37

I WAS onto my second bowl of chips and my fourth gin and tonic in a bar at Melbourne Airport, my feet up on the red-and-white striped suitcase, watching planes take off and land as the day’s last gleams of sunlight disappeared over the runway. A wall-mounted screen flashed departure information, boarding calls, and arrivals. It was next to a mute wall-mounted television, tuned to back-to-back reruns of Infidelity Island. At last, after half a day of loitering around, my flight’s status flicked over on the screen to now boarding.

When we’d reached the airport, I’d told Tuffnell to go into the carpark near Terminal Four. I ordered her to hand me her jacket, since I was covered in Nunzio’s blood. I’d stepped out of the car, and she’d sped off. The last I saw of her was the red Navara tail-lights as she changed lanes to exit the airport. I’d zipped up the jacket and dropped the Jericho in a rubbish bin. Then I’d entered the main terminal for domestic departures and wheeled the suitcase to the ladies bathroom. In a cubicle, I’d dumped my old clothes behind the loo and emerged in a clean tropical-print dress, in preparation for Darwin’s heat. I’d scrubbed my hands and face in the sink, and then headed for the nearest bar.

At every step, I’d expected to be stopped, but I had not been. Even as I now stowed the suitcase in the overhead locker, I feared a tap on the shoulder. It followed that Pugh would not come after me in an official capacity since he didn’t want any negative publicity, and I would certainly be negative, I would openly, widely, and freely go public. But he may have sent an unofficial somebody. Would Tuffnell report back on the failed mission — that she and Nunzio hadn’t managed to kill me? And would she provide them with my current whereabouts? I doubted it. I hadn’t felt the need to point out to her that if she told Pugh and co about me, I’d tell Pugh and co about her.

Cabin crew closed the doors. The engine roar intensified, and the jet hurtled down the runway and launched itself improbably into thin air.

Alright. So far so good.

I put on my standard-issue headphones and played with the screen in front of me. Sitcoms or a full movie, it was hard to decide. Darwin was a five-hour flight, or a five-episode binge of something. I flipped through the options, but was too agitated to make a decision. In the end, I selected a touristy bit of guff about the Top End. Crocodiles, Kakadu, waterfalls. It sounded quite good. When that ended, I hit a packaged news service, only a couple of hours old. It began with a shot of Enrique Nunzio in a wheelchair outside a hospital giving a sheepish thumbs up to the camera. A young journalist holding a microphone under her chin told viewers that the opposition had called for a Royal Commission into Victoria’s prison system, following a series of incidents at Athol Goldwater Prison. She read out a list of security breaches, including the death of Joe Phelan, cost blowouts, an injured worker (Nunzio), a missing guard (Tuffnell), and an escaped prisoner (Ben).

Mrs Phelan appeared on screen with the title Dead Prisoner’s Mother. She sprayed the journalist with sharp invective about the jacks, the government, the mismanagement, and the lies. Much of it had to be bleeped to comply with television standards. She was flanked by Merri, who said she supported the call for a Royal Commission and hoped she’d have the opportunity to give testimony. I noted her relish at the thought.

‘The escaped prisoner, Benjamin Hardy, alerted a local Wimmera television station that he intended to walk into Horsham Police Station this afternoon with his lawyer,’ the journalist said. There was Ben, flanked by Morrie, very pregnant Loretta, and a woman in a dark pants suit. Back to the journalist, reading out Ben’s written statement, in which he said his life was in danger at the prison. He had information.

I looked at Loretta’s face, flushed with triumphal glee. Casting Ben as an innocent victim, helping authorities, and appearing to uncover the syndicate’s corruption was a brilliant tactic. And it was all Loretta’s doing — with help from Morrie. Soon, she’d orchestrate her successful takeover of the Hardy farm. Ben’s claim on the farm would probably end in the courts, and Kylie would lose.

Loretta must have been planning this move for months. Probably as soon as Ben told her about the farm. The fake street urchin act had had me completely fooled. Sure, she and Morrie probably had moved around a lot, working on farms around the country. But she was no semi-illiterate itinerate lackey. Au contraire.

