In the close confines of the carriage, the shotgun sounded like a thunderclap.
We both instinctively dived in fright for the ground, deafened by the noise. I reached for Michelle and pulled her tight against me, expecting him to flush us out of the dark with the torch and finish us off properly. Because he couldn’t miss at that range and we were sitting ducks in a trap rendezvous I should never have agreed to walk into in the first place. Michelle’s body quivered uncontrollably as I held her face to my chest while we waited for him to come. But there was only silence, and a moment later running footsteps. Then a car door slammed shut and there was the screech of tyres as it took off. Michelle broke down and cried inconsolably as we both realised he’d only fired a warning shot into the wall of the carriage to scare us. They’d gone, bolted. We were both alive and Michelle was free.
I called Big Oakie straightaway and told him where to find us. Then I put Michelle on the phone. Poor kid, she cradled the phone instinctively to her right ear, except of course it was no longer there. A bloody bandage was all that remained. She switched to her left side and the waterworks started all over. I don’t know who was crying more, her or Veronica or Big Oakie. I gave her a minute or so, and when they were convinced she was safe, I took the phone back off Michelle.
‘You’ll need to get her to a hospital, Oakie. You want me to call an ambulance?’
‘No. We’re three minutes away, been following Kevin and Tiny. We can get her to a hospital quicker than any ambulance’ll get there.’
‘Okay. I’m going to call the guys. I’ll see you when you get here.’
Oakie and Veronica got there first, just ahead of Tiny and Kevin, who roared up behind them in a big F100. Oakie’s four-wheel-drive screeched to a halt in the laneway next to the shunting yard and they jumped out and met us as we scrambled over the waist-high fence. They embraced Michelle with hugs and kisses and enough tears of joy to refill the Eildon weir. I stood and watched, a lump in my throat. Michelle was their flesh and blood. They had lost their daughter, but now had her back from death’s door.
Oakie extracted himself from the huddle and turned to me.
‘Thank you, Punter, for getting her back. I’ll be forever grateful.’
I nodded and gripped his arm. ‘You’ll need to get her to a doctor.’
Kevin butted in urgently before Oakie could answer. ‘Listen, no time to waste if we’re going to follow ’em on the D Tracker. Who’s coming with us?’
Oakie looked across at Michelle and Veronica then faced us.
‘Me and Veronica will take Michelle to the hospital. You guys go follow the bastards.’
We left them there and bundled into Tiny’s F100. I sat in the middle, Tiny doing the driving and Kevin with the laptop perched on his knees next to me.
‘Where are they now?’ said Tiny.
Kevin and I studied the screen of a street map laid out before us. A red dot signified the D Tracker flashing from the backpack in the kidnappers’ car. It showed up quite clearly on the screen, and I could see how they’d easily been able to keep so close to me throughout the chase. Kevin pointed his finger at the dot and said, ‘They’re on Dandy Road heading back towards town. Let’s get after ’em.’
Tiny floored the accelerator as we crossed the railway lines and tore down Kambrook Road. He ignored an orange light then gunned up the big V8 and drove onto the highway and into town. ‘How we doin’?’ Tiny grinned a big toothy smile. Gentle giant, always fun to be with, whether you were sharing a coldie or chasing kidnappers.
‘About two kilometres behind ’em,’ said Kevin. ‘They’re still on the main road.’
‘What shape was Michelle in?’ Kevin asked me.
‘Didn’t really get a chance to talk to her, you guys and Oakie got there within minutes. She seems okay, bar the ear. They’ll patch that up at the hospital. But she’s walking, talking and she’s home alive.’
‘The pricks, doing that to her.’ Kevin shook his head in disgust as he monitored the tracker. ‘Make you jump through hoops too, did they?’
I thought about the punk rockers I’d escaped from, the trains and trams I’d jumped off and the running around town I’d done to deliver the ransom. I rubbed at the welt marks that had sprung up from the pack straps digging into my shoulders.
‘You could say that.’
I was going to give him the whole story, but then the computer started to beep.
‘The fuck’s that?’ said Tiny.
‘Dunno, an orange light’s appeared on the console.’
‘It’s the battery,’ I said. ‘It’s about to die.’
‘That’s all we fuckin’ need.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t get a chance to charge it up properly when they brought the meeting time forward.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘Still heading into town. No, hang on, they’ve just swung a left down Chapel.’
