The old fellow had not seen a car. But he had heard one, Thursday around lunchtime. He wasn’t sure where exactly, his hearing wasn’t so good these days, but he knew it was somewhere down the mangroves where he’d seen the crocodile. ‘Those fellas are in for a surprise,’ he thought to himself. Here he showed a gummy smile. One tooth stubbornly clung to his upper mouth and three to his lower. They were sitting on the ground at Warry’s campsite. Warry himself had the luxury of a small fold-out stool, his bony knees rising up in front of him. Behind him was a modern, tautly assembled tent. His swag consisted of a bedroll, a small aluminium pot, some cutlery, a fishing handline and, incongruously, a pair of small, modern binoculars.
Clement was grateful he had Laidlaw to help out on translation. Old Warry spoke his own version of pidgin and it would not have been easy to follow. He had not heard the vehicle leave; by that time he was off, heading further east looking for dinner.
‘So you never heard a vehicle between Thursday and today when you found him?’
Warry had not. ‘Only when he come.’ He pointed at Laidlaw. That had been Thursday evening. Today Warry had been heading west tracking a goanna. Well, he found a bloody big goanna, didn’t he! Here he laughed himself silly, flashed all four teeth again. He pointed at his heart, scared him to death! His laughter wound down. Soon as he found the fella, he ran back to his camp and started a fire. He knew that would bring the ranger.
Clement asked if Warry recognised the kind of vehicle he’d heard. Warry shook his head. There had to be a good chance of tracks, there’d been no rain. He checked his watch. Keeble would be arriving at the airport soon. Her assistant techs including Mason were already here. Graeme Earle was supervising them in the restricted area that started fifty metres or so west of this spot. Clement’s phone rang. His first thought was it was the hospital. He’d arranged for a uniform from the Derby station to be standing by. His second thought was Jared Taylor had located the Feister vehicle. But the ID showed Snowy Lane.
‘Yes, Snowy.’
‘Got him.’ The fever in Lane’s voice was audible even through the tiny speaker.
‘Who?’ Clement told himself to be patient.
‘The camera guy from Hedland who used Chelsea Lipton’s phone. Our guy.’
Everything incidental fell away. Clement was aware only of Snowy’s voice.
‘I went and saw the dance troupe. They had a video of the Hedland audience. I matched the video to the angle of the shot. I recognised a face.’
Now Clement was being lifted off the ground, weightless. ‘Who?’
‘Shane Shields. The sExcitation girls remembered him at the Hedland afterparty but didn’t know his name. I took a copy of the video shot to the Pearl. The receptionist recognised him. Only he wasn’t called Shane Shields when I made him as a suspect in the original investigation.’
Clement’s throat constricted. He could barely make a sound. ‘He was a suspect?’
‘My suspect. Back then he went by the name of Shane Crossland. I was sure there was blood in his car. The techs told me it was smoke. He was a dope-head but he knew at least one of the girls.’
Clement said, ‘I’ll meet you at the station.’
They were powering back in record time. He had Earle drive so he could think more clearly: Crossland was at Port Hedland the night before the Feister girl and her boyfriend had vanished. He’d been at the Pearl Motel when Turner had burgled it but never reported the phone missing: because it was stolen, because it would lead the police to him when they found the pendant. It had to be him. What were the chances of anybody else with the pendant being in the same motel on the same night as a suspect in the original Autostrada investigation? Turner could nail it for sure, but there was no news from Derby Hospital. Jo di Rivi had called to say she was there with Olive Pickering. It had taken three calls, replete with dropouts, to get the gist. That had been half an hour ago. There had been no change in Turner’s condition. He suggested she use the radio for updates and had to deduce from its silence that nothing was changing. One thing that didn’t jive if Crossland aka Shields had done away with Coldwell and Feister and stolen their vehicle: why hadn’t it been seen in Broome when he stayed at the Pearl? It seemed complicated to hide it on the Gibb River Road where Lane had come across it. How would Crossland have got back to Broome? He ran the question past Earle. He was good for this stuff, logical. Earle digested at a hundred and forty k per hour.
‘Only thing I can think of is he had an accomplice.’
That made sense but it complicated everything. Another possibility occurred: the car had been dumped but then stolen by somebody else and they were the ones keeping it out of sight. Snowy Lane could have been clouted by a simple car thief. Clement tried to call Lane. He imagined him guzzling coffee, checking his watch five times a minute. Unfortunately the signal still wasn’t strong enough to get through. He wondered if Lane had asked the Pearl if Crossland registered a vehicle when he stayed there and made a mental note to follow up. Before leaving Derby he’d called Mal Gross and asked him to get everything he could on Shane Shields aka Shane Crossland. Clement found himself watching low grass speed by. It must be what it’s like to be a cheetah, he thought. His brain skipped to Louise. He should call her, let her know about Turner. He tried her number. No reception. A minute later the radio buzzed. It was Mal Gross.