I switched off the screen. Ben’s gambit may well come off. I hoped it did. I loved my family — of course I did. I might complain constantly, but it was everyone’s prerogative to complain about family, while having feelings of deepest loyalty. If anyone said a word about the Hardys, I’d be the first to defend them. But as for the coming wrangle for control of the farm, on account of Loretta, I did not want to pick a side, I didn’t want to know about it. There was a baby coming — that was way more interesting.

I ordered another gin and tonic and flicked through the inflight magazine. There was a special feature with pictures of crossbody handbags in the latest designs: persimmon, dragon fruit, pink lady. ‘Oh dear,’ I said out loud, ‘it’s just so last year.’

At two a.m. that same night, I was an hour south of Darwin, standing at the entrance to the Depot for Export Animals in Transit and Holding. It sat in the middle of an expanse of swampy lowlands, the only structure in the vicinity, a long way off the main road. As visitors drove through the entrance gates, I could see rows of hi-vis vests on hooks. To one side, a parking area, to the other, a broad turning area for trucks towing multiple trailers.

The complex itself, though large, was basically a couple of covered sheds, lit with rows of florescent lights, and a series of open yards with multiple water tanks and troughs for feed and water. Every yard was fully stocked with cattle. Their soft moos and snuffles were the only complaints at being herded into such a confined space. A slightly swampy smell — the Adelaide River was nearby — mingled with the dank odour of manure and feed. It was still a few months until the dry season and the warmth and humidity in the air was intense.

When a couple of workers arrived in a rusty Nissan Patrol, I slipped into the shadows. Before that, I’d been waiting there for about fifteen minutes, plenty of time to read the sign at the entrance.

DEATH is a proud subsidiary of BS12.

We help our clients to achieve their objectives. Years of local and international experience mean we design, fund, construct, operate, and maintain major projects and manage infrastructure assets across diverse industries such as:

Providing services as diverse as:

Correctional Management | Waste Management | Corporate Real Estate | Public Private Partnerships | Logistics

What a diverse range of services BS12 offered. The Australian government used BS12 for off-shore detention services in a blatant bid to ruin the lives of asylum seekers. They didn’t mention that on the sign. Most Australians seemed to be comfortable with off-shore detention. It seemed to fit with our past, our need to see harsh punishments dished out. I found it perverse, and I struggled to comprehend it.

As for BS12, if they were operating prisons and transport and maritime services, it would allow an insider to control every stage of the cattle theft. As the Queensland cop Jason Costa had said to Bunny, there was often a time lag before station owners realised any cattle were missing. It was possible that the syndicate had more time than we knew in which to transport the stolen cattle, and that nothing was here.

I was deep in these thoughts when I heard someone say ‘Pssst.’

I clutched at my chest.

A radiant tropical moon emerged from behind a cloud, illuminating Bunny Slipper’s face.

‘You scared the shit out of me!’

She didn’t explain, she didn’t say anything. Instead, she just stared at me.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Jason Costa is dead.’

He’d gone out on patrol. When he didn’t return, or make contact again, a constable on patrol was diverted to look for him. He was found by the side of the road near his squad car. Cause of death was a single bullet to the back of the head.

There was nothing to say; it was horrific. Their fifty-million-dollar swindle was worth more than any life. It was risk, a cost, but that was part of their business model. Not a far cry from the cost associated with desecrating rivers, poisoning the air, or crushing workers with insufferable working conditions. All acceptable losses against staggering profit.

‘How long have you been here?’ I asked

‘Came straight here as soon as I got your message. I’ve had a look inside,’ Bunny said.

‘What? How?’

‘I don’t think the people running this facility have any idea where these cattle have come from. I asked for an on-camera interview with the DEATH manager late this afternoon, and they were all for it.’

‘Free publicity.’

‘Exactly. So this place is currently holding four thousand head. Which is the capacity of most G-class vessels.’

‘What capacity are Coleman’s ships?’

‘Funny you should ask,’ Bunny said. ‘While I was recording, guess who showed up?’

‘Allyson Coleman.’

Bunny nodded.

‘What’s she like?’

