Northern Heat

by Helene Young

  ‘A new year, a new beginning, perhaps?’ His gaze roamed over her and she nodded and turned away before she made a fool of herself.

  How did a line like that sound so much like a promise of things to come?

  5

  Sergeant Miller cleared his throat and sat back while Joyce’s pen scratched over the page. Conor kept his face neutral as he glanced at his watch. For over an hour the two policemen had grilled him about his morning and Danny’s shooting. The questioning had just taken a hard-right turn.

  ‘So why did you take a job with Mr McBride?’ Miller asked.

  Conor cocked his head to one side and looked at his lawyer, Ridley, who nodded. ‘May I ask what this has to do with this morning’s events?’ Conor inquired.

  ‘Just joining the dots, looking for connections.’ Miller’s expression was polite.

  ‘Seems tenuous to me.’

  ‘You never know when a small piece of information will be pivotal in unlocking a case.’

  Conor ignored the prickle of unease across his neck. ‘I met Bill leaning on the bar of the Cooktown Hotel when I first came to town. He liked a chat so we used to share a beer or two on the days he wasn’t fishing. Seemed like a nice old bloke who was missing his wife.’ Conor shrugged. ‘Costs nothing to listen to his stories.’

  ‘So whose idea was it to give you the job?’

  ‘Bill was struggling after his last deckie took off on a dirty weekend with one of the backpackers who used to work at the pub, and didn’t bother showing up for work again. Bill can’t do it single-handed.’

  ‘So he offered you the job?’

  ‘No. I offered to give it a go and see how it worked out. My work is done online and I can pretty much do it any time.’

  ‘And what is that work?’

  ‘Like I listed on my resume for the coaching position, I’m an online share trader.’

  ‘And that supports you?’ Joyce interjected.

  ‘Very well. You want to see my tax return?’

  Ridley spoke up. ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  Miller took control again. ‘So what experience do you have with prawn trawling?’

  ‘I know how to sail and Bill’s stories are pretty instructive.’

  ‘So he took you on with no prior experience.’

  Conor laughed. ‘He was pretty damn desperate. I was available. It’s worked out for both of us.’

  ‘In what way?’ Miller asked.

  Conor paused. ‘Working on a trawler is physically hard. I’ve never been so fit in my life.’

  ‘And fitness is important as a share trader?’ Joyce intervened again.

  Miller ignored his constable’s interruption. ‘How long have you been working for Bill?’

  ‘This is week four.’

  ‘You’ve only been fishing in the river?’

  ‘Yep. We haven’t been out past the heads yet.’

  ‘What’s the catch been like?’

  ‘You’d need to ask Bill that. I have nothing to compare it with.’

  ‘You know Freya McDonald?’

  ‘I train Sienna McDonald and occasionally Buddy, if I’m filling in for the kids coach.’

  ‘Did you see Freya today?’

  Conor frowned and looked to his lawyer. Ridley’s face was impassive, but he nodded again.

  ‘She was in the PCYC, collecting the kids. I had a quick chat with her and Dr Dark before I came here, as instructed, to talk to you.’

  ‘Do you know what sort of a car she drives?’

  ‘Freya? No. I see her inside the PCYC, rarely outside. I have no idea.’

  ‘And Debbie Parnell. You’ve never met her before?’

  ‘As I said before, not that I remember, no. I’d seen Danny at meetings in the club, but this morning I didn’t recognise him initially.’

  ‘Have you ever seen Debbie Parnell with Freya McDonald?’

  ‘No. I don’t recall ever seeing Debbie before and I only see Freya at the club.’

  ‘Kristy Dark. You’ve been dating her.’

  Conor laughed. ‘Nope. I have seen her out at a couple of fundraising barbecues, but you’ve been at both of those events too, Sarge. No dating going on there.’

  ‘You looked close this morning,’ Miller said. Joyce leant forward on the table.

  Conor eyeballed Miller. ‘I was concerned for her. Just because she’s a doctor doesn’t mean she’s seen someone shot dead before.’

  ‘And you have?’

  Conor held the sergeant’s measured stare. ‘I have.’

