I lit the fire, fed the dog, made a quick pesto pasta and sat at the hearth eating slowly and trying to work out what I’d gained from the day’s exertions. A host of questions, some suspicious characters and activities, more avenues to explore. First thing in the morning I’d give Vince Tehlich a call and fill him in on Wilde Wastes’ after-dark activities. Did the benevolent cousin even exist? Burstill would have been disqualified from operating a business for years. Like any self-respecting swindler, surely he would have had a stash stored away for a scenario like this? As a financial advisor, he would have been a dab hand at setting up a company under a false flag. I had no idea what was in those drums, but it sure as hell wasn’t orange juice.
Could the illicit dumping be connected to the Wycliff killing? It was possible, but the best chance of uncovering the truth would be by means of a proper police investigation, something Vince Tehlich was better placed than me to pursue.
I felt exhausted, my eyelids clanging down, my head nodding, but when I went to bed sleep refused to come. There were too many questions swirling around my brain. For want of anything better to do, I had a go at the old Bakelite radio beside the bed. To my surprise, it still worked. All I could pick up was talkback. The callers had all been around when the radio was made, their average age about eighty, their IQs similar. A few minutes of that and I fled for the comfort of my Spotify playlist, drifted off to sleep listening to Strauss’s Alpine Symphony.
Sometime during the night I was woken by a sharp bark and a flurry of paw scratches. Did the dog want to go out? I found my torch. Flinders was sniffing about the north side of the room. The weather had deteriorated yet again. Apparently that was a permanent state of affairs up here. The rain had returned and the wind was ripping at the roofing irons, rattling the windows. No wonder the dog was agitated. I was a little agitated myself. I listened carefully. There was a discordant chorus of odd sounds coming through the walls and ceiling. Rats in the roof? Possums in the trees? Owls in the chimney? I heard scratches and rustles, shudders and squarks, screeches, thunks.
Thunks? That didn’t fit. They had the hollow sound of metal on wood. An axe. I frowned. Did the rats have axes? Or was Rocco across the road up and about early? Had he run out of firewood, decided to do a bit of late-night chopping? Weird. Another thunk, this one with a definite echo to it. I dragged myself out from under the covers and took a look through the front window. Nothing. Layers of darkness, low flying clouds, yellow moon, mad mauling winds.
I opened the front door and inspected the night with my torch. No sign of Rocco – no lights in that direction.
Another thunk, this time from the northern side of the house, then a tearing sound that sent a bolt of fear through me. Through the skylight, in a fragment of ref lected torchlight, I caught a glimpse of sudden movement. Something was heading my way, fast. I hurled myself out the door. I rolled off the verandah and huddled on the stone steps as an avalanche crashed around me.
Time whirled. Space crumbled and collapsed. The roof was rent asunder with an explosion of stars and leaves and the almighty crash of tons of wood, maybe a massive branch, maybe an entire tree, one of the big bastards. Disintegrating beams, crumbling corrugated iron, roaring winds. Odd spears pierced me in odd places. My mouth was full of debris and dust, my ears were ringing. Then things settled down. I tried to crawl out of the rubble, had trouble doing so. I was half buried under a pile of iron and wood, the remains of the verandah.
I glanced to the north, caught sight of a light bobbing towards me. Was that Rocco, coming to help out? No, wrong direction. It was the killer coming to finish me off. I braced, got ready to defend myself, though that was easier said than done. It felt like half the house was on top of me. I was in a cavity protected, in part, by an array of fallen boards and beams, but that could change in an instant. The light came closer and I tensed, waiting for the right moment. My usual dexterity was much reduced, but the anger stirring inside me might have been compensation.
I heard a set of footsteps slushing through the mud, and I saw a shadowy figure that appeared to be a man. He drew closer. He angled the torch into the wreckage, sweeping it across the shattered building. I caught sight of a boot – black with a blue flash down the outside. I was only going to get one chance at this. He stepped onto the remnants of the verandah. The moment he came within range I threw out a hand, seized an ankle and attempted to whip him off his feet. But the rubble shifted as I moved, pressed down on me, left me with neither the balance nor the reach to launch a proper attack. A boot heel slammed into my shoulder. By the time I struggled out from under the debris he was gone. I caught a glimpse of light back in the bushes from whence he’d come.
I moved in that direction, then heard a car start up, saw a set of headlights illuminate the trees. The vehicle spun for a moment in the mud, then swung out onto the road and thrashed away.
Should I set off in pursuit?
Another thought brushed everything else away: Flinders. I felt ashamed. I’d spent too many years living on my own, given insufficient thought to the welfare of my fellow creatures.
I ran back to the shack and whistled. Heard a pitiful whimper in response. I grabbed an axe from the woodshed and slammed my way through the wreckage. I found my torch, then the dog, over near the window. He was alive, but terribly knocked about, his eyes bewildered, beseeching. His back half appeared to have been crushed by an errant branch.
The tree had carved a swathe of destruction through the building, smashing the bed, cupboard and dresser. The kitchen bench was still intact, except for a layer of debris. I found my keys and phone. Where was the nearest vet? Windmark. I raised the branch, eased the dog out from under it and carried him to the car. I nestled him into the front seat and set off at speed.
The surgery advertised itself as providing a twenty-four/seven service, and the claim wasn’t far off the mark. While we were waiting, the dog rested his head against my thigh and shuddered. His big brown eyes gazed up at me. He must have been in agony.
‘Sorry, boy,’ I whispered, my heart filled with a fear that I was watching his life slip away.
I thought about that falling tree and ground my teeth. Somebody would pay for this. Things had just ratcheted up a lot of notches.
A car rocked up and the vet appeared, introducing herself as Hayley and frowning sympathetically when she laid eyes on Flinders. As we carried him indoors, another car drove into the car park, a woman at the wheel. Charlie, the nurse. They took him into the surgery. The pair spent half an hour working on him, then the vet came out into the waiting room and said she had to confirm I was the dog’s owner.
‘I’m responsible for him at the moment.’
She told me his back right leg was shattered and would need to be amputated at once. The left was broken, but there was a chance it could be saved. No promises: if the operation failed and infection set in, he’d have to be put down. I cursed myself. The poor creature hadn’t asked to be involved in my misadventures. He’d saved my life, been good company for a few days. Hayley asked if I was willing to consent to, and pay for, the surgery, to which I readily agreed, all the while looking forward to putting down whoever was responsible for this. She said that, even if the operation was successful, they’d have to keep Flinders at the clinic for a few days’ recovery and rehab.
I thanked them both, shook their hands, paid the deposit and sat in the HiLux contemplating my next move. It was after seven now: office hours, at least by rural police standards. Five minutes later I turned into the drive of the Windmark Police Station.