My laptop gave another ominous-sounding beep and the orange light blinked another warning. Kevin turned around in his seat and looked at me.
‘How much battery you reckon this thing’s got left?’
‘When the orange light comes on, about five minutes, tops.’
‘Okay, nothing to lose. We’ll need to get up close and sight ’em, or we’ll lose ’em. You better step on it, Tiny.’
I knew Tiny had been recruited by Oakie for his bulk, but he had other talents as well. He knew how to throw a car around and he did now, working the big engine hard. We reached Chapel Street and Tiny floored it down the middle of the road, the F100’s canopy vibrating from the bumps of the tram tracks. Some tool or piece of equipment was bouncing around in the back; maybe it was his axe. We pulled up sharply for a red light and found ourselves on the inside of a hotted-up Subaru. A couple of hoons playing loud hip-hop music gave us the eye and revved their engine like they wanted some action.
‘Quick!’ said Kevin. ‘They’ve pulled a left three streets down. We’re not far away.’
The opposite traffic light had just turned red when Tiny accelerated forward leaving the Subaru flat-footed and its occupants slack-jawed. There was a tram coming up ahead and the damn thing was pulling up to take on some passengers. No problem. Tiny overtook it on the right-hand side with a flurry of screeching brakes and furious horns from oncoming traffic.
‘Like that?’ He beamed at us.
Kevin and I peered intently at the screen. The orange light had stopped flickering and was now on permanently. An imminent sign of power failure.
‘They’ve stopped. In Averon Street. That’s next left.’
Tiny hit the skids as the turn came up. Then he cornered into the suburban street.
The tracker showed a stationary red dot about a hundred metres just up ahead of us on the left. We figured they must have parked there, so Tiny pulled into the kerb and killed the lights. We joined a line of cars parked out on the roadway. A couple of cars drove past and another went by in the opposite direction; it was hardly a quiet location. Glancing around, I noticed the street was filled with blocks of flats that ran adjacent to a parkland.
‘What you want to do?’ said Tiny, drumming his fingers impatiently on the wheel.
Kevin and I looked at each other, then down at the laptop.
‘Cruise on past, Tiny, and don’t stop. You keep your head down, Punter, as we go by, just in case they recognise you.’
Tiny flicked the lights on and we drove on towards the red dot. I ducked down on the seat with Tiny and Kevin being my eyes and ears. Tiny drove cautiously, not so slowly as to draw attention, but just enough for a good look.
‘It’s locked on to that one,’ said Kevin. ‘The white Falcon. I got its number.’
‘Fuckin’ thing’s empty,’ said Tiny, gawking at the car as he drove past.
‘It can’t be. Are you sure?’
‘There’s no one in it. You got the right car?’
‘Course I’ve got the right fuckin’ car,’ said Kevin, an edge to his voice. ‘It wouldn’t beep unless the money pack’s there.’
‘They might have left the money in the boot,’ I volunteered. ‘Could be they’ve gone into one of those blocks of flats.’
Tiny drove up to the end of the street then did a U-turn and parked where we could see the other car. I sat up again and looked back at it.
We sat silently for a moment, watching, then the laptop uttered a final pathetic beep and the screen went black.
‘Don’t suppose that thing charges up on the cigarette lighter?’ said Tiny.
I looked glumly at him.
‘Nah . . . didn’t think so.’
‘Least we know which one it is,’ said Tiny. ‘Whatta we do now?’
Tiny and I were both for waiting around a while, to see if they came back out of one of the blocks of flats. Kevin was suspicious; didn’t like it.
‘Tiny, would you leave three hundred grand lying in your car?’
‘Well, like Punter said, if it was in the boot it’d be safe enough.’
‘Yeah? What if someone knocked the car off? Then you’d be fucked, wouldn’t you. Tell you what I’m gonna do, I’m gonna walk past, take a look,’ he said, opening the door. ‘Be ready to rock ’n’ roll if I need you.’
Tiny and I watched as he walked up the footpath towards the white Falcon. When he got close he walked around it, casually patting his pockets like he was looking for his keys. He looked in the driver’s side window, then in the passenger side door, which he opened.
‘Christ, what’s he fuckin’ doin’ now?’ said Tiny.
Kevin pulled something out of the back seat, then, cool as a cucumber, shut the door and walked back to us with a smallish object under his arm. In a moment he’d rejoined us and got in the front seat again.
