it wasn’t quite there. All the paperwork had been generated and approved by Simon Rowe. A home-loan package was thrown together, and Mr. Mangan bought himself a home. The hundred and sixty thousand is a mystery. Darren Mangan wasn’t issued a deposit slip, so to speak.”

  “Sounds very suspect.” Joel’s curiosity grew.

  “Suspicious. Irregular. A mandate for further investigation.”

  Wilder wiped some sweat from his forehead with a crumbled handkerchief. “The big question is: where did the non-existent one-hundred and sixty thousand dollars come from? A magic trick on paper. The bank manager has turned magician.” He sniffed hard, and stuck the handkerchief back in his pocket.

  “Drugs. Gambling, maybe,” Joel put his two cents in.

  “Remember. The money isn’t there.”

  “Mystery.” Joel nodded.

  “Regardless, we need to find out. I think a bit of casual surveillance would not be out of order. You think you can do that?” He cleared his throat. “But keep out of his face. Don’t go visiting him.”

  “Sir. Can I ask you. Why aren’t you hauling him in for questioning?”

  “Because there are much bigger fish to fry. Evidence we have on him is only circumstantial. The Fraud boys will be involved soon. We have to determine the extent of Mr. Rowe’s fraudulent dealings. Sometimes it’s better to sit tight, watch the game. You’d better go now.”

  “Before I go. How did you find out about Darren’s dodgy mortgage?” Joel asked.

  Wilder grinned.

  “You won’t believe it. Luck. Coincidence. Whatever you want to call it. Same person who dobbed you in.”

  Joel looked at Wilder, questioning.

  “My niece. Cynthia. She recently got a new job with a Real Estate company, engaged to sell our friend’s house. Her last job was: personal assistant to none other than: Simon Rowe. How’s that for luck?”

  ***

  He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. The blue short-sleeved shirt didn’t hide the large sweat spots under his armpits. Having the young police officer as an unofficial understudy excited him, but not at the cost of good investigative work. Wilder didn’t want to shut the gate just yet; a gut feeling told him the young rookie held the promise of a being a good investigator.

  Wilder’s contemplation was disturbed by the phone ringing.

  “Wilder here,” he answered.

  “Afternoon Richard, Jenkins here.” The voice bordered whispering.

  “Thanks for getting back to me.”

  “I’m not very comfortable with any of this, Richard.”

  “A favour for a favour. Your slate will be cleared, Nathan. Tell me what you know. Please.” Wilder tapped his finger impatiently.

  “The paper trail is sketchy. No surprises there. Our bank manager’s dealings go beyond bodgie mortgages and business loans. But I’ll tell you now, the deeper I dig, the darker it gets. There is one woman, she is privy to information that’s beyond my range. When I pressed her, she became very nervous, and anxious.”

  An intentional moment of silence.

  “What are you inferring? Mob stuff?” Wilder’s curiosity was peaking.

  Another pause.

  “Quite possible,” Jenkins said it carefully.

  “So, what’s your next move?”

  “To be honest, Richard, I don’t mind helping you out, but only up to a point … I’m out of my league here.” The informant hesitated.

  “Why do you believe that the mob might be involved in this?”

  “I wasn’t able to trace where some of the money came from. Some of it comes from construction companies that don’t appear to be building anything, and going to other ghost companies … Richard, I’m just a bookkeeper. I’m ignorant when it comes to serious money tricks.”

  “Alright. I appreciate what you do for me. Now, what about this woman? Can I approach her to requisition records?” Wilder asked.

  “I prefer you didn’t. It would compromise my position.”

  “Jenkins, listen up. She could hold the key to some critical information, and might help us solve a murder. This is not just a fraud case.
This is a murder case.”

  “She fears for her life.” Jenkins’ voice was anxious.

  “And so she should, because one person complicit in whatever is going on has already been murdered. I need more information... Jenkins. Are you there?”

  “This is not my cuppa tea.” And Jenkins hung up.

  Bugger. Not the answer he was hoping for. Good luck had a way of balancing out.

  CHAPTER 22

  A SHORT ROPE

  Busta didn’t appear to have moved much, since Joel’s last visit. The old dog’s tail slapped the same lazy, hard rhythm, while his eyes glanced upwards his head lay perfectly still on the floor. Joel read the dog’s mind. Oh, it’s you. It’s too hot. Piss off.

