A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2)

by John Hollenkamp

  What is this arsehole going to do? She decided to let it ride for another minute.

  Next, the Falcon’s left indicator light started flashing, signalling a change of direction or ‘okay, I’ll pull over now’. The Falcon slowed but didn’t stop. Fiona remained on his tail but avoided crowding. Ahead, she noticed an open space, a vacant parcel of land overgrown with tall grass. Not long after, the Falcon eased off the bitumen and coasted onto the gravel surface, coming to a stop next to the overgrown paddock.

  She parked the silver Commodore sedan behind the Falcon. Its driver had remained seated. Fiona got out of the unmarked squad car and calmly strode towards the driver’s side of the orange sedan. She had no notebook in her hand, adjusting her police-issue cap as she neared the driver’s door.

  “Hello, officer.”

  “Morning,” Fiona replied with a squint. “May I see your licence?”

  Slice had pre-empted the request, producing his driver’s licence promptly, catching the uniformed copper off-guard.

  “Done this before, I guess?” Fiona took the licence.

  “Sorry. What do you mean?”

  “Never mind. Mister Devonport.” Perusing the details on the card, she then compared the photograph to the driver’s face. “You’ve dyed your hair since this photograph?” Fiona’s eyes were questioning.

  “It was taken a few years ago. You would tell by the date of issue,” the driver with the bleached blonde hair replied.

  “Please take your sunglasses off,” Fiona requested. “I prefer eye-contact when I speak to someone. It also helps with verifying your identity to the driver’s licence.”

  Slice removed the Ray Ban’s. He was becoming a little anxious. This bitch is the same copper from the unit.

  Fiona appraised the face. She had come across thousands of faces over the years, most of them just a blur from the past. Occasionally, she would encounter some familiarity when questioning an offender – from a mugshot or a previous offence. What is it about this creep?

  “I don’t believe I have committed any traffic offences, unless of course you believe otherwise,” Slice spoke politely but with affirmation.

  “Fair way from South Australia. Michael Devonport.”

  “Yes, I’m here on business,” Slice replied impatiently.

  “No need to be abrupt, Mister Devonport,” Fiona shot back. She handed the licence back, eyed him for a moment, turning to walk away.

  Fiona stopped. The eyes. The shape of them. It’s him! Then she returned to the Falcon, pausing at the driver’s door. The name, Devonport, no … it was Jones.

  “You’re the guy from the flat. Stolen Commodore, burnt out.” Lowering her hand over the holster-clip. “You’re wanted for questioning over the death of …”

  The heavy car door slammed into her, smashing her hand off the weapon. Slice pushing harder still, the weight of the door sending her off-balance causing her to trip backwards. Off balance, but still standing she saw the glint from a shiny object. It was all but a flash. She felt the thud, and the strange feeling of something entering her chest. The sting was quick and the force of it helped her fall backwards. Despite falling to the ground hard, her boots found traction. With her back against the dirt, she kicked, pushing herself away from her attacker. His wild eyes were alight, face enraged holding the razor-sharp knife up, blood dripping from the tip onto the hilt.

  Fiona was in automatic now. Her hand moving to her hip, thumb connecting with the tab, unsnapping the button, her fingers groping for the butt and she had pulled the Glock free. Her teeth were gritted, lips curling with rage, she squeezed the trigger. The blast had hurled the bullet into blue sky. She looked at the gun in her shaking hand. The last thing she remembered was the stinging from a thousand grains of sand and pebbles in her face, in tune to the roar of a revving V8 engine.

  ***

  Joel hated the smell of a hospital ward. The duty nurse on the floor led the way to the private room on the ward. She opened the door silently, putting her finger to her lips signalling silence. The patient stirred at the disturbance from the opening door, the blond-haired woman drowned by white linen and pillows, moved her head slowly, tired eyelids opening and closing. Part of her face was covered with bandages.

  Joel eased his way past the nurse, not waiting for an approval to enter the room. But he approached solemnly, not wanting to add distress to his colleague.

  “Hey Gibbs. Glad you are still with us,” he said softly.