‘Whatcha get, whatcha find?’ said Tiny.
‘This,’ said Kevin, thrusting a canvas package down on my lap. It was the yellow backpack. Empty, save for the D Tracker concealed in the bottom of the pack’s flooring. ‘They’ve swapped the money into another bag and I’ll bet they’ve pissed off and dumped that car for another. The doors weren’t locked and the keys were left in the ignition. I’ll give you a written guarantee it’s stolen.’
I stared at the empty yellow pack and the lifeless laptop. Looked down the street at the dumped getaway car. Jumped in fright as Kevin smashed his fist in anger into the console. We’d lost them.
On Saturday morning we met as arranged at City West Police Station.
On one side of the interview table was myself, Big Oakie and his lawyer Ronald Ferguson, QC. Ferguson had also brought along a junior lawyer to take notes. Alistair, he introduced him as: a skinny, youngish-looking guy in his twenties. Bit of an overkill to bring him along, I thought. But Ferguson was running the show, so who was I to argue.
On the other side were two cops from the State Crime Squad which had responsibility for various major crimes including kidnapping. We were introduced to a Detective Inspector Rod Bryson and one of his staff, Detective Sergeant Gillian West. They nodded cordially enough at Oakie and myself, but looked at Ferguson and his assistant with a degree of suspicion. After all any lawyer, a QC no less, marching into a police station and wanting to make a statement on behalf of a client could only spell trouble.
‘Good morning,’ began Ferguson cheerfully. ‘As I mentioned in my earlier telephone conversation, I am here representing Mr White and his associate Mr Punter in the matter of the Whites’ recently kidnapped daughter Michelle.’
Ferguson was as smooth and polished as his manicured fingernails, which he held out in front of him like a concert pianist about to play a symphony. He was fifty-something and a little podgy from the good life lived as one of the top silks in the country. He certainly dressed up to his income, wearing an expensive, handmade, blue pinstripe suit, with a top-of-the-range Breitling watch peeping out from the bottom of his sleeve. He wore a pair of classic black Church’s, polished to the nines in which he raised and lowered himself in a heel-to-toe fashion. Oakie had told me that he only chose those clients he wanted to represent. Fortunately, he was also a lover of the turf and a long-standing betting client of Oakie’s. When Oakie had rung him last night, seeking advice, it was he who had suggested the course of action we should take.
‘Thankfully, Michelle was returned safely last night after an agreed ransom was paid to the kidnappers. Now that the imminent threat of danger to Ms White has passed, my clients would like to assist the police in any way possible.’
He’d said his piece, eloquently and succinctly, and looked over to Bryson and West to gauge their response. West spoke first. If we were expecting any empathy from her, we were going to be sorely disappointed.
‘Let me see if I’ve got this right. Your client’s daughter was kidnapped and returned yesterday after you paid a ransom to get her back?’
‘That is correct,’ said Ferguson, checking to see that his assistant was writing everything down.
‘How old is she?’ she asked.
‘Michelle’s twenty-five,’ replied Oakie. ‘And like Mr Ferguson says, now that we’ve got her back safe and sound, we just want to help in any way we can.’
‘I see. Back safe and sound.’ She reached down to her notebook and flipped open a page. ‘We got a call from the Alfred Hospital about a suspicious admission early this morning. A young lady who’d apparently had her ear sliced off after an abduction. Your daughter, Mr White?’
Oakie shot a look at Ferguson. He nodded at him to continue.
‘Yes, that’s Michelle. My wife is with her at the hospital now.’
‘Hardly what you’d call a safe return, Mr White. Am I to understand you bypassed the police and dealt with these kidnappers yourself?’
‘I, that is, we . . .’ said Oakie, stuttering for the right words to say, ‘felt we had a better chance of getting Michelle back alive. Especially after the last one.’ He looked across at Ferguson, who gave him a smiling nod of encouragement.
‘The last one?’
‘Jackie Keegan’s wife. The other one that finished up . . .’
‘I know how she finished up,’ said West tartly. ‘We handled that case ourselves. And if you had come to us in the first place, instead of trying to play the hero civilian, we might just have got your daughter back in one piece. Not to mention your ransom. I can’t believe how stupid you were putting your daughter at such risk. And now you come in here expecting us to pick up the pieces, catch the bad guys for you. Is that it, huh?’
