by Gary Gregor
Two men, one of them the man who’d approached him while he was eating, stood together at the end of the building. They were looking his way; he was certain of it. They were police; he was even more certain about that. Everything about them looked like police. At least, they hadn’t followed him into the park … not yet.
Fortunately, with the tailgate lowered and his legs dangling below, the number plate attached to the rear of his vehicle was obstructed from view.
“Looks like he’s got a lot of stuff in the back,” Sam said. “Like he is all set up to camp in the bush for an extended period.”
“Yeah, I noticed that,” Foley nodded.
“By the look of all the red dust on his vehicle, he’s been travelling on a lot of dirt roads too.”
“This is the Territory, Sam,” Foley pointed out. “There’s no shortage of red dust, and it’s not illegal to travel on dirt roads.”
“Hard to tell from here but all that stuff in the back looks hickle-de-pickledy everywhere. If he’s hiding a gun in there, you would have to pull everything out and search piece-by-piece.”
“Hickle-de-pickledy? What the fuck is that?”
Sam shrugged. “Stuff all over the place,” he answered by way of explanation.
“Not unlike your house.”
“My house is organised messy,” Sam said indignantly. “I know where everything is. If I tidied up and put shit away, I wouldn’t know where to find anything. Sarah cleaned up one day before she left to go back to Uluru. Thought she would surprise me. Took me forever to find a tie.”
“You don’t own a tie,” Foley smirked.
“I have one tie. It’s my favourite.”
“I’ve never seen you in a tie. What colour is it?”
“Pink,” Sam replied.
“I hope I never see it.”
“What’s wrong with pink? I’m a sensitive new-age guy, in touch with my feminine side.”
Foley stared in silence at Sam.
“What?”
“You’re in touch with your feminine side?”
“Yes, you should try it. It’s very liberating.”
“What’s next, yoga and tai chi?”
“I wouldn’t rule it out,” Sam answered flippantly. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to make an effort to catch up with the rest of us red-blooded Aussie blokes.”
“You’re an idiot.” Foley turned away and headed back to their vehicle.
Sam hurried after his partner. “You don’t want to talk to the dude?”
“No, I’m hungry.”
“I’m going in to speak to the pretty girl at the counter and see if I can get his name, and maybe his vehicle registration number from his check-in details.”
“And her phone number?” Foley asked wryly.
“No, I don’t want her phone number. I’m done with those days. I have Sarah in my life now.”
“Get me a hamburger!”
14
Sergeant Sarah Collins saw the unmarked police vehicle pull in and park in front of the Yulara Police Station. She knew immediately it was Russell Foley and Sam Rose and hurried to the front door. She stepped outside and stood under the small portico shading the entrance to the building.
When both Foley and Sam got out of their vehicle, Sarah looked at Sam and smiled widely. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Had to wait for Russell to finish his breakfast,” Sam explained as they approached. “Biggest bloody hamburger you ever saw. We would have been here earlier if he had settled for a sandwich and eaten on the run.”
“Hello, Sarah,” Foley greeted. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “You’ve known Sam long enough to know he is full of BS.”
Sarah patted Sam on the cheek and smiled. “Poor baby. Is the bad, old Russell giving you a hard time?”
“It never ends,” Sam answered flatly. “What’s wrong with a pre-packed sandwich? You can eat it while you drive. Russell, however, had to go inside, find a comfortable seat, order a coffee—not just a cup of plain coffee but some fancy-dan, frothy coffee—and I had to sit there and wait for him to finish.”
“Don’t listen to him, Sarah. He’s been grumpy all morning,” Foley said and glared at Sam. “And, besides, it was not a ‘fancy-dan’ coffee, it was a latte. Nothing fancy about it. Now, let’s get inside out of this heat.”
Sarah opened the door and stepped aside, holding it open while Foley entered the building. Sam followed, pausing in the doorway before entering, and gave Sarah a quick kiss on the mouth. “I’ve missed you,” he said quietly.
