After the Flood, page 13
Something appeared in his hand like a magician. It was hard to see from back there but as the palm moved past the fire, Paul saw it was a shiny black rock.
‘Souls for coals,’ said the speaker. ‘You think that’s a good bargain?’
And then as he stood there craning in to hear every word, the voice had called out, ‘Don’t be afraid, you over there in the shadows, come and join us. We won’t bite.’ Like the voice of a great spirit or god seeking him through the darkness.
His feet sinking into the sand, he trudged over, the effort evoking pilgrimage, the glow of the fire reinforcing the spiritual nature of the moment. He had taken his seat. The voice had asked, ‘What’s your name …’
‘Paul?’ Ingrid woke dozy. ‘Did I sleep on you? Sorry.’
‘That’s okay. I didn’t want to get up and wake you.’
She smiled. ‘You are very sweet, Paul Isegar.’
The electric clock said it was a little after 2.00 a.m. The movie was nearly finished.
‘I had better go,’ he heard himself saying.
‘You can watch to the end if you want?’
‘No, I’ll let you get some sleep. You have the early shift.’
She smiled, ‘You know my routine?’
He felt himself blushing. ‘I looked it up.’
They stood and he thanked her for the beer and the movies.
‘Anytime,’ she said and stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow … today,’ he hastily corrected.
‘Don’t forget you’re going to show me the ospreys, sometime.’
He hadn’t forgotten. ‘Of course,’ he said and stepped out.
The night air seemed to vibrate with the hum of the plant. It didn’t stop because it was two in the morning. It was a funny thing being the HR manager. While it was a totally pathetic position, you got to know all the workers and where they would be, or ought to be at any given time. He gazed out towards dark sea. How long had this rocky island been here under these stars? He was still, not even breathing so far as he could tell, like he was a fossil and part of this place too.
The night with Ingrid had been very pleasurable in many ways but now it left him horribly confused. Automatically he pulled the phone from his pocket and was going to call then and there but he restrained himself. He needed to think things through better before he did that. But one thing in his breast beat with certainty: Ingrid was precious and so was the earth on which he stood under the unfathomable sky.
14 SUNDAY
Jared Taylor had been camped at the roadhouse all morning asking anybody who straggled through if they had seen a touring motorcycle since Thursday afternoon. Mal Gross had asked him to check the stretch between Broome and Fitzroy Crossing. It was a long shot. Yes, there were so few vehicles on the road that somebody might remember seeing the motorcycle and any cars that seemed to be with it but the trouble was finding that person because almost everybody on the road was coming from a long way away and going to somewhere a long way away. By now that witness could be in Halls Creek or Port Hedland or Adelaide. The best chance of course had been the roadhouse people themselves but they didn’t recall a motorcycle coming through Thursday night. They said that somebody from Broome police had already requested the CCTV of the cameras by the bowsers. Taylor guessed that would be the funny bloke Manners. Taylor thought the ringers and bosses at Meda might be a chance but according to Mal they couldn’t help. The police at Derby had canvassed the town with no luck so Taylor had decided to hang here, a hundred and sixty-five k from Broome. Every red-dirt-encrusted vehicle that stopped Taylor took a note of the number plate and asked his questions. It was 11.00 a.m. now and the air-conditioning was pleasant. He sat with his Coke, conversation with Cheryl, who was serving, pretty much exhausted.
A sedan rolled in from the east. Jared didn’t rush to get up. Nobody ever just filled up and drove off, everybody came in for a refreshment or the toilet. It was a couple. While the man went to the tank to get that out of the way, the woman, who looked maybe thirties, came into the shop. Jared let her get her order underway before he stirred.
‘Long trip?’ he asked.
‘Came from Fitzroy Crossing,’ she said. ‘We’re going to Derby, then onto Broome.’
‘Don’t suppose you were on the road last Thursday anywhere near here?’ he asked.
She looked mildly concerned.
‘Thursday we did come through here on our way to Fitzroy Crossing.’
Taylor felt a stirring of hope. ‘What time of day?’
‘About lunchtime.’
Damn, too early. He went through the routine of asking about the touring bike. No, they hadn’t seen it. The fella came in then. Taylor introduced himself and told them what it was all about. They didn’t seem to have heard about the murder and were sorry they couldn’t help. They sat and ate their burgers and drank water. They were from Albany in the south of the state and had put aside three weeks to travel all the way up the coast and around the Kimberley. The next thing, their car was heading off, leaving Taylor alone again with Cheryl and Jack, who divided his time between the kitchen and sitting at one of his own tables reading some kind of manual. Looking through the window, Jared caught a glimpse of what seemed at first to be a crow flying low. But when he focussed, he realised it was a man on a bicycle rolling in. Seeing a cyclist all the way up here might have caused some people to doubt their sanity but Taylor didn’t blink. He knew who it was, old Martin, who might or might not be some kind of relative of Taylor. Martin declared he was but nobody from Taylor’s family would confirm it. Martin was a fixture up here, drifting usually between Derby and Fitzroy Crossing but sometimes getting across to Broome. On the long hauls he would try and hitch a ride with a kindly motorist who could take his bike too. Taylor hoped for their sake they had plenty of air-freshener, Martin could get pretty ripe. It was something of a miracle that Martin could pedal his bike at all with his swag strapped to the back of it. He camped out, lived off the land mostly, but in the towns he would bunk in with his relatives. Taylor had only ever thought of him as ‘old Martin’ but he likely wasn’t over fifty. He only had a few of his teeth and it was probably the sight of his gummy mouth that piled on the years.