  ‘And where was that?’

  ‘A lifetime ago and completely irrelevant to this morning’s events.’ His voice hardened with anger.

  ‘I agree,’ intervened the lawyer. ‘This line of questioning implies my client is involved in today’s shooting rather than being an innocent bystander.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s irrelevant. That will do us for now.’ Miller motioned to Joyce to turn off the recording, which he did after marking the end of the interview.

  ‘You still want me to play Santa Claus on Sunday?’ Conor asked, annoyed that the questioning had felt so pointed.

  ‘Sure. No hard feelings, Conor. I have a job to do. Harder in a small town where everyone knows everyone. You being an outsider means there’s a lot I don’t know about you. Just need to fill in the blanks. We may have more questions, but I’m going on leave this weekend. Joyce will be managing the investigation in conjunction with the team from Cairns.’

  ‘Right. Tell them to call my lawyer first.’ He nodded and rose to his feet. The lawyer followed him out of the police station and onto the street.

  ‘Miller’s straight as a die. He’s just doing his job,’ Ridley said.

  ‘I know that, but it feels like because I’m an outsider I’m a good fit for it. And I did nothing more than try to help. Why the hell would I hang around if I’d done something wrong?’

  ‘There’ve been a few too many unsolved crimes up here in the last couple of years. Or crimes where the prosecution screwed up and the perpetrators got away with it. The McDonalds are implicated in a whole lot of things, but nothing ever sticks. My guess is that’s why they’re interested in Freya.’

  ‘They should be hunting the bastards who ran their flash speedboat into our nets a couple of weeks ago. Took Bill two days to repair them. Up Barretts Creek way.’

  ‘That’d be the McDonalds.’ Ridley shoved the tail of his shirt back into his pants, sweat leaving two patches in his armpits. ‘It’s the district’s worst-kept secret. They’ve been using their iron fist to rule their corner of the Cape for three generations. Running tourists and prospectors off their property, dealing sly grog to the dry communities and selling paint to the kids in the district who sniff themselves stupid on the fumes. You don’t drive flash cars, flashier boats and live in a mansion out this way if you’re herding cattle. Just doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Why haven’t the cops caught them?’

  ‘Miller’s taken a hard line now he’s in charge. If anyone’s got the balls to take them on, it’s Miller.’

  ‘Great.’ Conor straightened up, feeling the tension in his spine. ‘Let’s hope he works it out and crosses me off his list.’ He stuck out his hand. The strength of the lawyer’s grip was reassuring. He might look like he didn’t give a rat’s, but he came with a reputation of being an honest dog with a bone. ‘Thanks for coming along at such short notice.’

  ‘No worries. My guess is they’ll ask you back for some more questioning. Just make sure I’m there. I’m staying home for Christmas so I’ll be here all next week. Don’t think much’ll happen in the week after that, leading up to new year.’

  ‘Thanks. Appreciate it.’

  Conor made his way back to the boat, mulling over the day. How the hell had he found himself in the middle of a murder investigation?

  He clock-watched most of the night, various scenarios playing out in his mind. By five a.m. the heat and the whine of mosquitoes against the screens made sleep imp
ossible. Another grey dawn. It didn’t feel like Christmas was just around the corner. The Santa suit hanging in the forward cabin looked out of place. Christmas belonged to children. He threw off the light sheet and stretched out on the bed. His toes found the end. With his hands clasped behind his head he remembered his last Christmas in Sydney. He and Annabel had taken Lily to a carol service. They weren’t particularly religious, but it was a family tradition for Annabel so it had become their tradition too.

  Lily was old enough to understand the ideas of birth and death. As they’d left the quaint stone church, the organ music still filling the air, she’d turned to her mother and asked, ‘If heaven’s such a good place, why do you work so hard to stop people dying?’

  He’d been dumbfounded, but Annabel hadn’t missed a beat.

  ‘We’re all on this earth for a reason, Lily, and my reason is to make sure people can do the things they need to do before they go to heaven. Sometimes life gets complicated. It’s my job to uncomplicate it for them so they can finish whatever it is they’re here to do.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He’d watched his daughter process it, smiling as he met Annabel’s eyes above Lily’s fair hair. Annabel was six years older than him and sometimes he felt like an adolescent around her.