  Fiona blinked her eyelids once, then she closed them.

  Joel stood silent. He felt the tug on his shirt sleeve, and turned. The dark-haired nurse beckoned him to follow. He relented, leaving quietly.

  Out in the hallway, “She gonna be alright?”

  “I’m sorry but I’m only the nurse, Doctor Singh is the person to speak to. Many of your policemen have already been. Your friend needs rest.” Her English was good, but the accent Joel found difficult to place.

  “Is this doctor around? I’d like to talk to him. Fiona, she’s not just a colleague. She’s a good friend,” Joel spoke with haste.

  “No, he is not due for his rounds until tomorrow.”

  “Surely someone can tell me if she’s going to be okay,” Joel said anxiously.

  “Ask God,” she replied.

  “What kind of answer is that?”

  “In my home-country we ask the same question. We never know if someone is going to be okay. Only God tells us.”

  Joel looked puzzled.

  “I am from Iraq.” And the nurse walked away.

  ***

  The mood at the station was sombre. Walking past the duty-desk Joel’s gaze connected with several others: admin clerks and desk-bound uniformed officers all with reserved expressions of silence. Joel’s footsteps sounded heavy as he made his way through the hallway to Wilder’s office.

  Joel stood at the door, Wilder was resting his elbows on the desk, steepled fingers at his mouth. The whirring fan, the only noise in the room.

  “So, what happened, boss?”

  “God knows,” Wilder replied and rose from his chair.

  “God seems to be a bloody popular bloke today,” Joel said with sarcasm. ”What do us of lesser beings know?”

  Wilder stretched his back and sat back down, “A passing motorist stopped when he noticed a person lying on the side of the road. Mind you, that may have been half an hour after she went down. Hard to say. Gibbs was out to it, and bleeding badly from a stabwound to her chest. The knife missed her heart by inches. She’s lucky to be alive. Other than that, we know little. There are tyre tracks, skid marks from another vehicle, her Glock was in her hand still. Looks like she got a round off. Again no one heard or saw anything. Forensics have got the area secured and are crawling over every pebble. Gibbs was on spy-duty in an unmarked car, probably nabbed a bad guy over running a red light. She didn’t call it in. We’re in the dark here. She’s too ill to question.” Wilder gazed at the ceiling, hands behind his head.

  “She gonna die?” Joel asked.

  “Hopefully not. God only knows.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” And the tall copper left.

  CHAPTER 61

  A SPIDER’S WEB

  Slice was fuming, random bad luck had turned into a curse of perpetual disasters, like he was caught up in a large spider’s web. How was it possible that he got pulled over for nothing? He never saw the silver Commodore. Was he fucking blind? And, then to be recognised by the copper – the same bitch from the unit! Hope the cunt bleeds to death.

  He had driven for an hour: to calm himself, to re-gain some perspective. Sticking a knife into a copper was sure to attract a large manhunt. His time in Townsville was now drawing to a close, before leaving he had to finish his clean up. The cab driver was first – the real estate agent would have a forwarding address.

  ***

  Elsewhere in Townsville, the next day…

  The pick-up address was in Annandale, and Darren had been in the area when
the call came through. He rounded the street bend in the leafy suburb and a man was waiting at the curb; he was wearing a light-coloured turban and nodded with a polite smile as Darren stopped the taxi in front of him. The man swiftly opened the door and slid into the back seat.

  “Where to?” Darren reset the meter.

  “Hospital. At the university near Oliver,” the Sikh passenger replied politely.

  “No probs.”

  Darren drove the taxi through the quiet street, turning right at the end. Soon he merged into the steady flow of traffic, meanwhile his passenger in the back seat had remained silent. Darren eyed the foreigner a couple times from the mirror. In his thirties, predictable attire: white button-up long-sleeved shirt and dark trousers, accompanied by a large black bag. Guess that’s what a foreign doctor looks like. Darren turned up the radio when he heard the news coming on.

  “You don’t mind do you, mate?”

  “Sorry?” the passenger replied.

  “Just want to listen to the local news. I’m turning up the radio.”