Taylor watched him place his bicycle carefully in the shade, and dust himself off before pushing through the door. No doubt he’d already spied Jared’s car.
‘Hey nephew, they let you out!’
He laughed and that turned into a wheezing sputter.
‘G’day, Uncle.’ Taylor went with it. Martin greeted Cheryl and Jack, who knew him of course. Cheryl asked him if he wanted anything to eat but he wrinkled up his nose.
‘Just a Sprite,’ he said and felt around his pocket for change.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Taylor. Martin smiled and pulled up a chair. They chatted about the heat and Martin asked after Taylor’s family.
‘What about that Irene?’ His eyes always twinkled when he got to inquiring after Taylor’s aunt. Taylor suspected this was the real origin of Martin’s claim they were related. Martin wished they were, through him and Irene being a unit. Irene had waved off that suggestion with a one-word comment, ‘Never.’
Cheryl delivered Martin’s cold Sprite and he sipped it gently, holding the dewy aluminium skin to his cheek for a second or two.
‘Oh, that’s good,’ he said. Then he finally got around to asking. ‘So what are you doing here sitting on your arse?’
Taylor told him about the murder. It was all news to Martin.
‘A white fella?’ The story was getting juicier by the minute.
Taylor told him the fella rode a motorcycle and he was trying to see if anybody had seen it late at night.
‘I seen a motorcycle, one night, late, real late.’
‘When?’
Martin had to rummage his memory. ‘I think three nights or four nights back. I’m not sure. But it was real late, nobody else around.’
‘Where was this?’
‘May River. I can show you.’
Taylor’s mind was racing. May River was on the western border of the vast Meda station. The murder had happened in the south-east.
‘Can you draw the spot for me?’
Cheryl came good with an exercise book. Martin painstakingly drew his map.
‘I can just come with you,’ he said again but Taylor was thinking that might cause a whole lot of problems. On the other hand, he wasn’t all that familiar with the area by the May River.
‘Okay, but draw it anyway,’ said the police aide. At some point he was going to need to explain it to somebody and the map would be useful.
‘I was camped in here,’ Martin stabbed a position with Taylor’s pen. ‘Having a little drink. Then I hear this …’ Here Martin imitated the sound of a motorcycle. ‘I was about from here to the other side of the road away. I seen the motorcycle drive through the trees heading towards the creeks. You won’t catch me down there with those big crocs. Then next thing. I hear a car and see lights.’
‘A car as well?’
‘Yeah. Four-wheel drive. There’s a dirt track. They must have come down it, then turned off.’ Martin drew the track and made an arrow to show what he meant. ‘I hear them turning this way towards them creeks.’
‘Could you see what sort of car it was?’
‘Too dark. But it was a four-wheeler, the lights up high.’
Martin couldn’t get the time exactly but weighing the probabilities Taylor reckoned if it was Seydoux’s motorcycle it was more likely after the killing at Meda than before. This could be a big breakthrough.
‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘Show me whereabouts.’
Once he’d finally got to bed, Clement’s night had been all Swiss cheese. He regretted that call to Marilyn almost instantly. He’d moved on. Now he was back where he’d started. Sleep had been furtive. He’d cornered it a few times but never for any length. The air in the room had felt heavy, the walls sweaty. So, he was pleasantly surprised the workday started well. Risely called as Clement was driving in to the station to tell him Seydoux’s former CO would call Clement on Risely’s line at 11.00 a.m. Apparently he spoke very good English so there was no need for a translator. He would call on Risely’s line. Risely himself was planning a morning round of golf but was ready to abandon at a moment’s notice should anything break. So far so good with the media. Nobody yet had leaked the gruesome nature of the murder.
The first hour and a half consisted mainly of Clement checklisting every possible line of inquiry he could think of with Seydoux. Was there something he was missing?
Manners was slowly identifying the phonecallers to Seydoux, Mal Gross coordinating the continuing search for the motorcycle.
As Clement ticked off the lines of inquiry they needed to follow, Graeme Earle sat with him checking Clement’s double-checking. Jo di Rivi was already at Hardcastle. Only one of the women co-workers whom Lauren Bagot had mentioned was on duty but di Rivi had chased up contact details for the other.
At 10.55, having achieved no apocalyptic insight on the case, Clement and Earle took themselves off to Risely’s office. The phone rang at 11.02. Clement put the call on speaker. Colonel Phillipe Locard possessed excellent English.
He wasted no time in coming to the point. ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’
Clement confirmed that Locard was aware of the death of his former soldier.