  On the drive home Lily had spoken up from the back seat. ‘So what’s Daddy’s reason for doing his job?’

  Conor had flashed a smile at Annabel and opened his mouth to talk about helping to run big businesses so people could have jobs, but Annabel beat him to it.

  ‘Daddy’s job is to keep us safe. And make us laugh. I reckon he does both of those jobs pretty well, don’t you?’

  Lily had giggled. ‘I guess so. He’s kind of funny.’

  ‘Kind of funny ha ha or funny strange?’

  He’d caught her eye in the rear-vision mirror and waggled his eyebrows.

  She’d giggled again. ‘Definitely strange.’

  When his mouth had drooped, she amended it. ‘And funny ha ha too.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. I’d hate to think I was a failure.’

  ‘But your jokes are lame,’ she’d added with a small kick to the back of his seat.

  Annabel’s hand had rested on his knee as he drove and she’d given it a tiny squeeze. They were trying for another baby. Doing the whole IVF routine. At forty-one, Annabel wasn’t having an easy time. He’d only agreed to it because it seemed to matter so much to her. He was an only child and Lily was enough, but Annabel wanted a son, for him. A boy who could grow up like his father, she used to say.

  She’d smiled across at him and said, ‘And he definitely keeps us safe.’

  Those words would echo in his mind forever. Three months later his wife and daughter were dead because he’d failed them.

  He touched the plain band engraved with All my love always, C, which hung around his neck. He used to imagine he could still feel the warmth from his wife’s skin on the metal. His thumb strayed to the spot at the base of his ring finger where a callus used to be. Three years it had taken for his skin to heal, but it wasn’t long enough for his mind to forget.

  He slipped the ring on the end of his little finger. It felt cool. He’d been an immature 24-year-old when Annabel married him and he’d vowed it would last a lifetime. And it had. He just hadn’t counted on Annabel’s lifetime being so short. At thirty-eight he still had a lot of living to do. But what the hell was his purpose now? Teaching kids to play sport? Running a trust fund that supplied several children’s charities with substantial sums of money every year? Financing the education of the young family of a friend who’d died?

  Did the numbers on the positive side of the ledger outweigh those on the negative? Could anything outweigh the poor judgement he’d shown deluding himself that some fancy accounting was clever, rather than criminal? Did it count as a plus or a minus to finally report those transactions if you failed to secure your family first?

  He slid his legs over the side of the bed, needing to burn energy. The accountant side of his brain said he was still in the red. His footy-player brain said he was probably neutral. He had no one to keep safe and he wasn’t very funny any more, although he had coaxed a smile from Kristy Dark. The sparkle in her eyes somehow made it personal, as though she smiled only for him. He’d toyed with asking her out for a drink, but she was the parent of a child he coached. Or was that the excuse he used when his courage failed him? He was torn between wanting to explore the flare of attraction between them and the fear he could bring danger to Kristy and Abby’s door.

  He downed a glass of water, feeling the weight settle in his stomach. He didn’t want it to be about wild sex. There’d been plenty of that on offer, but he knew that it was only a stopgap. It didn’t fill the neediness in his heart. His guitar rested on its side and he ran his fingers over the sweet curve. Usually it brought some comfort, but not today. Rummaging in his drawer, he pulled out running shorts and T-shirt. No point in feeling sorry for himself. The stock markets were closed on Saturday and he’d cashed out all his short-term trades, ready for the new year.

  The bank of clouds on the horizon looked like a towering mountain range, backlit by the strong summer light. The water of the estuary was silvery, with only the ruffles from the changing tide disturbing the surface. The streetlights along the front cast yellow pools. Nothing stirred. He looked up at his masthead, and overhead a stream of flying foxes headed to their roost for the day, black against the paler blue of approaching dawn. He thought he could make out the beat of their wings, something he’d never been conscious of before he’d anchored here in the Endeavour. He’d settled into the rhythm of life in the tropics. And that included his new career as a deckhand on a prawn trawler.

