Vince was in residence. He scowled when I told him about the house and the dog, scowled some more when I told him about the toxic waste on Heffernan’s Lane. I gave him all I had on Wilde Wastes’ nocturnal activities – the location of the dump, the number of the truck – and he said he’d contact the Environmental Protection Authority straightaway, arrange surveillance and a raid on the property.
The scowl on his face was just about frozen into place by the time I told him what I wanted to do next.
‘The guy’s retired, Jess. Can’t you let him enjoy his autumn years in peace?’
I explained my thinking: Dan Starcevic, Nash Rankin’s old boss, clearly knew him better than anybody else I’d encountered thus far. He was the only person in this entire investigation who’d been described as close to Nash. He could well hold answers to the questions that had been bugging me for days.
Vince still had his doubts, but eventually he came round. The fact that somebody had gone to the trouble of trying to kill me – with a falling tree, no less, the same method they’d used on Raph Cambric – clearly suggested there was more to this case than met the eye. He said he’d get in touch with Dan Starcevic and find out if he was willing to speak to me. He insisted on following me back to my shattered home.
He clicked his tongue and shook his head when he saw the trail of destruction the branch had carved. ‘Widow maker,’ he muttered. I’d heard the expression before; it was what they called eucalypts out here. They could drop massive branches or upper trunks at any time, often with fatal consequences for those below. It was more than a branch. Virtually half the tree had shorne off and crashed down.
I showed him the rubble I’d been under when my assailant came in to deliver the coup de grâce. We examined the tree from which the branch had fallen. There were a couple of marks that could have come from an axe, but it was difficult to be certain, given the general deterioration of the branch. There were signs of root rot, of termite infestation. Whoever did this knew their timber. They’d chosen a tree which could well have fallen anyway. The incident would have passed off as an accident had I not spotted the axeman and lived to tell the tale.
We examined the dirt track on the north side of the house, where the vehicle had parked. There were numerous tyre treads there, but one stood out: a Dunlop Sport Maxx. It was recent and deep, slewing in the mud. My years of living in the red dirt country had given me an encyclopaedic knowledge of tyre treads; by the time I left Kulara, I knew half the town by their tyres (my offsider knew the other half by their footprints).
‘We gonna make it formal?’ asked Vince.
I’d been wondering that myself. The danger of reporting the episode to the crime unit was that I’d have to fess up to my own surreptitious activities. Word would doubtless find its way back to Dougherty or Wallace.
‘Maybe I’ll keep it under the radar for now,’ I replied.
Vince put a call through to the local Emergency Services, who said they’d despatch a crew to deal with the tree.
He stood on the steps and stared at the wreckage, clearly concerned. ‘You be careful,’ he warned me as he departed.
The wind was settling down now, but the sky was still overcast – unless that was a reflection of my mood. Seeing poor old Flinders so badly knocked about had rattled me. I shuddered to think what it would do to Nash when he found out.
Whose toes had I been treading on? The three charmers from the day before were the prime suspects, of course. It could have been any one of them, although Paul Burstill seemed the least likely. Somebody had carried out the initial inspection and prepping of the tree, and surely that would have happened during the daylight hours, while I was away? If Burstill was responsible, he was a bloody quick worker. And if there was one thing Burstill wasn’t, it was quick. Mind you, he could have assigned one of his employees to shadow me when I left the recycling plant. I’d had the discomfiting feeling that I was being followed. But still, the timing seemed unlikely.
Who else? The brute who attacked me in the dark obviously wasn’t Ronald Laws, but who was to say he hadn’t recruited someone? How did whoever it was know where I lived? Maybe that wasn’t such an obstacle. Half the population of Satellite probably knew about the female copper in the cabin on Shady Grove Road by now.
The SES crew rolled up soon afterwards, accompanied by Lance Cunningham, who stared at the ruins of my house in horror. Vince Tehlich had filled him in. He said he’d try to find me alternative accommodation, but I told him I’d stay here for now, even if it meant camping in a smashed and battered hovel. Then my neighbour, Rocco, came over to see what all the fuss was about and stayed to join the party. He was stocky and bald, well into his seventies and handy with a chainsaw. The SES volunteers were a gang of bouncy reprobates in big boots and orange overalls who immediately set to work with their axes and chainsaws. Lance pulled on a set of chainsaw chaps and joined in. The tree was chopped and largely removed in a couple of hours.
Just as they were finishing up, another mini-convoy arrived. The Kelly gang. Sam, with his son Nick, a couple of apprentices – one of them Karly Tehlich – and a truckload of building materials and equipment. Sam, a burly bloke in his fifties, stood looking at the ruins before he eventually managed a wry smile.
‘When Luce told me you had a roof that needed repairing . . .’
Vince had told them about my predicament. Lucy was there, along with Possum and my father, Ben, who gazed at the remnants of my home wearily, hands on hips, eyebrows raised, mouth fallen. He was a wiry, sun-scarred fellow with brutal boots and a hat the size of a light truck tyre. I could understand his resignation and concern. There’s always been a dangerous current, a riptide, running under my life. Having spent most of his own life out on the edge, he recognised a fellow traveller when he saw one and blamed himself.
My visitors worked like a mob of Amish barn-raisers on speed. By knock-off time I had a roof over my head and a set of more or less intact walls and doors. The table and bed had been crushed but Nick, a bush furniture-maker by trade, improvised a replacement of the former and my indestructible swag did the job of the latter. Some of the repair-work was rough and ready, but it would do for now. Possum turned out to be a devil with the duct tape: she used it to seal the gaps, cover the temporary wires and to stick transparent plastic sheeting over the broken windows.
It was getting on for dark when she taped a hand-drawn sign – HOME SWEET HOME, with a cartoon figure of a bandaged cabin on crutches – over the door.
We all stood in the yard and admired the finished product. I thanked them all profusely. Dad invited me to stay with him at his cottage in Canticle Creek, but I demurred. I didn’t know who’d been responsible for the carnage visited upon me that morning, but I wanted to be ready and waiting for them if they came back for another go.
Lucy persisted. She said I was looking a little ragged around the edges, that there was a warm bed and a hot meal waiting for me back at the Bluehouse, the family’s home in Canticle Creek. I eventually came round. Maybe the universe owed me a bit of TLC after the tribulations of the past few days. The counterattack could wait.