‘It was a very violent murder,’ explained Clement who had debated whether he needed to go into detail and had decided not at this stage. ‘We have no suspects at this point and we are trying to get a picture of Jean-Claude as a person. How would you describe him?’
Locard took his time. ‘A very professional and adequate soldier. Commandos must be extremely fit and disciplined. I was not surprised he left the service though. It wasn’t …’ Clement assumed he was searching for the words, ‘… his life total.’
His whole life. Clement understood.
‘Did he have any problems with his superiors or colleagues?’
‘Not with his superiors. As for his colleagues, I am not aware of any feud. Certainly nothing ever came to our attention. There may have been minor things. That is common in any profession.’
‘Drugs?’
‘No.’
‘As far as you are aware have any of his former colleagues met with violent death? Apart from in action,’ Clement hastily added.
‘No.’
‘Was Jean-Claude involved in any conflicts that could engender lasting bitterness?’
‘War always creates lasting bitterness, Inspector. Especially for the losing faction.’
Clement felt he may have to tread delicately. ‘Was there any conflict though that could lead to the pursuit of an individual soldier as revenge?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Was Jean-Claude a whistleblower or himself the subject of any inquiry for failure to act as a soldier should?’
He had to explain whistleblower for the colonel.
‘No, he was not. He joined. He served his time well. He left.’
‘What were his particular areas of expertise?
The colonel explained that his regiment were marine specialists but experts in many fields.
‘Jean-Claude was a very good diver. He could act as an engineer and improvise too very quickly. He was competent with weapons, martial arts and explosives, as are all my people. His English was very good.’
‘Would you be surprised if he was involved in any kind of illegal activity?’
There was a substantial pause and Clement was about to prompt him when the colonel came back on.
‘For our people when they return to civilian life, there are few areas where their services are in high demand. Security, yes. The divers for oil rigs. Some become mercenaries but a few do play with the margins of society. I would say it is possible Jean-Claude could be in that category. I would be surprised but not … it would not be impossible.’
Clement wondered if the colonel knew if Seydoux had been in close contact with any of his former colleagues.
‘I do not know that. I can ask some of those still in the service if they hear from him. The family is more likely to be of aid.’
Clement thanked him for his time and rang off, little the wiser.
‘Between the lines,’ said Earle, ‘he said Seydoux could get into something shady.’
But was that really any help? So far, Seydoux remained an enigma.
In spite of the potential for chaos and the smell that emanated from Martin, Taylor was glad he had brought him along. The map he had drawn was fairly detailed but even so it was hard to be certain you were in exactly the right place out here. He had called through to Mal Gross and let him know that he was pursuing a lead on the motorcycle and Mal had said he would pass the news to Clement as soon as he was free. The plan was for Taylor to see if he could establish that the vehicles and camp were still there near the May River. If so, backup from Derby would be sent. Taylor assumed that if whoever Martin had heard that night was still in the area, they would be either in a campervan, tent or bunking in their car. There were no huts for weary travellers out here. From what Martin had described, it seemed that where he had been camping was on or near the north-west fringe of Meda station. It may have been just outside it but people fished and even, foolishly in Taylor’s opinion, swam at the river crossings. The station people allowed this. The property was so big. The Frenchman had been killed to the south-east of the massive station so it was possible his killer or killers had simply come back onto the main road heading back towards Derby and then cut back up again on the track Martin had taken. They may have been in the area the whole time but, even if the Derby cops had been looking there, it would have been hard to find people who didn’t want to be found.
Taylor was driving with his window down, catching fresh warm air in preference to being trapped in the air-conditioning with the odour. Aunty was going to kill herself laughing at this. Given that Martin could be pretty exact about where he had been camping but could not say where the motorcycle had ultimately finished up, Taylor decided it was best to get to Martin’s old camp. He could leave him there while he went off to explore.
‘Track is coming up here,’ said Martin pointing and Taylor eased the car down the rutted dirt track.
‘You ride your bike down here?’ He couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable that would be.
‘I don’t carry it,’ laughed Martin. ‘Well, sometimes I do. Sometimes I just ride through the bush. It’s easier a lot of the time but you get a lot of punctures.’
‘You eating good?’ Taylor gave him the once-over, trying to divine how healthy he was. He looked in pretty good shape and the cycling had to help.
‘Eating fine. Drinking good too,’ Martin cackled. ‘That radio work?’
He was talking about the car radio not the police one. The policeman got the hint and turned it on. Martin sat back like a king on his throne. He bopped along to the country tune and smiled over at Taylor. Martin began to half sing and half hum the tune. Taylor couldn’t distinguish much similarity with either half to the actual song that was playing.
‘Turn right coming up. Slow down.’
Taylor did as he was commanded.
‘Here.’ Martin pointed and Taylor turned off the track and into the bush proper. The bigger trees were widely enough spaced that the car could mostly go straight but every now and again Taylor had to perform a zigzag. About three minutes in, Martin called a halt and Taylor stopped.
