by Gary Gregor
Sometimes, before leaving the roadhouse and walking back home with her shopping bag of grocery items, Lara would walk through to the rear of the roadhouse front-counter area and have a coffee and chat with Barbara Logan who, with her husband Frank, managed the roadhouse on behalf of the owners, the proprietors of Umbearra Station, a vast 890,000-acre cattle station now embracing nearby Kulgera Station.
Barbara and Frank Logan were the only other permanent residents of Kulgera, and the roadhouse, being a twenty-four-hour, seven-days-a-week stopover for travellers, made it difficult for Barbara to leave the premises as often as she might have liked. She, like Lara, found it nice to have another female close by and not just passing through the tiny settlement on the way to somewhere else.
Having been alone for two full days and nights, Lara craved someone to talk to. She quickly finished her shopping, paid the young Swedish backpacker girl behind the counter, and went through to the kitchen at the rear of the store.
“Hey, Lara,” Barbara greeted her with a wide smile. “I was just thinking about you.” She wiped at beads of perspiration on her forehead with the back of a flour-covered hand.
“Nice thoughts, I hope,” Lara said, returning Barbara’s smile.
Barbara turned away from the table where she had been working, washed her hands in the kitchen sink, and flicked on the kettle. “Always nice thoughts. I’ve been worried about you.”
“Worried? Why?” Lara asked.
“Are Mathew and Colin back?”
“Mathew rang early this morning. They are on their way from Finke and should be here early this afternoon.”
“They stayed at Finke?”
“Yes, two nights,” Lara nodded.
“Coffee?” Barbara asked, busying herself by preparing the drinks.
“Yes, please.” Lara looked at the flour-covered table and the large bowl of cake mix ready to be shaped. “What are you making?”
“Fresh muffins for the shop,” Barbara said. “My muffins always sell well with the travellers.”
“I’m not surprised. They’re delicious.”
“You say that every time you come here,” Barbara smiled, handing a mug of steaming coffee across the table to Lara. She indicated a smaller two-seat table tucked away in a far corner of the large kitchen area. “Let’s sit over here, away from the mess. The first batch of muffins is cooling. Would you like one with your coffee?”
“Yes, please. I would love one. You make the best muffins I’ve ever eaten. Why were you worried about me?”
“That ugly business way out there must be awful for the boys,” Barbara explained. “That poor family, and the poor young girl at Chambers Pillar.”
“Mathew’s been a cop for a very long time, Barb,” Lara said. “That sort of thing goes with the job. Fortunately, not too often. It’s not nice, you’re right, but it’s what they do. If they need counselling, the department will provide it.”
“At least Moose has got you. How will young Colin manage?”
Lara shrugged. “He’s got Mathew, and he’s got me. He hasn’t been in the job anywhere near as long as Mathew, so I expect he hasn’t seen anything as bad as this, but he will be looked after. He’s young but he’s tough, much tougher than he looks. He’ll be fine, Mathew and I will make sure of it.”
“As will Frank and I,” Barbara affirmed. “You make sure he knows that. He’s welcome here anytime. When he’s feeling up to it, tell him I’ve always got time for a coffee and a chat.”
“And muffins in the oven?” Lara smiled.
“Always bloody muffins in the oven,” Barbara laughed. “If we ever leave this place, I don’t think I’ll ever cook another muffin.” She sipped tentatively at her hot coffee. “Who would do such a thing to those poor people?”
“I don’t know, Barb,” Lara answered with a frown. “But as long as we have guns seemingly so easily accessible in the community, someone is going to get shot. The government introduced strict gun control laws way back, following the Port Arthur massacre, but those who want a gun will always find a way to get one. Policing the law in respect to gun ownership is extremely difficult. I know it has been a sore point with Mathew for years. The Northern Territory seems to have more illegal firearms floating around than any other state or territory in the country.”