Ferguson was quick to jump to Oakie’s defence. ‘Detective, my client did what he thought was best for his daughter at the time. What’s done is done. We are here of our own volition and are happy to make available any information that may shed further light on the case.’
West shook her head slowly from side to side, letting out a cynical sigh.
The other cop, Inspector Bryson, chipped in. ‘So where do you fit in, then?’ he asked me.
‘I’m a friend of Oakie’s. I helped deliver the ransom money.’
‘Really? And how much was the ransom?’
‘Three hundred thousand dollars.’
‘I see. And when did it occur to you all that you were going to handle it yourselves, leaving the police out of it?’
‘I guess it was when we got the ransom note,’ said Oakie.
Ferguson held it up and passed it over to Bryson to look at.
‘We got a letter and then I fart-arsed around trying to get the money together. When I couldn’t deliver it up by the time they wanted, that’s when they . . . sent around a courier with Michelle’s ear. If we wanted to see Michelle alive again, we had to play by their rules. Veronica, that’s my wife . . . we couldn’t help but think about how poor Jackie Keegan’s wife had ended up after they had gone to the police. I’m sorry,’ said Oakie, ‘but when it’s your daughter’s life on the line, you make the decision rightly or wrongly and that’s what we chose to do. I suppose you’ll have lots of questions you’ll want to ask us.’
West smiled for the first time. ‘Oh yes, Mr White. And you too,’ she said, fixing me with a cold stare.
They did ask us lots of questions, grilled us both for about two hours. At least we had Ferguson in there batting for us, butting in now and then with his standard line: ‘My client doesn’t have to answer that’, or ‘My client has already answered that.’ All the while Alistair took notes.
West seemed to take a special interest in me. What a fucking bitch from hell she was.
‘How long have you known Mr White?’
‘About ten years.’
‘And he entrusted you to deliver this three-hundred-thousand-dollar ransom for him.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What do you do for a living?’
‘I play the races.’
She looked at me incredulously.
‘I know, it’s punter by name and punter by trade. But it’s what I do.’
‘And how long have you been engaged in that occupation?’
‘Since I was a teenager. Twelve, maybe thirteen years.’
‘You make a good living, betting the horses?’
‘I scratch a wage, manage to keep a roof over my head. I’m not big-time like some of the players I know.’
‘So I’d imagine that a large amount of cash would come in extremely handy for someone like yourself?’
Ferguson jumped in and told her the question was irrelevant. I answered her anyway.
‘Sure, I could do with three hundred grand. Couldn’t you? But I’m hardly going to steal it from a friend whose daughter’s life is at risk.’
She looked me over. I’d had a shower and freshened up with a shave and a change of clothes. But my face was a bit puffy and bruised from last night. She knew the telltale signs of fight marks.
‘Looks like the ransom didn’t go off quite as smoothly as you thought?’
‘They ran me around.’
‘So I can see. Let’s talk about your friendship with Mr White. You said you’d known him for at least ten years.’
‘Uh-huh. Been betting with you at least that long, haven’t I, Oakie?’
Oakie nodded in agreement.
‘And Jackie Keegan, you admitted to betting with him too?’ she said, glancing down at her notes.
‘I bet with a lot of bookmakers.’
‘So it seems. But you had an association with a bookmaker whose wife was kidnapped and murdered. And now you seem to have become involved with another bookmaker’s daughter’s kidnap.’
Ferguson objected again and so did I.
‘Yeah, I know Keegan and Oakie. I bet with them. So do lots of people.’ I turned to Oakie. ‘How many betting tickets did you write at the track last Saturday?’
Oakie thought for a moment. ‘About seven hundred.’
I looked back at West, barely able to suppress a smug grin. ‘There you go; half the punters on the track fit your description. You interviewed any of them yet? You’re backing the wrong horse if you think I’m your man.’
‘Am I?’ West continued doggedly. ‘I can think of several motives. Maybe you set the whole thing up. You seem to know a lot of people around the track, including all the parties involved in the two kidnaps. And by your own admission, as a small-time gambler you could certainly do with the money.’
Told you she was a fucking bitch.
Next off, she asked who else apart from Oakie and Veronica knew about Michelle’s snatch. We had to tell her about Tiny and Kevin; she’d have found out anyway.