  “Alright for you. You, lazy mutt. Some of us have to work.” Joel grumbled, continued to the kitchen door. Fiona followed behind casting a wary eye on the big dog as she tip-toed past him.

  Joel knocked on the door, the glass panes rattled like a dull tambourine. He glanced sideways, Fiona’s face was blank and her eyes unblinking. “Let me do the talking. It’s better that way.”

  She nodded lightly.

  He wasn’t looking forward to this meeting. From what he had heard around the traps, Auntie Jilli was sick with worry. Billy had not returned from his walkabout, nor had Max, the older boy. The boys had not been sighted in Tully either. It was like they had vanished from earth. There was also talk about Charlie’s untimely, shocking death, but the stories were conflicting. One thing did stand out; another boy had been involved with the events of that day. And, that’s how the stories started building about what happened out there near the creek. The boy’s name was Basil, or Baz as he was commonly known. A sixteen-year-old overweight boy, a ringleader and organiser of many petty crimes, like stealing grog and things from unlocked cars – highly regarded by the younger teens. Not a bad kid, by standards acceptable to some of the elders, except the elders didn’t know about the connection between the boys and a missing cab driver.

  Auntie Jilli’s normally stern face and hard demeanour had been ground to a fatigued and empty stare as she slowly opened the rattly door. She waited for the police officer in front of her to say something. Joel softened his presence with a kind and gentle smile. Auntie Jilli was unmoved by his approach.

  “Can we come in?” Joel stood far enough away from the opening to avoid pressuring her, and made sure they would not go into her house without her invitation.

  She nodded once and turned from the doorway. After ten minutes, it was clear that questioning Auntie Jilli was a futile exercise, too grief-stricken or just uncooperative, her quiet resistance to answer questions resulted in a stale mate of silence. Joel decided it pointless to persevere.

  Throughout Joel’s journey to become a police officer, the leaders of the local indigenous community were supportive, and even proud of his achievement. The line between law-enforcement, and where social work actually fitted in the scheme of things was always shrouded in the mists of misconception. It didn’t take long for community sentiment to change with regard to Joel’s position. Helping the Indigenous community surely didn’t include imposing greater vigilance by law-enforcement. What was routine questioning for a serious crime involving the violent death of a young Aboriginal person, was perceived by the community as becoming a witch hunt.

  The questions became narrower, and focussed on the juvenile foursome, one of them only twelve-years-old. Anyone witnessed the boys together on such-and-such day? And are you sure you haven’t seen Billy and Max recently? What about the older boy, Baz? Can you tell us the last time you seen him? Today’s visit to Auntie Jilli’s showed that she had been drawn to that same wall of silence. Joel Shallowater was now on the other side of the fence. A blackfella gone whitefella, and a cop at that.

  “It’s amazing that suddenly you are an outcast,” Fiona said.

  “The colour of your skin eventually disappears wearing this uniform. You become the uniform, skin colour becomes irrelevant and you lose your identity. And maybe, even your heritage.”

  “You can’t lose your heritage, because that’s why you’re here. You’re the token Indigenous police officer handpicked to improve relations, understanding between your community and us.” Fiona’s tone was cynical.

  “I’m not the only cop from an Indigenous background, you know,” Joel muttered.

  He eased the Commodore into D mode.

  “We need to locate this kid, named Baz,” Fiona said.

  “Let’s hope he hasn’t gone walkabout. No one has seen him in days.” Joel drove the car at a steady forty kays an hour, fast enough to be moving and slow enough to scan the backstreets and the houses in his neighbourhood, a place where he’d lived for a number of years as one of theirs. His own mob.

  Earlier in the day, Joel had paid his bond and first two week’s rent on a new two-bedroom unit in Oliver, a relatively new suburb. A blackfella gone to live in white fella land.

  ***

  The next morning, the desk sergeant pulled both Joel and Fiona aside, “You would have heard today anyway. I thought I’d tell you now. Young bloke was found dead very early this morning, Black River way. Hung himself. Indigenous boy. He hasn’t been formally identified. They’re waiting on Indigenous staff from Health and Community Services to help sort the process, and see to it that all protocols for sensitivities are followed. You’ll be involved in this process as well, Shallowater, being an Indigenous man. Please be available, when called upon.” The wiry desk sergeant dismissed the two officers, and resumed working on his duty-list, without so much as a smile.