Barbara lowered her head and thought about Lara’s words. “I just can’t imagine what must be going through someone’s mind to drive them to take the life of a fellow human being. What are they thinking?”
“I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the answer to that, Barb,” Lara shrugged. “Is it anger? Is it enjoyment? Envy? Maybe it’s a sexual thing—you know, maybe they are turned on by the act of killing someone.”
“Really?” Barbara’s eyebrow arched.
“I don’t know, Barb. Your guess is as good as mine. Who knows what’s going on in their heads?” She finished the muffin and swallowed the last of her coffee. “I’ve gotta go, Barb.” She pushed away from the table and stood to leave. “I’ve got a large pot of soup simmering on the stove. I made it for the boys. They’ll be hungry when they get back. Thanks for the coffee, and the delicious muffin.”
“You’re welcome.” Barbara stood and hugged her friend. “Give the lads a hug from me and don’t forget to tell young Colin to drop by if he wants a coffee and a chat.”
“I’ll tell him, Thanks again. It’s always nice to talk to you.” Lara picked up her shopping bag and left the kitchen.
Adalhard Jaeger sat in his vehicle, parked outside the Kulgera Roadhouse. He sipped at a take-away coffee he had just purchased from the pretty Swedish girl in the shop and pondered his next move. Should he keep heading south, or turn back north? He looked down at the road map in his lap and studied it for a moment. The South Australian border was just twenty kilometres south of Kulgera; perhaps he should head that way. Get away from the Territory for a while, maybe forever. The police all over the Northern Territory would be looking for him, so perhaps south would be the wisest decision.
According to the map, however, there was nothing south of the border for hundreds of kilometres except the occasional roadhouse stop-over. Roadhouses were dangerous places, he thought. Most of them had CCTV cameras focused on the fuel-pump apron and the surrounding vehicle parking area. He needed to be in a remote area, somewhere where there were no cameras and few people. Perhaps north would be best, after all.
He looked up from the map and saw her. She stepped out of the roadhouse shop and began walking away, carrying a shopping bag. There were a couple of other cars parked in front of the roadhouse, but the woman walked right past them, and continued on her way. Where was she going?
He looked along the road, beyond the woman, and saw the police station building in the distance, at the far end of the road. There were two houses, which he assumed belonged to the police officers attached to the station, located behind the station office building.
Was she a cop’s wife, Adalhard asked himself. Wow! A cop’s wife! What a coup that would be. Kill a cop’s wife! Would he dare? Then the hunt would really be on. That would be exciting! The thought of it started his pulse racing. He leaned across, opened the glove compartment and sat for a few moments, looking at the gun nestled inside.
Getting a gun without going through all the legalities of obtaining permits and licenses, and so forth, turned out to be far easier than he’d thought it would be. He knew the gun laws in Australia were tough, but he also knew that there was a thriving black market in almost every country, including Australia, where, for a price, and the right contacts, you could get you almost anything you wanted.
In Adalhard’s case, his contact was a distant cousin. Frederik Schneider, the son of German immigrants, was born in Australia and it was Adalhard’s good fortune that his cousin had spent almost half his forty-two years as a resident in some of Australia’s toughest prisons.
Frederik lived in Sydney, mixed comfortably with hardened criminals and the low-life bottom-feeders of the community. He
lived on the premise that who he didn’t know among the underbelly of Sydney’s society wasn’t worth knowing.
For the moment, Frederik was enjoying one of the few times he was free from incarceration when Adalhard came calling.
Adalhard reached into the glove compartment and carefully lifted the gun out. The Colt Double Eagle .45 semi-automatic pistol felt snug in his hand and he loved to feel the weight of it. For Adalhard, there was something sensual about holding such a powerful weapon in his hands; it was a sensation he’d first experienced in the military.
With his free hand, he reached into the glove compartment and removed the Silencerco Osprey 45, eight-inch suppressor. For a few moments he sat, fondly admiring the two components of his weapon of choice. It was time to put it to good use again, he thought. He screwed the silencer onto the business end of the Colt, gave it half-a-turn extra to ensure it was firmly attached, and laid it on the seat next to him.
