I was fifty metres down Shady Grove Road when I caught a glimpse of a passing truck in my rear-view mirror. It was rolling along the main road, heading east. I drove a little more. There were heavy vehicles of one sort or another running all over the ranges: fuel tankers, cattle trucks, roadworks vehicles, water carts. But for some reason, this one was playing on my mind. I cursed quietly. It had been a long day, a warm bed and a hot meal were beckoning. But I couldn’t relax until I’d scratched the itch.
I turned around and headed after the truck. In a few minutes I caught sight of it up ahead. It was a Hino flatbed with drop sides and a high lift tailgate, heavily loaded with blue drums. As it went round a curve, I caught sight of the name painted on the side panel. Wilde Wastes. The company Paul Burstill worked for.
What was in those drums? Presumably some sort of liquid waste: hydrocarbons, solvents, chemicals, whatever. I recalled seeing a similar vehicle in Wilde Wastes’ yard, Burstill handing an envelope to the driver. What was it doing up here? I had no idea what the state did with its liquid waste, but surely the treatment plants weren’t out in these green rolling hills, among the tourists and wineries?
Did I have time to distract myself with another investigation, especially one that was more than likely a wild goose chase? No. Then again, given the character of the company’s foreman – avaricious, amoral, aggrieved – maybe it would turn out to be more than a wild goose chase. Perhaps there was a connection to the Wycliff incident. Raph Cambric could have spotted one of the trucks running round the hills, asked the same sort of questions I was, made the mistake of confronting the driver.
I held back, doing my best to keep some space between the truck and my ute. If it turned off to some treatment facility, well and good. I’d go home and warm myself by the fire. But it didn’t. It kept going, through miniscule places I’d barely heard of: Guilders Glen, Dingo Springs, Waterman Gorge. The driver was keeping well under the speed limit, obeying all the rules, crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s. The bush on either side of the road was as black as bitumen. There were other cars about, but the further north-east we went, the more the traffic thinned out. I kept well back, worried that he’d spot me. If the driver was involved in anything illegal, surely he’d be keeping a lookout? He gave no sign of it though, moving steadily through the hills.
Finally, twenty minutes past the no-horse town of Saddleback, he turned right onto a dirt road. I almost missed him, just catching a glimpse of his red tail-lights as they vanished round a bend. I pulled into a siding a few hundred metres along. I waited there for a moment, giving him time to check that he wasn’t being followed, then turned around and crept back.
The dirt road was called Heffernan’s Lane. I considered my options. There was no sign of the truck, but that didn’t mean much. He could have turned into one of the surrounding properties, or he could still be rattling down the lane, heading for somewhere really remote. Maybe the driver lived down there and was taking the truck home for an early start?
I got out and stood on the roadside, watching and listening. My dilemma was resolved when I heard a hiss of distant air brakes and spotted a set of lights working their way down a valley to my left, maybe five hundred metres away.
I left the car and took the dog, worried he might be in danger if I left him there alone. Useful as he was, he was no rottweiler, and god only knew what these buggers were up to or what lookouts they had posted. We came to what was presumably a farm gate. No, not a farm. The dilapidated sign at the front said WOODGRAIN SAWMILL. There was a smaller notice on the top rail: TRESPASSERS PROSECUTED.
I climbed over the gate and took to the track, guiding myself by the occasional flash of light from my covered torch. There were truck-tyre tracks, fresh and heavy in the mud. A minute or two’s walk brought me to a building which, like the sign out front, had an abandoned feel to it. This must be the mill. I ran a hand over the handle on the front door: it was locked fast and covered in dust. There was a sizeable workshop behind it, but there was no sign of recent human activity: no motors humming, no lights glowing. I risked a quick glance with the torch. There was grass in the roof gutters and holes in the skylights, heavy machinery lying dormant.
Flinders was getting the hang of this investigation business. He ran to the left, then the right, had a sniff and a bark and led me to a track that wound down into the valley. I walked for thirty seconds then spotted the truck down there, parked near a creek. Alongside it was a backhoe, busily working by floodlight.
I needed to get closer. I followed the track for a hundred metres, keeping one eye on the worksite below. I saw somebody on the back of the truck roll a drum forward and drop it into the bucket of the backhoe. A cloud of greasy diesel fumes floated over the scene, a portable generator rumbled. I was maybe two hundred metres away when the men suddenly stopped what they were doing and turned their eyes in my direction. I dropped to the ground. Had they heard something? Was there an alarm? One of them swung a spotlight in the direction of the track I was on and traversed it over the grassy slopes.
A flurry of wind ran down the valley. I was on an exposed track in a bare paddock, a dangerous position, but as the spotty moved on I caught a glimpse of a patch of dogwood further across the incline that would offer a level of protection if I could reach it. One of the men walked to the edge of the circle of light and gazed in my direction. Then he was joined by another man, this one, I was troubled to note, wielding a long rif le with a night scope. The operator of the backhoe? He raised the weapon and swept the slopes. I grabbed the dog and buried my face in the dirt, wondering what to do if they spotted me. Run like hell and hope the guy was as shithouse a shot as he was a toxic waste disposer?
The mud was a shitty mixture of diesel, grease and whatever was in those drums.
When the light moved away I took off, crouching as low as I could. I was relieved to reach the dogwood. I crouched in the bushes and looked back at the scene below. The workers had disappeared but the backhoe had resumed operations. Then I heard the truck start up and realised I’d left myself exposed in yet another way – my car was still out on the road. They may have had their suspicions that they were being spied upon, but if they spotted the car as they left, they’d know for sure. Maybe they’d even be able to tie it to me. Had Burstill taken note of my vehicle? My rego number? Wilde Wastes doubtless would have had security cameras, given the shifty business it was running.
The vegetation thinned out as I worked my way uphill, but it still made for some painful moments. I could feel scratches and welts opening up across my face, bites and stings on my hands, creepy-crawlies in my pants. When I heard the truck change gears for the run up the hill, I increased my pace. Finally I reached the fence and scrambled through. The dog was hot upon my heels. I dashed to the car, jumped in, drove without lights for a short distance then waited and watched. The truck red-lined it up the slope, hit the road and turned right, going back the way it had come.
I headed for home, one eye on the rear-view mirror.