‘Surnames?’ she demanded.
‘What? Oh, Tiny and Kevin. No, I don’t know.’ I said.
‘You don’t know. You go on a wild goose chase with a backpack full of money and two people you don’t know from Adam.’
‘Look, they are mates of Oakie’s. If he says they are all right, then as far as I’m concerned, they are okay.’
‘Trust me,’ said Oakie, joining in, ‘they are solid.’
‘Mates,’ she said sarcastically. ‘What if I put it to you that Oakie’s mates could have orchestrated the whole thing?’
‘It was me a minute ago. What’s changed your mind?’
‘Don’t get fucking smart, Punter. You didn’t report a major crime to the police when you should have. We can still charge you all for that, don’t forget. Then you waltz in with your fancy QC, expecting us to greet you with arms open. I gotta tell you, I don’t like your story and I don’t like you.’
Feeling’s mutual. I glared angrily at Ferguson. He just winked at me. All right for him, water off a duck’s back. Me; I was the one in the firing line. She eyeballed me with a contemptuous stare, got up and helped herself to an instant coffee at the kitchenette. None offered to us, of course.
‘We’ll need to talk to your two friends, Mr White.’
‘Of course,’ said Oakie. ‘I’ll leave you their contact details.’
West fingered her polystyrene cup and started back on me.
‘What about this run-around with the ransom? You say you had tracking software attached to the pack, which Tiny and Kevin were following in their car?’
‘That’s right. They had me go from Smith Street to the city, through the MCG to Richmond Station. Then I had to jump on a train. Ended up at the Glenhuntly shunting yards. The guys were able to follow me all the way there, where we picked up Michelle.’
‘You’ll have to point out to us the exact route you took.’
‘I can do that.’
‘You’ll need to.’
‘Well, I will.’
‘Good.’
‘Okay then.’ For God’s sake. Bloody interview was descending into a farce.
‘Now, tell me more.’
More was describing the kidnappers, of which I had no real details I could help her with, as they both wore masks. Oakie wasn’t much use either, suggesting Michelle might have the best description of them. West wanted to hear all about the ransom exchange and the following of the kidnappers’ car until we found it deserted in the street. Then she wanted it all again from the beginning. I took her through the night we waited for the kidnappers’ call. Took her through the special gear I went shopping for. I went through everything I knew until I sounded like a recorded message.
Then there was no more to tell her and she finally took our statements, which Ferguson and his junior carefully read through and checked against their notes. As we stood up to leave, Bryson said, ‘Mr White, we’d like you to accompany us to the hospital where we will speak to Michelle and your wife.’
‘Sure,’ said Oakie.
‘Do you still need me?’ I said.
‘Not for the moment,’ said West, the sour, downturned lips and pitiless eyes working perfectly in tandem. ‘But don’t stray too far, Punter, we’ll want to speak to you again. Real soon.’
When I’d finished with the police, I drove straight out to Caulfield races. I can’t tell you what a relief it was to get some normality back into my life. Michelle’s kidnapping seemed to have taken over everything, although in reality it had only been last Thursday that I’d got caught up in the saga. I flashed my binoculars at the gateman, a dozen different membership badges hanging off them. He didn’t look too hard and waved me through the members’ entrance. I parked in my usual spot under the gums next to the trainer’s car park. Amongst the gleaming BMWs and other prestige cars was one that was easy enough to recognise: a scarlet-red, top-of-the-range Mercedes that belonged to my father. The sort of car befitting a leading trainer, which he’d been for years.
Dad, David (D.J.) Punter, had naturally expected his two sons to follow him into the training business. My older brother, also named David, and I had slaved away mucking out boxes, riding work and running feeds before and after school right through our teenage years. My father was a hard taskmaster and he was determined to show the other staff that his sons enjoyed no special privileges. And so he’d berate and belittle us for the smallest error. David was terrified of him and soon learned to do things right. I on the other hand, rebelled against him. When I was sixteen and thought I knew it all, I chucked it in, told him to shove it. Getting out of bed on freezing-cold mornings and riding pullers wasn’t for me. I was never going to remain small enough to be a jockey anyway. And sticking around for another fifteen years to learn the ropes as a trainer appealed even less. Especially if I was getting abused and treated like an idiot in front of everyone by the old man.
