23

IT WAS a truth universally acknowledged that no one could steal a bull in modern-day Australia and use that bull for breeding. The NLIS tags, the tracking systems, the databases, the scrutiny — the oversight was too thorough to pull it off. This much I learned from a slapdash review of cattle-trade websites. I paced the blue carpet in my hotel room, tallying my speculation and conjecture against my guesswork in deciphering the recording.

Van Go Daddy was the most expensive bull in Australia. But once stolen, all he was good for was as a pet, or food. Maybe the whole thing was a prank.

Unless someone hacked the NLIS system and changed the bull’s identity.

It seemed extraordinary to go to all that trouble for one bull. He was the phenotype buyers were looking for, sure. But there were other bulls, other legal means of getting that phenotype. Bull semen was big business in these parts.

Joe had asked Velvet Stone about hacking cattle-tag technology. And he’d had a recording of Pugh stating that he’d told his daughter, who’d just missed out on a bull at auction, that he would seek the help of ‘Al’ to rectify the situation. And now Vincent Van Go Daddy was missing. The thought that Joe Phelan was murdered over a fancy bull was appalling.

But if the theft was true, it obliquely implicated Pugh. In an election year, if there was proof that this Al hacked Vincent’s tags and stole him for Skye at Pugh’s request, it would be disastrous for him. Maybe Pugh would kill someone to keep his reputation intact.

I believed that Joe had been murdered. And now I was a potential target.

I went to the window and looked out at the main drag of Woolburn: a general store with a sideline in dry-cleaning and train tickets; a combination café, bank, and post office; a petrol station and hardware shop that also supplied paint. Not much foot traffic, or any traffic for that matter. Nor action of any kind — none. There was talk of a festival of some kind to get the town off its knees. No one could agree on what kind. Elvis impersonation was taken. So was watermelon.

A car drove down the empty street, slowly passed my window, indicated, and turned off.

I closed my eyes and exhaled. The hooker’s Christmas card song played on my phone. Phuong.

‘The car was brand new. She paid cash, no finance.’

‘The Navara?’

‘Yes. And something else. Dawe also goes by her married name, Shanelle Tuffnell.’

‘Tuffnell? A Nell Tuffnell works at Athol Goldwater.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Tuffnell paid cash for a new car. Pugh wanted to know who had unaccounted-for money because he was suspicious of a fiddle at Athol Goldwater. The recording was so sensitive, it had me wondering, what if Pugh was being blackmailed? And when he asked me to look into the fiddle, maybe he also wanted to know who had the recording. In fact, it was possible the sole reason he’d sent me into Athol Goldwater was to find the phone. If Tuffnell was involved, how did she fit into all this? Was she part of the Nunzio technology scam? Or was she on her own, operating at a much smaller scale? At the prison, Tuffnell had said they’d already searched Joe’s unit, and when I’d asked what they were looking for she’d become vague and said it was routine. But the more I thought about it, the more I suspected they were looking for the phone. Brash was right, it was absolutely crucial that I did not lose it. I needed a safe place to keep it.

‘Thanks, Phuong, you’re a legend.’

‘You think that’s all I did? Come on. Don’t you know me by now?’

I squealed. ‘What! Tell me!’

‘I contacted Tuffnell. Said police were concerned, wanted to take a look at the Navara.’

I shrieked again. Phuong Nguyen was a magnificent human being. ‘What’d she say?’

‘She was reluctant. Always a good sign, reluctance. Makes me more insistent.’

‘I know.’

A pause. ‘Want to tell me what’s going on?’

I hesitated. ‘Any progress on the case of that woman murdered at Dights Falls?’

‘Witness statements, a pretty good description of the man, his tattoos.’

‘The tattoos will match the ones on the man who was tasered. Navara he was driving will show up on street cameras in the Dights Falls area.’

‘Stella …’

‘I’m telling you things,’ I said. ‘And one day, I’ll tell you everything.’

‘Yes, you will. This weekend. I’m going rock climbing at Mount Arapiles, driving up tomorrow. Then I’ll come across to Woolburn. And I will look you in the eye.’

‘Um, okay. Great.’

She hung up, and I went back to the window. A woman pushed a stroller into the café-post-office, a large red post box out the front beside an old-fashioned phone booth, the kind with the folding glass door. I resumed my pacing. A public phone booth — that might come in handy.

Loud knocking halted me in my tracks. Like a dummy, I’d registered here under my own name. I quickly grabbed Joe’s phone from the bed and hid it in the bedside table drawer.

The place was so old the door had no peephole, but it did have a keyhole. I put my eye to it. Darkness. ‘Yes?’

‘Housekeeping.’

I recognised the voice and opened the door. My friend from breakfast stood in the doorway with a trolley stacked with clean towels and a bucket of sprays and sponges. Behind her was the vacuum cleaner her mother had been using.