“How long are you staying?” Sarah asked.
Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. Have you got a bed for me?”
“No,” Sarah replied with a demure smile. “You will have to sleep with me.”
“In that case, I hope we never leave,” Sam grinned.
“Are you two coming inside, or are you going to stand out there all day, whispering sweet nothings to each other?” Foley called from inside.
Sam and Sarah quickly entered, and Sarah closed the door. Russell Foley stood in front of the reception counter and watched them approach. “We need to catch up,” he announced to Sarah. “Can you two manage to restrain yourselves, at least until you knock off for the day?”
Sam looked at Sarah. “And he calls me grumpy.”
“Might be indigestion from the hamburger and fancy coffee,” Sarah said drolly. “Let’s go into my office.”
She lead the way into a small office at the rear of the front reception area. When they were settled in the relative air-conditioned comfort of her office, she picked up a file which lay on her desk. She handed it across the desk to Foley. “That is a list, current as of yesterday, of all four-wheel-drive vehicles occupied by either a lone driver or two males, that have arrived here since the first killings.”
“The Watson family?” Foley asked.
“Yes,” Sarah answered. “I am familiar with that area and I assumed the suspect would almost certainly be driving a four-wheel-drive. My chaps have been collecting those details since then. I have also asked the managers at Kings Canyon and Erldunda to email me similar lists on a daily basis.”
Foley opened the file and quickly scanned the two-page file. “Lot of names here.”
“Yeah,” Sarah nodded. “I have two men working all day on the collection of details here at Yulara, and two more out at the Olgas.” She indicated the file in Foley’s hands. “That is updated every day at end-of-shift and is as current and accurate as it is possible.”
Sam pulled his notebook from his shirt pocket and flipped it open. “Here’s another one for your list.” He passed the notebook to her.
“Jaeger A,” Sarah read aloud. “You didn’t get a Christian name?”
“I spoke to him briefly this morning, inside the roadhouse at Curtain Springs,” Sam explained. “He was booked into the caravan park. We didn’t exchange names. I got those details from the check-in register. Gave his address as Hamburg Germany.”
“Which way was he travelling?” Sarah asked.
“Dunno,” Sam answered with a shrug. “He said he was booked on a tour to Mount Connor tomorrow. Where he goes from there, I can’t tell you. If he is at Curtain Springs, I guess he will either come here or travel to Kings Canyon.” He indicated the notebook. “That vehicle registration also came from the check-in register. We saw his vehicle—a four-wheel-drive packed to the roof with what looked like camping gear. We didn’t get close enough to read the plate and confirm the number.”
Sarah looked questioningly at Sam and then at Foley.
“What?” Sam asked.
“Nothing, I guess.” She glanced again at the notebook. “I suppose I expected you to check the guy out a little more thoroughly. Half a name and a sketchy vehicle description seems a little vague to me. Given who we are looking for, you two would normally be all over people like this like white on rice.”
Sam turned to Foley. “Russell?”
Foley looked at Sarah. “I was hungry. An
d, my mind was elsewhere.”
“Russell has a girlfriend,” Sam offered by way of explanation.
Sarah smiled. “Oh, Russell, I’m so happy for you. What’s her name?”
“Jessica. She’s a real looker too.”
“You’ve met her?” Sarah asked.
“Briefly,” Sam said. “In Russell’s driveway. It was morning and she was just leaving. Hair looked like she had just showered. Drives a spunky little car too.”
“A spunky little car?” Sarah chuckled. “I’m not surprised he likes her. It’s the spunky little car that will do it every time.”
“Hey!” Foley objected loudly. “I’m right here!”
“Sorry, Casanova.” Sam nudged Foley in the ribs. “It’s just that Sarah and I are thrilled for you.”
“Let’s not discuss my private life,” Foley suggested. “We have more important things to talk about than my love life.”