  “It is your taxi. So please.” His passenger seemed pre-occupied with other matters.

  “…an update on the reported assault of a local police officer, who incurred serious stab-wounds yesterday, has indicated the officer’s condition as critical but stable. Authorities have yet to identify the attacker and are asking for any witnesses to the assault to come forward… In other news…”

  Darren turned the radio down and mumbled, “Poor bastard. That’s what you get for going out and doing a thankless job.”

  “She is lucky to be alive.” A comment from the back seat.

  “She? Crikey, hope it’s not the copper I know.” Darren’s words didn’t come across as ones with concern, but more with curious surprise.

  “I am sorry. I should not have commented.”

  “She a blonde, short and pretty?” Darren didn’t think too much about this question either.

  “I am sorry,” the passenger replied, clearing his throat.

  Okay. That apology wasn’t a denial. Was it?

  The remaining ten minutes to the hospital continued in silence. Darren kept thinking what a fluke it would be, if it’d been Gibbs making the headlines. Surely the world wasn’t that small.

  “You a doctor, mate?” Darren’s eyes jumped back and forth from the road to the mirror.

  His passenger nodded.

  Darren took the first exit at the round-about. Thirty seconds later, his passenger slipped him a twenty-dollar note, and just before leaving the cab, he turned, “You have too many privacy rules in this country.”

  Fuck. It must be Gibbs.

  ***

  Slice had made a decision: he would hang on to the XR8 until he completed his business in the city. Nothing on the local news to indicate any progress in the mysterious stabbing of a local police officer. It meant that the bright orange Falcon was so far in the clear. It would simply take too much time to ditch the car where it wouldn’t be found for days, having to find a remote location, then finding a way to get back, to complete his jobs.

  His morning had started on a positive note. He had located the office of Sunshine Real Estate. A small agency, with any luck only a receptionist would turn up at 9am. She was late. Three minutes. Slice confirmed the time on his watch, as he observed a young woman in a red dress stop at the agency’s door, her hand disappeared into a large handbag.

  The healthy girl in her mid-twenties fiddled with a bunch of keys, after picking the right one she unlocked, leaving the ‘Closed’ sign untouched. Slice waited patiently. The girl would return soon enough to open up.

  ***

  Cynthia Strain was on her own this morning. The new receptionist had rung in sick, and her morning was fully booked – Are you kidding! Four days into the new job.

  The clock behind the reception desk pointed to 9.10am. Shit! Then the phone rang. Cynthia reached over the counter and answered, “Sunshine Real Estate, good morning. Can I put you on hold? Thank you.”

  In front of the agency door, the first visitor of the day had waited patiently. Cynthia unlocked the door, “Good morning. Sorry to keep you waiting. My new receptionist called in sick, at the last moment. Please come in.”

  The dark-haired man nodded with a shy smile and followed her in. Cynthia rushed back behind the counter to pick up the phone, “Hi, sorry about that. Can I take your number? Someone will ring you back shortly.”

  After jotting down the number on the notepad she looked up and said, “Sorry. Now what can I help you with this morning?” She extended her hand, “Cynthia Strain.”

  His handshake felt tense – his fingers were strong. It didn’t seem to gel with the nerdy person before her.

  “Yes. David Rogers.” His response was polished.

  Clean-shaven, brown hair parted to the side in a neat and straight line, nineteen eighties spectacles and clothing from Lifeline fashions, Cynthia glanced through the shop window; a bright orange sedan was the only car parked across the road.

  The strange looking man spoke, “Your agency sold my friend’s house recently. He was very happy with your service. Perhaps, you could help me as well. I own a unit in West End. I am thinking about selling.”

  He looked more like a renter, Cynthia thought. Noticing the watch on his wrist she changed her mind: it was a Cartier – expensive. Her eyes stayed fixed on the watch too long.

  “You like my watch?”

  “It looks very nice,” she replied, but caught out.

  The odd man retrieved something from his trouser pocket. To her horror, he unfolded a shiny blade from a large pocket-knife. He locked his eyes on her. Suddenly, she felt a cold shiver running up her neck.