  Next Thursday he was having Christmas with a gnarly old man who was renowned for his temper and his fishing skills. He been promised ‘a feed my missus would be proud of’. All Conor had to do was supply the beer.

  But now he needed to run off some of his memories.

  An hour later, Conor jogged up the new cement ramp on the top of Grassy Hill and leant on the railing, his knee touching the perspex panel. The lighthouse with its jaunty red dome always looked smaller than he expected. Lighthouses should be monstrous structures that cast their lights to the far horizon. This one looked like James Cook might well have built it in the forty-eight days he careened his boat here for repairs after running the Endeavour aground to the south. At some stage Conor wanted to go and visit the Endeavour Reef and see for himself where the master navigator had come to grief. Since his own brush with death in a storm off Banksia Cove, he’d developed a bucket list of seafaring disaster sites to visit.

  The lightest of sea breezes rippled the straggly heads on the grass. Out to sea an oil tanker made its way down through the reef. It seemed a travesty that something so dangerous to the marine ecosystem could take the shorter passage inside the reef. Sometimes the elements were going to win, regardless of planning or savvy or knowledge.

  A car coming up the hill interrupted the silence. The blue and red lights on the roof came into view before the car itself. Conor rolled his eyes when Joyce stepped out of the car, adjusting his weapon belt. Conor waved, not expecting a response, but the constable headed his way. He contemplated leaving as he watched the swagger in the man’s step. He was so different to Sergeant Miller. Just the sound of his voice set Conor’s teeth on edge.

  ‘Good morning, Constable,’ Conor said.

  ‘Is it?’ Joyce retorted.

  Conor resisted the temptation to be sarcastic. ‘You’re up early.’

  Joyce walked up the last few paces and stopped at arm’s length. ‘Not taking your usual route this morning?’

  ‘Thought I’d broaden my horizons. No crime in that.’

  Joyce leant on the railing beside him. ‘Nice horizon.’

  Conor looked around him. ‘Pretty special, actually.’

  The cry of a lone plover hung in the air as the two men regarded each other. Conor had no intent
ion of initiating any more conversation. He’d seen the way Joyce looked at Kristy Dark.

  ‘You planning on leaving Cooktown any time soon?’

  ‘Constable, I have a job. I’d need to give four weeks’ notice.’ Conor doubted that Bill would try to stop him if he did decide to leave, but why tell Joyce that?

  Joyce snorted. ‘You’re no more a trawler man than I’m a . . . nurse.’

  ‘Never too late to learn, Constable.’ Conor was enjoying this way too much.

  ‘Bullshit. What are you doing with Bill? Running drugs? Contraband?’

  That made Conor stand a little straighter. ‘You want to question me officially, Constable? There are protocols and procedures. None of them include standing at a tourist lookout on Grassy Hill.’ He looked down his nose at the younger man.

  A red stain crept up Joyce’s rigid neck. ‘I’ve been a cop long enough to know a sanitised police record when I see one. You’re either witness protection or a crook. Conor Woods exists only on paper. I don’t know what the fuck you’ve done with your life, but I will find out. The sarge might have decided you’re in the clear, but I haven’t. And I won’t be backing away from this one.’

  ‘Mate, you have no fucking idea what I’ve done with my life, but there is no way, no way, I’d traffic drugs or run foul of the law. Dig all you want. I understand rural postings aren’t for everyone, but suck it up, princess, and get over it. I’m not your murderer.’

  He gave a curt nod and jogged around Joyce as the other man’s mouth closed with a snap.

  Joyce’s speculation was too close to the truth. Conor fumed as he ran down the hill. He was happy here, but circumstances just might force his hand.

  He heard the car approaching behind him and moved well to the left. He didn’t entirely trust Joyce not to give him a nudge. Instead the window rolled down as the car slowed.

  ‘I know you’re up to your fuckin’ neck in trouble, Conor. Too much of a coincidence you were right there when Danny Parnell was shot. I’m watching you.’ The car sped off, stones scrabbling under its tyres.