“This is not over, Russell,” Sarah informed him firmly. “We are going to discuss this before you leave Yulara. I want all the details. In the meantime, would you both like a coffee?”
“Coffee would be good,” Foley nodded.
“We don’t have any latte, I’m afraid. Just plain ground coffee beans, hot water and long-life milk.”
“That will be fine,” Foley said. “After working with Sam for more years than I care to remember, I have had to adjust my standards down somewhat.”
Adalhard Jaeger was concerned. Not worried. Worried was too strong a word for the emotions he was feeling. There was very little in Adalhard’s life that caused him to worry, except perhaps for his father. Now, here in this country on the other side of the world from his homeland, worry was an emotion he’d left behind at the vast family estate on the outskirts of Hamburg. No, it was concern, not worry that he was feeling.
He sat on the lowered tailgate of his vehicle for a long time after the two men left the roadhouse and drove away. They’d headed west. That was the sign Adalhard needed. The two strangers headed west, so he would head east, back the way he had come. For some time, he considered cancelling the tour to Mount Connor and leaving Curtain Springs immediately but, after careful consideration, he decided to take the tour anyway. Cancelling the tour might appear suspicious if the two strangers were to return to Curtain Springs.
They were police. Of that he was certain. Their behaviour and their body language left him with little doubt. Why they chose not to approach him in the caravan park he was unable to fathom. However, if they came back and found he had skipped the tour and left suddenly, any suspicions they had had about him might be confirmed.
Adalhard was not worried about being the subject of close attention should they return; he believed he was more than capable of bluffing his way through such a scenario. He had all the right paperwork in respect of his presence in Australia; he owned the vehicle he was driving and had the purchase receipt to prove it. The vehicle was registered and was mechanically sound. He believed he had left nothing to chance. He did, however, hold slight concerns about the obvious interest the two men seemed to have in his presence, and slight concern was about as deep as his emotions were prepared to extend. Excess worry resulted in excess stress, and excess stress resulted in mistakes. Leaving Curtain Springs would definitely be a mistake and would surely exacerbate the obvious interest in him by the two men. Just the right degree of concern kept him on his toes. It was imperative that he maintain control of his emotions and not panic.
In the rear of his vehicle, he had a wooden crate in which he stored his food supplies. In the bottom of the crate, underneath all the cans of baked beans and packets of instant noodles and soup, coffee and long-life milk, Adalhard had constructed a false bottom just big enough to hide the gun. It was the perfect hiding place, one which he believed would withstand even the most intense scrutiny. When he was on the road travelling, he kept it close-by in the glove compartment and when he was stopped in a populated area, he kept it in the food box. Worry? No, Adalhard was not worried. He was, however, anxious to find his next victim.
15
The tour to Mount Connor was, for Adalhard at least, uneventful to the point of boring. He was not interested in visiting tourist sites and he did not join the tour to stand and gape in awe at a big rock protruding from the ground. He joined the tour because he thought it might reinforce his image as a tourist, and because he might get the opportunity to kill once again. He should have known better.
There were fifteen tourists on board the small twenty-seat bus: fourteen happy, excited travellers anxious to view the amazing formation, and then Adalhard. He tried to play the part, but happy, smiling and excited were emotions he had not experienced for a long time. His mind was fixed on just one thing: his next kill. It was like an itch that would only be relieved by killing yet another of his fellow man.
At Curtain Springs, he deliberately waited for all the passengers to board the bus so he would have a seat to himself. He did not want to share a seat with anyone. Idle, nonsense conversation was the furthest thing from his mind. His gun, loaded and ready, was stowed in a small backpack he carried. When seated on the bus, the pack was placed on the empty window seat next to him. For most of the journey to Mount Connor, he rested his hand on top of the pack; it gave him a sense of security and promise of things to come, knowing the gun was right there beneath his hand. His fingers traced the shape of it through the thin canvas.
