Baxter got up and went out on the verandah, shielding his eyes against the sun to take a look at the vehicle. He didn’t get many callers and wasn’t expecting anyone today, but that didn’t mean anything in the country. You could get a Rawleigh’s rep any old time. People simply took it for granted that they’d be welcome. And they mostly were.
But because of what Julie had told him, Baxter was wary. This wasn’t a Rawleigh’s or any other kind of rep. The vehicle was a rather shabby, putty-coloured panel van. He’d noticed it—and its similarly shabby-looking male driver—at various places in the district since his arrival in Moondilla. The driver was a self-proclaimed artist, often to be observed painting at Main Beach.
When the van pulled up, the driver climbed out with a wave. He wasn’t a badly built bloke, but his appearance didn’t flatter him. His long fair hair was tied in a ponytail and his clothes had clearly never come in contact with an iron. Not only that, but the jeans were holey in places, and the shirt was mottled with splotches of different-coloured paint. There was a generous streak of blue down his left forearm.
‘G’day,’ he called with a wide smile, sounding a bit too familiar, as he walked up to the verandah. ‘Great afternoon, isn’t it?’
Baxter was cautiously polite. ‘It certainly is. How can I help you?’
‘I’ve been talking to Dr Rankin. She told me you were here. How’s the arm?’
Why had a bloke like this been talking to Julie? And it seemed she’d broken doctor–patient confidentiality: that didn’t sound like her. Baxter tensed. ‘It’s still a bit sore, but not too bad. So you know Dr Rankin?’
‘Only professionally, champ. I’m Ian Latham.’ He held out a paint-stained hand, but Baxter didn’t shake it, so he shrugged and gestured to Chief, whose hackles were raised. ‘That’s a great-looking shepherd.’ And in the next breath. ‘Could we have a yarn?’
‘Sorry, I’m writing right now. Or trying to. Is it important?’
‘Dr Rankin suggested I should meet with you. She considered it important. You’d trust her judgement, wouldn’t you?’
Baxter had to agree that he would, although he was still worried she’d been coerced somehow. ‘Did she? You’d better come in. Fancy a drink of something . . . tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee, if it’s not too much trouble. Tea, if it is.’
Baxter sat his visitor down in the lounge room, handed him a fishing journal and went to make coffee. Chief lay in the doorway and watched Latham with unblinking interest: the paint smells on this new human’s clothes were an interesting development.
When Baxter came back with two steaming mugs, he took a seat opposite Latham, and Chief came to lie at his feet.
‘The thing is,’ Latham began, ‘I’m not really an artist.’
Alarmed, Baxter tensed again, and Latham hurried to reassure him.
‘Well, I am, but it’s not my occupation, just a hobby.’ He smiled disarmingly. ‘I’m a detective sergeant with the drug squad, and right now I’m working undercover. I don’t carry identification for obvious reasons.’
Allowing himself to relax a little, Baxter said, ‘I see. And what are you doing in this area?’ He’d keep what Julie had told him up his sleeve until he learned what it was that Latham wanted. Play a bit dumb. Plus, given what she’d said about Senior Sergeant Cross, Baxter needed to be as sure as possible that the man could be trusted.
‘As you’re probably aware, drugs are coming into Australia in many different ways and at many different places. We reckon that some have come in through Moondilla, and we’re fairly certain more will be landed here very soon.’
‘You know that for a fact?’ Baxter asked, a chill in his voice. Chief lifted his head.
‘We’re as sure as we can be. Most of the attention has been on the North Coast and Queensland, but some of the rotten stuff has come in down here.’
This was exactly what Baxter didn’t want to hear: Moondilla still looked idyllic, but it was tainted. And this was the place that Mr Garland had been proud to call home.
Baxter steeled himself. ‘Where do I come into the picture?’
‘There’s things you don’t know but should,’ Latham said. ‘Harry Carpenter was contacted by certain persons because of his good jetty and those sheds behind your house. Harry, as you may have judged, is a man of the old school, very honest and upright, and he wouldn’t have a bar of their proposition. He confided in the only person he reckoned he could trust—’
‘Jul—Dr Rankin.’