I’d just started to get my first taste of life as a gambler. I’d had a winning run and built up a bit of a bank, so when the eventual showdown came, I walked out and never came back. In Dad’s eyes, it was preordained that David and I would head up the stable when the time came and follow him into the training business. He never approved of my punting for a living, accusing me of wasting ‘what little talent I had’. ‘Everyone dies, everyone pays taxes and all punters end up broke’ was his motto. A life on the punt was for bums, and if that was what I chose, then I was destined for the gutter. The thought of working just a few days a week and going surfing when I felt like it was totally abhorrent to a workaholic like him. It had caused a rift between us and we hadn’t spoken for some years until recently, but Dad had mellowed towards me and accepted that I would never be the trainer he wanted me to be. That mantle would be passed to David, who had assumed the position of Dad’s assistant trainer at his Parraboo Lodge stables.
Dad had several horses engaged today, including a couple I would think about backing if I got the right odds. I stopped to let a horse and its strapper walk past on the way into their stalls. The strapper was a local from Pricey’s yard. He gave me a cheery ‘G’day, Punter, whadda ya know?’ as his horse pulled him briskly along. It was all he could do to keep up with the excited animal.
‘How’s things, Steve,’ I answered, but he was already gone. Racehorses always take precedence at the track.
At the shed selling racebooks stood George, an elderly Salvation Army officer holding his red and white plastic bucket just like he did at every race meeting. He smiled at me and thanked me as I put a note in the slot. Some people have superstitions; they wear their lucky green ties or the same suit to the races. Me, I give to the Salvos, and some days I win and some days I lose, but I’d feel awful unlucky if I didn’t stuff a note into George’s bucket before the first. I always give to the Salvos before a meeting, it’s a ritual I go through. I sometimes tip them after a meeting too if I’ve had a winning day. I don’t seem to tip anyone else, except a waiter if a restaurant’s service is good, so I don’t know what my thing is with the Salvos. Perhaps it’s because they never ask for your money. They just stand there, silent and respectful. Not like some of the joke charities you see in town. People dressed in koala-bear suits collecting for the environment and thrusting tins in your face. I hate that.
‘Thanks, Punter. I hope you have a good day.’
‘Thanks, George. You too.’
I crossed the birdcage area and trainers were already saddling their runners for the first race. When I reached the betting ring I made straight for my favourite place by the elm tree. Its huge trunk guards you from the weather and hides you from all the urgers who want to let you know what’ll win the third, and by the way, can they borrow a lazy twenty until next week. I feel strangely comforted there, peering out from behind my own little alcove, watching all the betting fluctuations and the passing parade of people. The attendance wasn’t bad for a wintry August meeting. At least the rain had eased off, not like last night where I’d copped it in buckets running that ransom all around Melbourne. It was cool, though, and most punters were well rugged up for a chilly afternoon’s racing. I let my eye run through the crowd, picking off the regulars. All the desperates and scammers and the urgers and tipsters who make up a racing crowd.
Trader Bill had some mug cornered by the bar and was showing him an armful of watches. Trader had connections at the docks and could sell you just about anything you wanted, but his specialty was watches, fake Rolexes and other expensive brands. He took great pains to assure you that even a jeweller couldn’t tell the difference. I’d heard the line many times before. Thommo was working the ring too. He’s a four-wallet-a-day man. Pickpocket, that is. He’s deadly in the members’ area when punters have had a few too many champagnes. When he identifies a likely victim, his go is the ‘bump and apology’ tactic. Accidentally walks into them, apologises profusely and is off and away before they even realise his nimble fingers have lifted their wallet or purse. Thommo was just sizing up the crowd for the moment. Too early yet for the alcohol to kick in and give him an edge. For the time being he was like a predator kingfish, content to sit back from the bait school and wait for a stray to show itself.
‘Punter, I want a word with you, son.’
Jim Beering’s officious voice always sounded like a headmaster chiding a Year Ten student. But Beering was no headmaster. He was the chief racecourse detective for Racing Victoria. He had on his usual brown suit. I’d never seen him in any other colour; he had probably worn it back in his police days. He’d been a long time retired from the police force now, but still carried all the mannerisms of a cop. Hands behind the back. Probing, unblinking stare at your eyes. Always greeting you with a question. He was doing all three to me now.
‘Would you mind, Jim, you’re blocking my view. Can’t see the odds with you standing there like that.’