‘She breezed into the manager’s office without knocking, like she had the run of the place. She introduced herself and insisted I restart the interview. The manager didn’t offer much resistance, so I did. After that, it was all her. The manager barely got a word in. She kept saying “we”, which I thought was interesting. “We have an arrangement with DEATH” and “we are working together to create jobs” and “we are bringing wealth into the country”. It was a lot of rot, like listening to someone reading out one of the DEATH brochures.’

‘Did she mention her ships?’

‘Not specifically, she kept it vague. But when she finally left — some story about having another meeting to go to — I got to ask the manager about this lot. He told me they’re due to go out tonight. He said they’ve had their busiest period in years. After the good times, the drought is beginning to bite, and some graziers want the income now.’

‘How do the cattle get from here to the port?’

‘Trucks. They’re constantly getting on and off trucks. Every step of the way, they’re supposed to be inspected, to make sure they meet the Australian guidelines at every stage.’

‘Are they enforced, the guidelines?’

She gave me a look as if I’d asked about an honest politician, or the existence of the bunyip. ‘There’s other depots like this one — pre-export quarantine with ready access to the port. They have an arrangement with a veterinary service. Vets go in, give the cattle the all-clear, send them out.’

‘Tick and flick.’

‘Flick and out. They’re in most South-East Asian destinations within six days.’

‘Are we too late?’

We looked through the fence at the restless mob. Creamy Brahman with loose neck skin, humps and tags in their floppy ears. A steer put his head up above the herd and bellowed.

We followed the razor-wire-topped fence along its river-side boundary. Half way down, I saw another company sign, lit from above with a spotlight.

DEATH is committed to animal welfare.

We went on our way, checking the compound for side entrances. Contemplating the river, I realised the fence was not to keep out thieves, but to keep the cattle safe from a saltwater crocodile dashing out of the water. They’d been known to latch on to even quite large animals and drag them to the river. Bunny must have had the same idea, because we both suddenly turned and rushed back to the entrance. Headlights flared down the road, followed by the sound of gears changing and a large truck’s guttural deceleration. It stopped at the gate: three trailers, and the words ROAD TRAIN on the front. A man in hi-vis jumped down from the cabin. Another man came out of the compound and spoke to him.

Bunny and I ran to the back of the rear trailer and when they opened the gates, we snuck through on the dark side of the truck. She pointed to the row of hi-vis vests hanging on outdoor hooks and we hustled them on. Now we looked like we belonged. We could be vets, or government inspectors, or concerned cattle-owners, making sure our investment was being well-treated.

‘Walk slow,’ Bunny said.

I tried. At one point, we stopped to lean on a yard fence, each with a foot on the lower rail. Someone muttered g’day as they passed by. We nodded.

A forklift, revolving safety lights on top of it, barrelled down a nearby pathway with a packing crate on the forks. Bunny and I locked eyes, then moved.

We followed it to an open area at the rear boundary of the facility that was both a parking area, with a couple of company-branded vehicles and an old flat-bed truck, and a dumping ground for the depot’s junk. Piles of broken crates, old boxes, and big black plastic bags of rubbish were stacked, ready for collection. The forklift stopped, and a youth jumped out. He walked around the crates, throwing black plastic bags onto the back of the flat-bed truck. Then he started taking bags out of the crate on his forklift and flinging those up there, too.

Bunny moved towards him, hands in her back pockets. Easygoing.

‘What’re you doing?’

‘Garbage pick-up’s late. Boss reckons I have to take all this to the tip myself.’

She walked around the piles of crates. ‘What about this other rubbish?’

‘That can wait. This lot has to go tonight.’

Bunny held up her wallet, showed her union card. ‘I’m going to get you to stand over there while I have a look.’

The youth hesitated, frowning. ‘Can’t wait too long.’

‘That’s alright,’ I said, stepping forward. ‘We’re just going to have a quick look.’

Bunny had already pulled a garbage bag off the truck and ripped it open. Cattle tags cascaded onto the dirt.

She was on the phone to Darwin Police while I opened another bag. Pieces of iDrover GPS collars, with the small solar panels and aerials still intact. They hadn’t been unlocked; they’d been cut through with some kind of power tool. Smoking guns.

It was all very well to hack the system and use it to direct the cattle towards your waiting get-away truck, but what do you do once the cattle are yours? You need to get those old incriminating collars and tags off, before you can say silly duffer.