‘Yes. Harry had known her dad, been treated by him for years. A true blue bloke.’
‘Why didn’t Harry trust the police?’
‘There’s a sergeant here he couldn’t stomach—Cross, Ron Cross. He booked Harry for some minor problem when he could have given him a caution. After that, the old bloke wouldn’t go near the police.’ Latham leaned closer and his voice lowered. ‘Between you and me, and as much as it pains me to tell you, we have a strong suspicion that Cross is on the take.’
This tallied with what Julie had said. Baxter reckoned he’d continue to play dumb and extract the maximum amount of information. ‘You mean he’s bent?’
‘Yes, exactly. We think he’s passing information about our movements to the drug distributors. He thinks he’s pretty clever, but—’ Latham smiled wryly ‘—he doesn’t know that I’m an undercover cop. He also doesn’t know we’re on to him.’
‘So why did you tell me? I could spill the beans.’
‘Dr Rankin said I could trust you.’
‘How come you’re so close to her?’ Baxter asked, not quite managing to keep the proprietary note out of his voice.
Latham grinned. ‘In the first place, Dr Rankin is the medical examiner and does most of the autopsies in this area. She’s a very smart cookie, is our Doc.’
Baxter wondered what Julie would have made of that description.
‘Secondly,’ Latham continued, ‘I had a bad bout of diarrhoea from eating rough food while I was on a surveillance job, and I had to go to her. I asked if any of her patients were addicts, and she said yes, but of course she wouldn’t breach their confidentiality. But now she’s breached it for you—she’s concerned about you being out here. She asked me to warn you that you might receive some unwelcome visitors.’
‘So you reckon those same fellows will contact me.’
Latham nodded. ‘You’ve got the best jetty—best all-weather jetty—from here to the mouth of the river. They could unload the rotten stuff here, store it in your sheds, then pick it up and drive to the big smoke—and there’s no close neighbours to watch them. No matter what, they need somewhere to land that’s not in the public eye.’
It sounded straightforward enough, but something still didn’t make sense. Baxter frowned. ‘Wouldn’t a yacht appear a bit conspicuous if it came chugging to my jetty?’
‘They’d trans-ship at sea, maybe to a fishing trawler, or a smaller yacht or launch. You’ve probably seen quite a few launches go past your jetty. Any one of those could belong to the drug mob. They aren’t short of a quid.’
Baxter had certainly noticed launches on the river. He was gradually identifying the locals, but there’d been many strangers too. Some headed for the river’s upper-reaches to fish for bass. He hadn’t thought anything of it; now it turned his stomach.
There was another thing he needed to confirm. ‘This young woman that’s just been fished out of the water. I read about her in the local paper. How did she die?’
‘Dr Rankin did the autopsy: a massive heroin overdose. But I didn’t tell you that, so keep it to yourself.’
‘The paper said her identity was unknown.’
Latham looked away and sipped his coffee, appearing to consider what to reveal—then he shrugged. ‘I’ve told you about Cross, so I may as well let you in on the truth about this too. That’s not the way it is. The murdered woman was an extremely courageous member of the drug squad. She volunteered to go all the way as a prostitute in order to give us a closer handle on the drug business.’
It took a few seconds for Baxter to take that in. And he’d thought he was sickened before. ‘How on earth did she manage it?’
‘She’d lost her sister to drugs a few months before, so she was prepared to risk her own life to get the info we needed.’ Latham’s voice had roughened. ‘They must have tumbled to her. She wouldn’t have had a good end. She’d had a beating, and the big boss of this operation is into kinky sex. Nice fellow.’ Latham cleared his throat. ‘One day, when we’ve locked up all the scum, she’ll receive a posthumous decoration.’
They were silent for a moment. Baxter realised his coffee had gone cold.
‘This sounds like a fair-sized operation,’ he said.
‘It is. Apart from our state drug squad, there’s the federal police and customs. Certain people are within close call. Don’t let the appearance of my van deceive you.’
