If I hadn’t already made a morning appointment with Phillip Rawlings – a replacement for the one I’d missed when I had my run-in with the solid bits of Lockie’s ute – I would never have got out of the house. Pride dictated I wasn’t going to ring and cancel. It was just as well: a bit of action would stop me thinking about Maggie’s planned desertion and, more to the point, stop me analysing the previous night’s events to death.
Maggie’s old Honda Civic was a different kettle of fish from Lockie’s ute, but under the circumstances, he’d called in his loan, and I was grateful to be riding anything that involved four wheels and an internal combustion engine, rather than two and a lot of sweat. Maggie had obliged and you didn’t look gift-horsepower in the mouth. Still, I was thankful this morning’s visit was on a proper sealed road and I didn’t have to skitter around on gravel.
As well as farming cattle, Phillip operated a stock-trucking firm from his property that serviced most of Southland. He owned several truck and trailer units himself, and also contracted out work to owner-operators. This made him one of the larger employers in Mataura, other than the meat works. It was my guess that it would have been the trucking arm of his business that had attracted Gaby’s interest rather than the cattle.
Like all aspects of the TB prevention programme, stock transportation involved a paper trail and identification of each beast. It was all part of the package.
Phillip had given me instructions to come straight on down to the house – a more comfortable environment to talk in than the business. I turned into the driveway and went to bypass the substantial truck yard on my left. Aesthetics evidently weren’t Phillip’s priority. The yard was littered with the rusted hulks of trailer units that had clearly seen their day, a couple of used-tyre mountains and several barrels of dubious vintage. Overnight rain had rendered the normally hard-packed earth a shiny mud brown. Waving arms caught my attention. I slowed up as I recognised Phillip’s pie-inflated figure – he must have been waiting in the office to catch me. I leaned over and manually wound the passenger-side window down as he walked up alongside – Maggie’s car was a bit of an antique. He leaned over and placed a grimy hand on each side of the door frame.
‘Shall I park over there?’ I said, pointing to the large corrugatediron shed that served as an office and repair shop.
‘No, that won’t be necessary, Sam,’ he said, his voice curt. His weather-beaten features were cemented into a rather dour expression.
‘Are we going up to the house, then?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I want you to get the hell off my property.’
I was a little too taken aback to muster a prompt reply to that. I didn’t get the chance, anyway.
‘I have nothing to say to you. You’re not even in the police any more – that’s what I’ve heard. You’re suspended. And I saw the news. They’re saying you’re a suspect in the bloody murder. Hell, no. I have nothing to say to you, and you can get the hell out of here before I call the police myself and tell them what you’re up to. You’ve got a bloody cheek coming here to ask me questions. Now get off with you.’ With that last statement he stepped away from the car and made a series of rude and aggressive gestures that left me in no doubt of his anger.
Argument was pointless, so I leaned over, wound up the window, turned the car around and headed back in the direction I’d come from. A glance in the rear-view mirror showed him standing there, feet spread, hands on hips, glaring after me.
Shit. My reputation had preceded me. If I was going to get that kind of welcome every time I tried to talk to someone I was going to get nowhere fast. Bloody media.
At least the sensations of rage and heat that now bubbled up inside me made a change from my recent range of emotions. Now what was I going to do? I drove a bit further down the road, and when I was quite sure I was out of view pulled over into a lay-by and turned off the engine.
‘Shit, shit, shit and bugger!’ I yelled and banged my hands against the steering wheel. All that succeeded in doing was hurting.
It was clear that any attempt to interview the others on Gaby’s list was out of the question. My recent TV exposure ensured anyone who had missed the gossip through the normal sources would be well up to date on my alleged activities. But how much of Phillip’s knowledge was direct? He said he’d ‘heard’ that I was on suspension and a suspect. Had someone rung him and had a word? Like they had to Darryl? My friends at the police again?
‘Wankers!’ I banged the steering wheel again in a pointless display of frustration. If I was going to make any headway on this case, I had to figure out how it was all connected: TB – Gaby – cattle rustling – murder – me. It was all linked, but how, specifically? God, I wished I still had Gaby’s computer. Or my own, for that matter. What I needed was some old-fashioned information, and the only place I was going to find it at 9.30am on a Saturday was at the library. The Mataura library didn’t open on the weekend, but Gore did, and it had free internet access. I could get Maggie to come with me. She’d probably be keen for a jaunt to get some new books. And that way, not only would I have some welcome company but, as an added bonus, it would get me out of Mataura while Gaby’s funeral was on. The last thing I needed to do was hide myself away at home feeling rejected.
Between being ordered away from funerals and thrown off people’s properties, I was starting to feel like an outcast in my own town.