He ignored my request and looked at me like he must have done to a thousand criminals in his time. He was taller than me by a good margin, heavier too, especially around the waist. But despite his obvious lack of fitness, Jim could throw that weight around when he needed to.
‘I wouldn’t have thought with all you’ve been up to, that you’d have time to be worrying about betting.’
‘Turn it up, Jim, what are you talking about?’ The trouble with Beering, you never knew exactly what he actually knew. Bloody man talked in riddles and if you jumped in too early you might say something you’d regret. I’d helped Jim out over the years with the odd bit of racing information when he needed it, and a couple of times I’d actually helped him solve a case. In the early days he’d been suspicious of me, thinking I’d been implicated in an enquiry he’d been working on. But, over time, he’d grown to trust me and, likewise, I came to accept him.
For an answer, he thrust his thumb backwards, pointing towards an empty bookmaker’s stand in the betting ring. It was Big Oakie White’s stand, only today he wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
‘It may interest you to learn that I received a phone call this morning from the State Crime Squad. Seems a Detective Sergeant Gillian West wanted to check out your bona fides. Asked me if I knew you.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘Well, the fact that you’re here at the races suggests I said something favourable. Otherwise you’d still be down at the nick.’
‘Thanks for putting in a good word, Jim. I owe you one.’
‘Well you can start right now and tell me everything about what happened to Big Oakie’s daughter. The police told me what’s going on and of course I’ll have to carry out an official investigation of my own, seeing as Oakie’s a licensed racing person.’
‘Jesus, Jim, I just spent two hours down at the station telling them all I know. I’ve got to make a living, you know.’
‘It’ll only take half an hour or so. We might as well get it over and done with.’
‘How about I drop around your office after the second last, give me some time to try and back a winner.’
Beering stepped by my side and pulled out his racebook. Thumbed it open to the second last and said, ‘See your old man’s got a runner in that race. Can it win?’
Bloody cheek of the man. Hauls me in for an interview and I’m supposed to tip him a winner as well.
‘I’ll tell you something, Jim,’ I said in my best urger’s voice, ‘that mare of Dad’s is a bank teller’s job.’
Beering scoffed good-naturedly. ‘A bank teller’s job! You Punter clan are the best used-car salesmen I’ve ever met. You’re even worse than your father and he’d tip you there was water down a well, he would.’
‘Well, you asked me its chances and I’ve just told you what I think.’
‘I’ll see you after the seventh, then,’ he said, muttering away.
I left Beering and walked over to the mounting yard. The horses had already started to parade, although the jockeys were yet to mount up. Dad had a runner in the race, a three-year-old filly having her first start. She looked green and gangly and would probably improve after a run or two. My brother David stood beside my father who was busy talking to the owners and jockey. David was my senior by three years, but it could have been a decade if you didn’t know us. Years of worrying about whether the horses had eaten up, or worked okay, or a hundred other things that crop up in the running of a large stable had taken their toll. David wore a perpetual worried frown on his face as if he always half-expected bad news. Dad used to joke that he did the training and let David do the worrying.
David legged the jockey into the saddle and the filly circled nervously around until her strapper steadied her. The bookmakers had her safe at seven dollars in the betting. If she was trained by some unknown horseman, she’d probably be at twice those odds. A chestnut filly, Blonde Moment, from Kel Faulkner’s stables walked by. Strong quarters, gleaming muscles and a shiny coat. Had some reasonable form. At four dollars she was a definite chance. The one I really liked, though, was the favourite, July Morn. She’d improved sharply with every run since being transferred to local trainer Sheamus O’Reilly. Her form read a first up seventh, then an unlucky second two weeks ago. She looked primed to win this lowly fillies race. I liked backing O’Reilly’s horses, particularly if they were on the improve. Thinking about the trainer, it made me remember Kate’s request earlier in the week to find out about Romaro Boy, the horse she intended racing with O’Reilly. I made a mental note to get cracking and do its form and pedigree for her tomorrow.
I watched a few more horses parade, then walked back out into the betting ring again. July Morn was the firm favourite at two dollars, but I certainly didn’t fancy its price. I thought it should be at least nearer the two dollar fifty mark. Blonde Moment, who was fours only ten minutes ago, also looked poor value after firming into two dollars sixty. This didn’t look like a race I was going to play, but then July Morn started to drift. First to two twenty and then a fraction more. Then a few bookies had her at two forty. Finally, with three minutes to go she blew out to two fifty, her right price by my calculations.