  “What are you doing with that?” Alarmed, and quickly she stood back from the counter. Her heart was pounding.

  The nerdy looking man cocked his head slightly, “Oh. Didn’t mean to scare you. Sorry, I was only showing you this pocket-knife to compare it with my watch. Both crafted beautifully by Cartier.”

  Cynthia felt the tremble in her neck, her throat finding hesitation between breathing and swallowing, the made smile belied the intensity of his evil eyes behind the thin chrome-rimmed spectacles. She had to get rid of him, without aggravating him. This is too creepy.

  “Look, what is it that I can help you with? I am very busy today. If you wish to discuss the sale of your unit, it might be better make an appointment for next week.” Even she recognised her words were rushed, bordering frantic. Slow down.

  “Yes. Maybe next week is good. But before I go, I would like a favour,” he said, moving toward her, while folding the blade back, slowly.

  “A favour?” Oh God, what’s he going to do now?

  “I need a forwarding address for my friend whose house you sold.”

  Cynthia appraised him. Although relieved at a relatively simple request, it wasn’t ethical and probably not even legal to provide that information. Her heart was thumping.

  “I can do that for you.” She swallowed.

  She reached for the out-going mail tray. The ‘thank-you’ letter with a final statement addressed to Darren Mangan was sitting on top. Her mouth quivered. “I have it … here.”

  ***

  Darren returned to the hospital car-park one hour after dropping the Sikh passenger off at the Emergency entrance. He parked the cab in the loading zone. He didn’t know what to expect once inside. Would she be under police guard? Or would he even be allowed near her? Only relatives, no doubt.

  The reception desk staff were busy. A bad time to ask questions, but short, silly ones, especially the interrupting kind, it often disarmed the responder. Either way, he’d be friendly, in strife, need a toilet right away. Sorry. Really sorry.

  “It’s fine.” Pointing to the right of the elevators.

  “Thanks for that.” Darren went to walk off, but turned instead, “Where would I find the location of my sister? She was brought in yesterday. She’s a copper.”

  The receptionist now frowni
ng, “Second level. Intensive care.”

  Three minutes later, standing at the nurses’ station, “Hi. Duty-nurse downstairs sent me here. My sister’s been admitted. She’s a police officer.”

  “Follow me,” said the young nurse with the EN badge.

  She opened the door and let Darren in.

  Fiona’s eyes were open, curious about the visitor. A faint smile appeared signalling the nurse that all was okay. “Well … aren’t you a surprise.” She managed some words. The EN turned, leaving them alone.

  Darren approached the bed, “Hey Gibbs, what happened to you? Heard about it on the radio this morning.”

  “Fancy seeing you here,” she muttered meekly.

  “A bit of a story, but I think I met your doctor this morning,” Darren spoke softly.

  “Looks like you’re ahead on everything. I haven’t even met him.” She coughed lightly, her eyes drowsed.

  “Wanna tell me what happened?” Darren asked.

  Her voice was dry and gravelly, “Pulled over an orange Ford…a Falcon, a gee-tee type.”

  Darren came closer. “What happened then?”

  “Bastard stuck me…I…I recognised him…remember the Abo kid?” Her voice drained.

  “Which Abo kid?”

  “Joel knows…talk to Joel…I’m tired…” She shut her eyes, she faded.

  Her hand went limp. For a moment, Darren panicked, he stood wondering what to do. He put his hand closer to her face, she was breathing. She moved her head into the pillow.

  Darren turned to leave, and mumbled, “Don’t fucking die on me.”

  “Kay.” A whispered answer from the bed.

  He shut the door behind him, taking care not to make any noise.

  Outside, the sky was hazy. It was muggy and despite the high cloud the heat was overwhelming. Darren scrolled the contacts list for Joel’s number, after finding it he pressed the number.

  “…Busy, busy, busy…leave your message…”

  “What the fuck?” Darren gawked at his mobile. He pressed ‘end’, then ‘redial’.

  Same again.

  “Busy,…” Pressed the kill switch.

  Third try.

  And, “You got ants in ya pants, bruddah…” Joel answered.