‘So what have you got in mind for me?’ Baxter asked. He wanted to help however he could, but he hated the thought of going anywhere near the drug scene.
‘You’ve got two choices if they approach you,’ Latham said, with a rather grim sort of smile. ‘You could tell them to get stuffed—or you could go along with them and then report to me.’
‘Nix to the latter,’ Baxter said vehemently, and Chief gave a low growl. ‘I could be accused of being part of their chain. They could even blackmail me later on. No thanks. I’d tell them to piss off and leave me alone.’
‘That’s what I thought you’d say. I wouldn’t think that a fellow in your mould would agree to drugs being landed here, and I can’t make you co-operate.’
Baxter held up a hand. ‘Whoa, hang fire, Geronimo. I didn’t say I wouldn’t co-operate. I’ll let you know if those creeps contact me.’
‘That would be a help,’ Latham said, sounding relieved, ‘and if they do contact, it might suggest that the next cargo isn’t far away, which is in line with our thinking.’
Hell’s bells, Baxter thought. He’d wanted to write about Sydney’s drug-related hijinks in peace, and now he found himself in a danger zone. With a wry grin, he said, ‘I couldn’t understand why this property was such a bargain. It seemed too good to be true—and when that happens, there’s usually a fly in the ointment.’
Latham chuckled. ‘Too right.’
‘So how do I get in touch with you?’
He took out a notepad and pen, and wrote down a phone number. ‘This is a special number for re-routing calls. You needn’t give your name. Simply tell them: “Southern delivery for L”.’
‘Southern delivery for L,’ Baxter repeated.
‘Either me or someone else from the team will call you back, or be here to see you not long after you make that call. And if they come calling, you won’t touch them, will you?’
‘What makes you think I’d do that?’
Latham smiled thinly. ‘I understand from Dr Rankin that you’re one of the best exponents of martial arts in Australia—maybe even the world. Black belts galore. I don’t doubt that you could handle a couple of crims.’
‘Well now, Detective Sergeant, I won’t make any promises. If they don’t touch me, I won’t touch them.’
‘That’s what I thought. I wouldn’t blame you for defending yourself.’ Latham paused. ‘There’s something else I should tell you.’
‘I knew I hadn’t heard it all.’
‘There’s a fellow living in these parts who we think might be Mr Big. His name’s Franco Campanelli. He’s got a finger in a lot of pies, and he owns two fishing trawlers and a very swish yacht. You might have noticed him around town. He drives a blue Mercedes and is seldom seen without the company of his two goons.’
‘I see. I don’t know him, but I don’t know many of the locals. I only go to town for my tucker and Chief’s meat.’ Baxter realised he had another question. ‘I was warned about someone, though. Do you know anything about Jack Drew?’
‘Yeah.’ Latham’s expression turned contemptuous. ‘Drew is of no account. He knocks his wife about when he gets on the piss, but she won’t dob him in. No, the drug boys wouldn’t involve a yobbo like Drew. He’d be too unreliable.’
Baxter nodded. ‘Figures. I just wondered if there was more to him than that.’
‘Not unless he’s a bloody marvellous actor.’ Setting his empty mug on the coffee table, Latham got to his feet. ‘Well, I’d best head off. Urgent beachscapes to paint.’
‘No worries.’ Baxter stood up too, and they shook hands.
Just as he was going out the door, Latham turned to Baxter and said, ‘Off the record, do you own any firearms?’
‘Only my father’s old shotgun. Why?’
‘Hide it, but put it where you can get your hands on it if you need to. Remember that even a martial arts champion can’t beat a bullet.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ Baxter said.
Latham nodded. ‘Thanks for the great coffee and for lending me some of your time. And good luck with your writing. If you see or hear anything suspicious, get in touch quick and lively.’
Baxter put his hand over his heart and grinned. ‘I promise.’
With a heavy heart, he watched Latham’s van go down the track. It was obscene that Moondilla’s tranquillity was being undermined by a drug ring. He just hoped that Latham and Company would clean them up before long—and he was totally confident that in the meantime he could handle any drug emissary.