He looked up and saw the woman with the shopping bag was still walking towards the police station. If she was heading for the police station, or one of the houses behind it, she was perhaps halfway there. He turned his attention to the roadhouse and its immediate surrounds. There were no people in the near vicinity; they were all inside the roadhouse, he supposed. Should he, or shouldn’t he? He shuddered with the thought of it. How good would that feel? Killing a cop’s wife had to be the ultimate thrill.
The exit road to the Stuart Highway was approximately halfway between the police station and the roadhouse. The woman had reached the exit road. As he watched, she crossed the road and kept walking. She was definitely heading for the police station complex. If he was going to do it, he had to do it now. He started the engine, pulled away from the parking area, and drove slowly towards the exit road.
The woman must have heard him approaching. She slowed, turned her head, and watched the four-wheel-drive slowly approaching. Adalhard dropped his left hand, picked up the Colt, and rested it in his lap. Then, when he reached the exit road, he turned the wheel, drove out to the highway, and turned right. He was heading north.
9
Forged over 440 million years by erosion through countless layers of sandstone and hard shale,
Kings Canyon, 320 kilometres southwest of Alice Springs, was the centrepiece of Watarrka
National Park, the spiritual home of the Luritja Aboriginal people for more than 20,000 years.
Large, dome-shaped rock formations known as the “lost city” soared above the rim of the canyon, and the lush “Garden of Eden”, a permanent waterhole surrounded by tropical palm-like cycads and lush plant life, invited enthusiastic walkers to the canyon floor.
Sarah Collins stood at the base of the canyon wall, approximately halfway between the entrance to the canyon floor and the Garden of Eden. Shading her eyes against the glare of the sun, she looked up at the sheer rock wall towering approximately 150 metres above her. Slowly, she lowered her eyes, closely studying the face of the wall from the rim so far above, to the canyon floor at her feet. 150 metres—approximately 490 feet of sheer drop. No ledges, no rocky outcrops, no parched and stunted bushes clinging perilously to the wall, nothing to stop or even interrupt the fall of a body, should it plunge from the top.
She returned her focus to the two bloodied and broken bodies lying at the base of the wall. They were young she managed to discern from the mangled state of the bodies. A male and a female. Married perhaps? Maybe boyfriend and girlfriend? The bodies were entwined, like in some bizarre coital posture, with the woman’s left arm draped across the man’s chest, and the man’s left leg partially hidden beneath the woman’s thighs. One of the woman’s legs was so badly broken, her ankle and foot below the shin lay at right angles to the lower half of her leg.
The man was on his back, the woman lying face down, her face partially hidden beneath the man’s out-flung arm. His face was a shattered, misshapen, a mass of blood and protruding bone fragments. From what Sarah could see of the woman’s face, it appeared hers was in a similar condition. The man must have landed on his back and the woman on top of him, face-to-face, she concluded. At the extreme rate of descent from the top of the canyon, their heads came together with unfathomable force, their facial features now virtually unrecognisable. There will be no open caskets for these two, Sarah figured.
She squatted on her haunches, close to the bodies. With a gloved hand, she carefully lifted the woman’s left hand and, for the first time, noticed the wedding and engagement rings, seemingly unscathed amid the horrific injuries sustained by the fall. Sarah then looked at the man’s left hand. He too was wearing a wedding ring. Husband and wife, Sarah determined.
Senior Constable, Alan Martin, Sarah’s 2IC at Yulara Police Station, 310 kilometres southwest of Kings Canyon, approached along a defined walking track leading from the canyon entrance, through the centre of the gorge, to the Garden of Eden.
“All secure, Sarge,” Martin announced.
Sarah got to her feet and turned to face him. ‘Top and bottom?”