The bus driver, who doubled as the tour guide for the trip, commentated endlessly throughout the journey, his voice nasally and monotone, crackling through the bus sound system as he described the landscape passing by outside the large windows.
Those among the passengers who cared to listen to the driver’s vocal delivery rather than the actual content of the dialogue could easily pick up the inflections and mood of his delivery. Adalhard thought he sounded disinterested, even bored. He must have been conducting this tour for a long time, so long that he had learned his script by rote and had repeated it so many times it had become tedious.
Adalhard wanted to take the gun from his backpack, get up from his seat, walk down the narrow aisle between the seats, and put a .45 bullet in the back of the man’s head. Splatter his brains all over the windscreen. There was that itch again.
When they arrived at the base of Mount Conner, the bus driver’s insipid discourse continued. Adalhard did not care that Mount Connor had an aboriginal name, Artilla. He did not care that it was within the Curtin Springs cattle station, 859 metres above sea level and 75 kilometres southeast of lake Amadeus. As for the mount being close to the aboriginal Dreaming site, Kungkarangkalpa, what a load of Schnickschnack—twaddle. What did that mean, aboriginal Dreaming? What is the deal with aboriginal Sacred Sites? Mount Connor was nothing more than a great big rock, sitting on the surface of the earth. How the many thousands of tourists who flocked to such iconic sites every year could be so gullible escaped him.
The tour gave Adalhard the opportunity to rest, gather his thoughts, and decide where he would head next. The supposed spiritual significance of Mount Connor to the aboriginal people of the area, and the totally baffling interest the tourists showed in the big rock, held no interest for him.
There was nothing further to the west except for Uluru—Ayres Rock and Kata Tjuta, the Olgas. Just another big rock and a large group of smaller rocks. He didn’t need to go there. Too many tourists meant no further opportunity to whet his appetite for killing. Also, he knew the police officers he saw at Curtain Springs turned right when they left the roadhouse and that would indicate they were heading for Uluru or Kata Tjuta, or both. Be best if he stayed away from those places, he decided.
He had hoped an opportunity to claim another victim would present itself while on the Mount Connor tour, but the bus driver-cum-tour-guide had made it clear that no one was to wander off on their own. It was disappointing but probably for the best; it was a small group and if someone died, there was only fifteen suspects, including the driver. It wouldn’t take long
for the police to narrow down the list until they had him. His choice was obvious. He would endure the rest of the tour and then return on the bus to Curtain Springs. There, he would retire to his vehicle and plan his next adventure in the vast, seemingly endless Australian Outback.
Sam Rose opened his eyes, yawned deeply, and looked at his watch; it was seven-thirty in the morning. He looked at the empty place beside him in the bed. Then, he caught the aroma. The best thing anyone could smell when they first woke up in the morning was the aroma of bacon and eggs emanating from the kitchen and wafting through the house. He closed his eyes and luxuriated in the smell.
“Good morning,” Sarah said.
She stood in the doorway of her bedroom, leaning against the doorjamb. She wore a light robe cinched at the waist and falling to a point just above her knees. Sam cast his eyes slowly up and down, from the top of her head to her bare feet.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, her voice a little husky, like she had not had enough sleep.
“Famished,” Sam answered.
Sarah quickly crossed the room and stood at the side of the bed. “Breakfast is warming in the oven. It’s going to spoil if you don’t get up.”
Sam reached out and took her hand. “Is Russell awake?”
“Awake and gone,” Sarah said.
“Gone?”
“Yes, he got up an hour ago. Had a quick coffee and headed to the station. Said he wanted to get an early start.”
Sam paused. “So, it’s just you and me here alone?” he asked, a hint of invitation in his voice.
“Yes, why?”
“Breakfast can wait.”
“It will spoil,” Sarah said.
“We can have it after.”
“After what?” Sarah smiled, knowing full well what he was suggesting.
“Wake-up sex is the best thing to get you in the right frame of mind to face the rest of the day.”
“Really?”
