summoned from their street games as the evening dimmed, called back into the safety of home and family. Miller’s resolve hardened; beggars can’t be choosers. He searched through the tattered address book and found the mobile number.
‘Jim. It’s Stuart ... Jenny’s husband?’
There was a pause. Miller could almost hear the rusted memorywheels grinding into motion at the other end.
‘Stuart. Ey up lad, what can I do for you?’ said Jim Buckley, caricaturing his brother-in-law’s flat-vowelled, singsong accent.
Miller heard the forced brightness and effort at civility. He cleared his throat. ‘Have you seen today’s paper?’
Grand Final Day and the home team have lost, badly. No matter. The Karratha Hotel is pumping. Karratha, WA, the epicentre of the mining boom. The drink is flowing, music thumping; it’s standing room only and just the two fights so far. Tess and Constable PeterLatham fix their smiles in place and walk in. On their way to the bar they are assailed by sweat, testosterone, and alcohol fumes plus a cocktail of greetings, ‘G’day mate, have a beer’ or ‘Get fucked, fucken pigs’. Tess gives Pete a look, it says stick close. The manager, a squat barrel of a man in his late fifties, leans close to yell into Tess’s ear.
‘Is there a problem?’
No, we’re here because we love this shit. Instead she says, ‘Big night tonight, George?’
A whoop goes up as a barmaid, having lost a coin-toss, lifts her T-shirt for the crowd – a favourite mining town party trick, and theoretically banned. Tess gives George her stern schoolteacher look. He shrugs.
‘Sometimes they get carried away. I’ll have a word.’
Just then there is a surge in the crowd, a few stumbles, a flying middy of beer and Tess is soaked. She is beginning to get pissed off. A big bloke with a checked shirt and ginger mullet is in her face: Johnno Djukic, three previous for assault, each time putting his de facto in hospital for a few days. Nice guy.
‘It was tails. I win. Show us your tits, missus.’
His breath could power a V8.
‘Back off and behave yourself,’ Tess snaps.
Djukic holds up his hands in mock fear and gives her a broad smile that never reaches his eyes. Big joke, the mates oooh, aaah and tsk-tsk. Tess cranes her neck to see where Pete is. From the raised, angry voices further down the bar she has her answer. He is engaged in a shouting match with a skinhead who, by the state of his eyeballs, has been consuming chemicals along with his grog. He is wired, beyond reason, and ready for blood. Tess has her hand on her baton as she tries to catch Pete’s eye.
A glass smashes, the crowd surges again, a bar stool flies through the air. Tess feels an agonising wrenching jolt as someone grabs her by the hair, then she is lying on the floor curled up tight while they kick, and stomp, and spit. She looks up one last time trying to recognise faces for later – if there is a later. Johnno Djukic is in there, getting his two cents’ worth, stomping with the best of them, so is her colleague Pete and Greg Fisher and Jim Buckley and Cato. Shethinks it will never stop. She just knows she is going to die. In the distance a siren wails and wails. And wails.
Tess woke up fighting for breath, and crying again. Her alarm clock wailed. She turned it off.
10
Friday, October 10th. Early morning.
Murder HQ. Friday, 8.00a.m. sharp. Cato wanted a quick catchup with everybody. He felt like yesterday was a bit of a wasted day; rousting the Snak-Attack boy and breaking up fights at the mine kept them all nicely occupied but didn’t get them any closer to solving the mystery of Flipper.
Cato had woken bright and early, determined to make progress. He wanted to chase up the missing Lieutenant Riri Yusala. Was he Flipper? He also wanted to do a bit of tree-shaking. Yesterday’s little visit to Justin’s coffee van might have been a distraction but it had also given him the idea. This was a small town – how hard
‘Jim. It’s Stuart ... Jenny’s husband?’
There was a pause. Miller could almost hear the rusted memorywheels grinding into motion at the other end.
‘Stuart. Ey up lad, what can I do for you?’ said Jim Buckley, caricaturing his brother-in-law’s flat-vowelled, singsong accent.
Miller heard the forced brightness and effort at civility. He cleared his throat. ‘Have you seen today’s paper?’
Grand Final Day and the home team have lost, badly. No matter. The Karratha Hotel is pumping. Karratha, WA, the epicentre of the mining boom. The drink is flowing, music thumping; it’s standing room only and just the two fights so far. Tess and Constable PeterLatham fix their smiles in place and walk in. On their way to the bar they are assailed by sweat, testosterone, and alcohol fumes plus a cocktail of greetings, ‘G’day mate, have a beer’ or ‘Get fucked, fucken pigs’. Tess gives Pete a look, it says stick close. The manager, a squat barrel of a man in his late fifties, leans close to yell into Tess’s ear.
‘Is there a problem?’
No, we’re here because we love this shit. Instead she says, ‘Big night tonight, George?’
A whoop goes up as a barmaid, having lost a coin-toss, lifts her T-shirt for the crowd – a favourite mining town party trick, and theoretically banned. Tess gives George her stern schoolteacher look. He shrugs.
‘Sometimes they get carried away. I’ll have a word.’
Just then there is a surge in the crowd, a few stumbles, a flying middy of beer and Tess is soaked. She is beginning to get pissed off. A big bloke with a checked shirt and ginger mullet is in her face: Johnno Djukic, three previous for assault, each time putting his de facto in hospital for a few days. Nice guy.
‘It was tails. I win. Show us your tits, missus.’
His breath could power a V8.
‘Back off and behave yourself,’ Tess snaps.
Djukic holds up his hands in mock fear and gives her a broad smile that never reaches his eyes. Big joke, the mates oooh, aaah and tsk-tsk. Tess cranes her neck to see where Pete is. From the raised, angry voices further down the bar she has her answer. He is engaged in a shouting match with a skinhead who, by the state of his eyeballs, has been consuming chemicals along with his grog. He is wired, beyond reason, and ready for blood. Tess has her hand on her baton as she tries to catch Pete’s eye.
A glass smashes, the crowd surges again, a bar stool flies through the air. Tess feels an agonising wrenching jolt as someone grabs her by the hair, then she is lying on the floor curled up tight while they kick, and stomp, and spit. She looks up one last time trying to recognise faces for later – if there is a later. Johnno Djukic is in there, getting his two cents’ worth, stomping with the best of them, so is her colleague Pete and Greg Fisher and Jim Buckley and Cato. Shethinks it will never stop. She just knows she is going to die. In the distance a siren wails and wails. And wails.
Tess woke up fighting for breath, and crying again. Her alarm clock wailed. She turned it off.
10
Friday, October 10th. Early morning.
Murder HQ. Friday, 8.00a.m. sharp. Cato wanted a quick catchup with everybody. He felt like yesterday was a bit of a wasted day; rousting the Snak-Attack boy and breaking up fights at the mine kept them all nicely occupied but didn’t get them any closer to solving the mystery of Flipper.
Cato had woken bright and early, determined to make progress. He wanted to chase up the missing Lieutenant Riri Yusala. Was he Flipper? He also wanted to do a bit of tree-shaking. Yesterday’s little visit to Justin’s coffee van might have been a distraction but it had also given him the idea. This was a small town – how hard
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