“Management has posted a ranger at the end of the six-kilometre rim walk and one at the entrance to the canyon base walk.” Martin indicated the well-trod track, several metres from the canyon wall and the mangled bodies at its base.
“Apparently, there are still some tourists at different points throughout the canyon who have yet to complete their walk, but no one else can get in. Right now, some resort staff members are trying to placate angry tourists who came here specifically to walk the canyon.”
“It might be a long day for them, Al,” Sarah stated. “We can’t let anyone in here until we have removed the bodies and completed a thorough forensic examination, both up top and down here.”
“Smithy and Carter are up the top, taking photographs of the area above us,” Martin informed her. “When they are done, they will come down here to take photos of these two unfortunate souls,” he nodded at the bodies at the base of the wall. “Bloody long way to fall.”
“Any information on who these people are?”
Martin removed his notebook from his shirt pocket and opened it. “Newlyweds … John and Kierra Hanson. Been married less than a week. They were on their honeymoon. Arrived yesterday and were booked into a deluxe room at the resort until tomorrow. They have a forward booking at Alice Springs for the next three days.” He closed the notebook and placed it back in his pocket.
“Next of kin?” Sarah asked.
“Their check-in details indicate they were from Sydney. I rang the lads back at Yulara and asked them to contact the New South Wales police and requested they track down more details, including next of kin.”
“Good job, Al,” Sarah said with a warm smile.
“What do you think happened, Sarge?” Martin asked.
“I don’t know. Got too close to the edge, maybe. I’ve walked the canyon rim a couple of times in the past. There are no safety barriers up there. Spoils the natural appeal of the place, they reckon. There are a few signs around as I recall, warning people not to get too close to the edge, but the edge is there, and there will always be those who feel they need to get as close as they can to look down. It’s like a bloody magnet to some folks. Scares the hell out of me. I get vertigo in high heel shoes.”
“Yeah, me too,” Martin said.
“You in the habit of wearing high heel shoes, Alan?” Sarah grinned.
“Oh, shit, no,” Martin sputtered. “I mean, I get vertigo too. I’ve never been good with heights.”
Sarah returned to the matter at hand. “These two have a vehicle?”
“The check-in details indicate a registration number. The lads back at Yulara ran a check through the Motor Vehicle Registry and it’s a Nissan four-wheel-drive, early model, about ten years old. I found it locked and secure in the resort’s guest parking area.”
“You get onto Alice Springs?”
“Yeah, I have given them what details we have. They want us to follow up when we know more. The resort has a small medical clinic on site,
manned by two paramedics, and with an ambulance permanently based there. Apparently, they get a quite a few cases of fatigue and heat-associated problems, as well as the occasional broken leg, twisted ankle, or wrenched knee. The walks around the canyon can be pretty strenuous, particularly for the elderly and the unfit. When we are finished here, they will collect the bodies and transport them out to the Stuart Highway and transfer them to another ambulance en route from Alice Springs.”
“Okay, good job, mate.” Sarah squatted back down, next to the bodies. “Give me a hand here, will you? I want to get the handbag off the woman’s shoulder and the camera from around the man’s neck.”
Martin removed a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and snapped them on. “Looks pretty smashed up.”
“Yeah,” Sarah agreed. “We’ll send it to Alice Springs. We might be able to retrieve some images from it.”
“What are you hoping to find?”
Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know, mate. Probably nothing other than tourist happy snaps. I’m just covering all the bases, I guess.”
With difficulty and as delicately as possible, Sarah and Martin managed to remove the shoulder bag from the woman and, leaning in close to the man, Sarah placed a hand behind his head and gently lifted. “I’ll hold his head, Al. See if you can lift the camera from around his neck.”
“Jesus, what a mess,” Martin muttered.
“You gonna throw up?” Sarah asked wryly.
“No, boss, I’m good.”
“Wait! Hang on a second. What is that?” She pointed to a spot amid the bloody mess of the man’s face.
“What?” Martin leaned closer.