‘Come in.’

She pushed the vacuum in front of her, leaving the trolley in the hallway.

‘Hey,’ I said, ‘what’s your name?’

‘Freya.’

‘Freya. Nordic. Very nice.’

‘She has a cat-drawn chariot.’

‘Really? Sounds hard to steer,’ I said.

Freya frowned. ‘No. She’s a goddess, so it’s easy. Her hobbies include flirting and leading the Valkyries.’

‘Awesome. So, Freya, can I ask a favour? Would you mind my phone? I’m scared I’ll lose it.’

A flicker disturbed the neutral expression. ‘Why?’

I wasn’t clear on what she was questioning. Possibly all of it. I certainly was.

‘Just for a few days. Thing is, I’m forgetful. What if I put it down and forget where?’

‘Yeah. I do that all the time. Okay. I’ll put it in my Tardis pencil case. I don’t use it that much now I finished school.’

I retrieved Joe’s phone from the beside drawer. Freya put it in her back pocket, and then plugged the monster vacuum into a power point. It roared to life and started beating and sweeping the crap out of the nylon.

I went down the stairs and walked onto the street. The wind whipped my hair around my face as I crossed the road to the public phone. I used my mobile to look up the number for Queensland Police. I found the number for the Stock and Rural Crime Investigation Squad, based at Mount Isa. Probably a long way from Western Downs, the district where Van Go Daddy was stolen, but I was pretty sure those cops were used to driving vast distances around the state. I fed coins into the ancient mechanism. A woman answered on the first ring.

‘Mount Isa Police, Constable Faraday speaking. Can I help you?’

‘Yes, good morning. I’m calling from Victoria. Is Detective Sergeant Jason Costa, of the SARCIS, available?’

‘Who’s asking?’

‘Dorothy Zbornak.’

‘Regarding?’

‘The theft of Van Go Daddy from the Bostock stud in Meandarra.’

A throaty cackle down the line. ‘Muscles made it to Victoria, did he?’

‘No. I mean, I don’t know. Is Jason there?’

‘Yeah, nah. Not yet. Due any tick of the clock. Get him to give you a call?’

‘No, I’ll call back.’

I hung up and glanced down the street. A Commodore pulled up outside the pub. Shane Farquhar got out, slammed the door, and walked like a man about to get the kid who keyed his car. He ignored the door to the bar and walked into the residential entrance. Damn. I turned my back to the pub and hunched into the shadow of the phone booth.

Slow count to fifty. Dropped more coins, hit the numbers.

‘Jason Costa. Queensland Police.’

‘Hi Jason. Dorothy Zbornak speaking. I’m calling about the theft of Van Go Daddy.’

‘I used to watch The Golden Girls. Me mum loved it. Lots of menopause jokes, as I recall, and gags about elderly women growing moustaches. Not real popular with teenage boys, that kind of humour. But the only other option was to read a book, so I saw a lot of it. Sophia was my favourite. Always said what she thought. I tried it once. The old man dragged me to the woodshed. Belt broke the skin. So, there you go, that’s my sob story. How about you tell me your real name.’

‘Anonymous Crime Stoppers tip-off person.’

‘Fair enough. What’s your tip?’

‘A name. Actually, it’s just the first name.’

‘You fucking joking? Half the district going off their nut about their cattle going missing.’

‘Wait. What cattle? How many?’

‘Brahman. As many as fifty thousand, multiple stations, most of them around Middleton.’

Was Middleton near Meandarra, where Van Go Daddy was taken from? Queensland was a big place. ‘Jason, Detective Sergeant, whatever, does the name Al mean anything to you?’

He put on a la-di-da voice, ‘Does the name Al mean anything to you, love? Go waste someone else’s time, will ya?’ Click.

‘I never said, love,’ I said to no one.

Well, that was me told. I replaced the receiver, and a coin fell from the change slot. I dropped it in my jeans pocket. When I looked up, I saw Shane Farquhar was back on the street and looking even more furious, scanning left and right. Then he jumped in the Commodore, performed a screeching U-turn, and sped away. The most likely explanation for his strange behaviour was that he was looking for someone. To settle some score or perceived slight. He was a score-settling type.

The day was getting on, and my car was still at Delia’s place in Ouyen. Kylie had offered me a lift back there last night, I was sure — if her ducks were in a row. I called her mobile, but there was no answer. I tried Delia. She told me to catch the bus. The Mildura bus passed through Woolburn at nine-thirty every morning and arrived in Ouyen at eleven. It was ten past eight.

I had time to kill. The building I was standing in front of had a sign on the window offering computers with internet access at a two-dollar hourly rate. I bought my bus ticket and ordered one hour’s internet access and a cappuccino from a friendly woman in a t-shirt that said Woolburn Information Centre.

I sat down, interlaced my fingers, and gave them a stretch.