I saw a bookmaker near me giving that price so I pulled out a roll and fronted up to him. There was a bloke putting a bet on in front of me. I recognised him straightaway, although I hadn’t seen him around the traps for a good while. He wore the same grubby suit he always did, with shirt-sleeves that poked out five centimetres longer than they should have. I’d have given odds his scruffy shoes had never seen a can of Kiwi in their lifetime. He had the suspicious, darting look of an emu, his head turning this way then that, as he carefully checked his betting ticket.
It was Gofer, a petty crim and a gambling tragic, and the first thing he usually does is try and snip you for a lazy fifty. I thought I might dodge him with a bit of luck, but he spun around and bumped straight into me after collecting his ticket.
‘G’day, Gofer,’ I said, getting in first. ‘Haven’t seen you around for a while. What do you fancy in this?’
‘Punter . . .’ he said, surprised to see me. ‘I bin havin’ a bit of a break from the track. A lottery this race, isn’t it? But I’ll tell yer somethin’,’ he said, touching his nose slyly whilst scurrying away from me, ‘the favourite’s no good thing in this.’
I figured I got out of that lightly. No hard-luck story. No snip. Gofer must be travelling okay, or in a hurry to watch the next. I put my bet on with a couple of minutes to spare, pocketed my ticket and walked up into the stand to watch the race.
Most punters these days watch the races on the TV. Beer in one hand, a formguide in the other, but I still like watching them through my binoculars. They don’t make a horse run any faster, but they have certain advantages you can’t pick up on the telly. I want to see if a horse is sweating up at the barrier. I want to know if a jockey lacks the courage to take a run, or was a victim of circumstances when a gap closes suddenly. And I want to see them from the stand when they pull up after a race, watch the ones that blow and the ones that will improve. The hard-luck stories of a slipped saddle or a thrown plate. My Zeiss 10 × 40s show the whites of a horse’s eyes from eight hundred metres away and a whole lot more, if you know what to look for. So call me old-fashioned, but I feel naked at the races without my glasses and would never think of attending without them.
I held my binoculars up just as they jumped. It took me a moment or two to recognise the colours. I haven’t got the memory of a racecaller, but I do know most of the jockeys’ silks in a race. July Morn jumped okay and raced up into her customary on-pace role. She was third on the fence and travelling beautifully. Blonde Moment, as expected, had got back in the field and was with the tail-enders. When they swung for home, I thought July Morn was a good thing. The jockey was swinging on her, and as they cornered, a gap opened up you could have driven a truck through. Except she was no truck and no good thing. Almost as soon as the pressure was on she spat the bit out and threw in the towel. From bolting at the turn, she went backwards. The guy next to me let out a groan and a curse when it was obvious the favourite wasn’t going to run a place.
‘Weak as piss!’ he growled through his pocket. I had to agree with him. My kick was four hundred lighter and, to make things worse, my second pick, Blonde Moment, stormed down the centre of the track to win, without me having a zac on her. Dad’s horse had made a pleasing debut to finish fourth, but there was little more that could be said about the others. When the horses came back to scale, I ran my eyes over July Morn to see if I could find anything amiss. No excuses with her ride; no broken gear or slipped saddle. She didn’t appear sore or stressed. She was just one of the beaten brigade. Tends to happen in racing. I expect to lose around thirty per cent of the races I play. It’s no big deal, you just try and get on with the next race. But it was a disappointing effort from an O’Reilly-trained horse that was supposedly on the up. I flashed my glasses over to the mounting yard, to where O’Reilly was waiting with his owner for the jockey to return. He wore a frown on his face – I guess he was entitled to. The owner didn’t look too happy either, throwing his arms about and shaking his head in disbelief. I switched my glasses from the mounting yard to the punters lining its fence. Some were booing the beaten favourite, becoming quite vocal about it too. Others joined in, the mob mentality taking hold. Didn’t take much for a racecourse crowd to bay for blood. Not all of them were jeering though. I trained my glasses over the mob. One caught my eye: a shifty-looking gambler in a crumpled suit who seemed pleased enough with himself. He smiled craftily, almost gloating at the beaten favourite. It was Gofer. Perhaps I should have taken his advice.