‘Yes, Mal.’
He expected it would be about Crossland. It wasn’t.
‘Jared just radioed in. He’s got a ranger who has spotted the Feister vehicle on the Mitchell Plateau – Kulumburu track about halfway between the Gibb turn-off and Drysdale. He’s on his way now.’
This was a whole other thing now. If it were Crossland in that vehicle it could not be left to a ranger and a police aide.
‘Tell Jared not to approach. Same for the ranger. Just keep an eye on it. We’ll fly in.’
They were thirty minutes out of Broome, maybe less. The track was back in the direction from which they’d just come and then some, back along the Gibb River Road where Lane had been attacked and further to the north. Sometimes you just couldn’t win. This region was so enormous. He relayed the latest to Earle and added, ‘I better inform the boss.’
‘You should have reception now.’ Earle had travelled these roads for decades, fished in remote areas. He knew its anatomy. Clement did what he suggested. He’d not spoken to Risely since immediately after he’d left the hospital to give him an update on Turner. Earle was right of course. Clement waited as it rang. Risely answered.
‘Has he regained consciousness?’
‘No, and that could be a long way off. I need a plane. Graeme and I are about twenty minutes out. Things have been moving fast. Taylor has eyes on the vehicle on the Mitchell Plateau track and there’s a shitload more Snowy Lane can tell you about. He’s in there now.’
‘I saw him hanging about. What’s the plan?’
‘Fly to Drysdale River Station, get them to loan us a vehicle. Bring in the closest chopper for support. Move whatever ground units we have up the track.’
‘I’ll have a plane ready for you by the time you get to the airport. You have vests?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll make sure they are in the plane with some food, radios, the rest of the fruit. You want Shepherd?’
‘Yes, good idea.’
Risely said he would get a plane sent from Derby too with three more bodies for backup.
Clement was appreciative. He ended the call and told Earle to head for the airport. Then he called Lane.
‘Sorry, mate. This has to be police only.’ He felt for Lane. He’d been the one making the big breakthroughs. Lane said he got it. ‘I’ve told the boss you’ll update him.’
‘He’s heading my way now.’
‘I’ll let you know as soon as.’
‘Please do.’
Lane wished him luck. Clement was happy to accept.
Shepherd was waiting at the Cessna with the young pilot, Stephanie. She’d flown Clement a few times. He felt sorry for her. He had no doubt Shepherd would have been hitting on her. Earle excused himself for a quick slash, after which they piled in. It was 3.30. Clement had done ten hours straight, driven around five hundred k already and was about to fly as many again before at least another hour’s drive.
‘I reckon I’ll get you there just after six.’ Stephanie’s voice was nasal. She had blonde curly hair and the kind of smile Clement could use right now. Six was not optimum, it would be sunset or just after. They’d have to drive in the dark. Shepherd was garrulous and eager to speculate on who might have the Feister vehicle – he still had no idea about Crossland or any Autostrada lead. His voice was like a drill in Clement’s head, so much so that Clement was actually grateful for the real mechanical sound of the engine that made conversation too difficult to bother with. The sandwiches were tomato and cheese, melted and squished. Neither Earle nor Clement cared. They’d consumed nothing but a stubby of beer. They tore into them.
How quickly we lose our gentility when we are starving, reflected Clement. He rolled the wax and brown paper into a little ball and slipped it inside their kit. He could easily have eaten another two. Flying had never affected Clement much one way or the other. Like most people he sensed in himself some innate fear of crashing but otherwise he approached it like a bus ride, an uncomfortable necessity. Lately, however, he had come to enjoy being aloft over vast tracts of land, skinny rivers, railway-model shrubs, lonely twisting roads. Up here the concerns of the world could be contained; an enemy uselessly waving arms beyond a castle’s moat. This could be my life, he thought. The river down there was Marilyn and me, winding through arid, barren nothing. It never really occurred to him it would dry up. I have to let you go, he thought. I have to, I have to …
Then woke with a jolt, realising he’d been dozing, and was embarrassed he might have spoken aloud. But a glance told him Graeme Earle was out to it in his seat and Shepherd was hanging over the co-pilot seat probably boring Stephanie senseless. Even if he had talked, the engine was too loud. But he’d been asleep longer than he might have guessed. The light through the windows now was yellow-orange, the colour of decay, of times passed, of opportunity lost. Clement watched the yellow fade to light, then dark grey.
As far as Kimberley landings went, Drysdale River Station was a Heathrow. There was actually a long gravel strip. Clement had several times had to put down on nothing but a grassless paddock or dirt road. Stephanie was true to her word. It was 6.07 as they started in for the landing. The Derby aircraft had already arrived. Clement could see it, through the gloom, parked off the strip. Earle’s eyes flicked awake as they bumped and skidded down the strip, little rocks flew. They pulled to a halt and Clement clambered out. His legs felt stiff. The smell of earth was strong with the arrival of dusk. He was pleased to see the Derby contingent included Sergeant Dave Drummond and the leviathan Luke Byrd, promoted to a senior constable. The third man he hadn’t met before.