  “Just as well he’s not informing the family,” Fiona voiced rather loud, walking down the hallway.

  It meant, a tedious day was coming up. They sauntered to the lower level stairs without words, they were thinking the same thing.

  “It’ll be our kid, Basil, for sure,” Joel predicted.

  “Hate to say it, but I reckon you’re on the button. Sadly.”

  “Sometimes these things become so predictable. Fuck, I wish I could have caught up with him. Maybe, I could have helped him find his way out.” Joel was angry.

  “Not your fault, mate,” she rebutted him.

  “It’s going around in my head: poor buggah couldn’t keep the secret any longer, he gets a skinful, blabs to anyone who’ll bloody listen, then word spreads. The others look at him as a betrayer, because he didn’t take care of his cousin, deceived his kin, and he feels ostracised. Next thing, the demons run around in his head – he doesn’t want to be locked up – all you need is a short rope.” Joel stared into oblivion, his fingers were holding up the doorhandle of the Commodore.

  CHAPTER 23

  A DEMON CAME TO VISIT

  The XC Falcon was the car of his choice to drive to work in. An ex-cab, Darren picked up for a thousand bucks in Sydney. His old taxi boss in Manly had the four-door sedan parked in the depot yard for years. It had been covered with a canvas tarpaulin, and was stuck away in the far corner surrounded by other Fords, mostly pulled apart for spares. The XC didn’t meet certain emission requirements and was retired early, with less than five hundred thousand kays on the clock. Barely, run in. One afternoon, Pete’s mechanic was about to strip a few parts off the sedan, but Darren stopped him.

  It could have been the start of an ugly incident if it hadn’t been for Pete’s intervention. The mechanic wanted the front seats for his four-wheel drive. Darren wanted the whole car. After some slick negotiating, Darren convinced Pete to part with the car for $1,000. That sum was more than he would get from the cost of stripping parts, the hassle of flogging bits and pieces, and then the cost of sending it to the recycling depot, although everyone knew the latter argument was bullshit. Getting rid of steel was free.

  ***

  Only 2am. The streets were deserted. It had been a slow shift that seemed to drag forever. The boredom of sitting inside a taxi sheltering from the rain had also made him tired. And slack. So, Darren knocked off early, dropped the cab at the garage, an
d drove the XC home.

  The beam from the headlights of the XC weren’t the best, especially on a rainy night. After arriving at the gate of his driveway he lazily opened the car door, groped for the key in his trouser pocket, and went to unlock the gate. He pushed the gates open, expecting Patch to greet him. But Patch didn’t come. Lazy bastard. Probably hiding from the rain.

  The light beam caught the reflecting tail-lights of the Nissan Patrol. Darren still couldn’t see Patch, thinking he might have been hiding under the truck to stay dry. Although the rain hadn’t been heavy, it was now gaining intensity. He returned to the Falcon, getting out of the wet, driving the car under the house. Still no Patch. He hurried to the open gates to shut them. By now, it was pouring.

  Soaked to the bone, Darren dashed up the stairs leaping two steps at a time. To his dismay, Patch wasn’t under the awning over the front door either. The rain was too intense, and the night too dark to see any sign of Patch down in the yard. He fiddled with the key trying to find the door lock tumbler, water was dripping down his eyelids obscuring vision. Finally, he burst through the door. He anticipated a wet dog rushing up the stairs and bowling him over in excitement. All that happened in that moment was a sudden stop to the relentless downpour. There was an eerie calm when that happened – only momentarily, until drops falling from palms, a leaking gutter…disturbed the silence.

  It was in that moment of stillness he heard a faint noise.

  It was a barking dog.

  Muffled barking.

  No. Not quite.

  A whining with a strangled bark.

  A cry for help.

  Darren bolted down the stairs and tried to zoom in on the cries as he frantically searched for the torch. Another short burst of garbled whining. Darren took a leap to the passenger door of the Patrol. His nose pressed against the glass, his hand grabbed the door handle and he reefed the door open. There was blood everywhere, on the dash, on the seat, and in the middle of it all lay Patch. Whimpering, his wet tail trying to make a movement, barely able to lift his head. The courtesy light in the cab cast an eerie shadow as Darren eased his arm around Patch’s back.