‘Con Katzios,’ said Drummond and they shook hands.
Clement said, ‘Gentlemen we don’t know what we have here. A couple have been incommunicado but we can’t be certain that’s not by choice. However, we do have an unidentified female, deceased, time of death a good fit with when the couple was last seen. We also have an assault on a PI who was hired by the family to find the couple. The ID of the assailant is unknown. We also have a suggestion of a historic criminal potentially having a presence in the Kimberley.’ He noted Josh Shepherd’s shock. ‘However, we have no evidence he is the assailant. So, let’s tread carefully. Let’s try and solve this simply by a stealthy approach. Best we take him or them by surprise.’
They had two four-wheel drives at their disposal, both filled with diesel. While the others loaded up, Clement made radio contact with Jared Taylor. His position was fifty k south-west. He was about a kilometre from the Feister car, which was lying about four k east of the road in reasonably dense bush. His own car was a further three k back with the ranger’s vehicle. Taylor had hiked through bush leaving the ranger back at the cars. Clement asked Taylor how long he thought it would take them to get there.
‘Cross-country, dark, you’re looking at an hour at least.’
Clement told him to stay in radio contact and repeated he was not to act even if the vehicle made a move. Then he went and joined the detective vehicle with Shepherd at the wheel and they pulled out. The Derby guys dropped in behind. The moon was out but there wasn’t much more than an eyelid showing.
As expected, Shepherd started right in. ‘Who’s the historic criminal? Mongoose?’
‘No. And we don’t even know if the guy is a crim but he might have links to an abduction investigation. That’s all I can tell you right now.’
Earle met his eye, he understood: that’s all Clement wanted to tell him.
It was a moonscape out there. The first twenty-five k was fairly simple. There was a well-worn cattle track they could follow and they made good time. Clement navigated and picked the point where they had to go totally bush. In the wet season it might have been unnavigable but apart from hard bumps in the rutted ground it wasn’t too bad. They had almost reached the coordinates of the ranger and police vehicle when the radio crackled into life.
‘Somebody has left the car and is wandering around. I’m not sure what they’re doing. It’s dark.’
‘We must be close to your vehicles. See you soon.’
It was less than five minutes on when they saw something iridescent and red to their right about three hundred metres away. Shepherd changed direction. The headlights of the second vehicle followed. Shepherd’s headlights picked out the red again.
The ranger was waving a red glowstick. They cruised in quietly. Clement got out. The ranger was a young guy, not more than twenty-five. Clement introduced himself and learned the ranger’s name was Donald.
‘Jared’s down that-a-way.’
He pointed at eight o’clock. Earle had got out now too. ‘What do you think? Take the cars or not?’
Clement had been wrestling with that the whole way. He didn’t want to risk the quarry driving off. On the other hand, if the guy was armed …
‘We’ll go in on foot. Have the others standing by.’ He relayed information to the Derby car. Byrd was driving. ‘I want you guys to circle around to the track in case they make a break back that way.’
Drummond rogered that and they moved off. Clement, Earle and Shepherd checked their weapons. Clement didn’t want a vest on yet. It was too far. He bagged them and made Shepherd haul them. He radioed Jared Taylor again.
‘We’ve left the cars, we must be about a k off.’
‘I’ll shine the torch your way.’
They saw the distant light and adjusted accordingly. Clement killed the radio. The three of them spread out as they approached Taylor’s position. Without the torch he would have been undetectable. He was crouched behind a ring of taller trees. Clement shook his hand.
‘Any more action?’
‘The figure headed into the bush. I thought he was carrying something, maybe a rifle. Then I heard movement on the far side about a hundred metres from me. I think they are still there. Might be having a crap.’
‘What about the car?’
‘Nothing.’
He signalled for the vests. Shepherd broke them out and they fitted them on. They re-checked their pistols.
‘Jared, you wait here. Graeme, you take the car. Josh with me.’
With a jerk of the head he signalled they move forward carefully. The ground was sparse but they weren’t skilled enough to avoid twigs and branches in the dark and their stealth left a little to be desired. Fortunately there was a wind blowing now behind them and leaves were rustling above. Then Clement heard it, a murmur like somebody praying. He cautioned Shepherd to go even more quietly. The adrenaline in his body was more than counteracting the fatigue. His palms were sweating up. The voice was closer now, a man’s voice … melodic and … that was music.
That was the point that Shepherd stood hard on what must have been a much a larger branch. It snapped like a gunshot. The figure let out an oath and swung towards them.
Shepherd raised his weapon and yelled, ‘Gun!’
Clement threw his hand up to block the shot.
‘It’s not a gun, it’s a guitar.’
Clement swung back now, pointing his torch. Max Coldwell stood blinking in the beam.