Devlin Pool

Ken F Stewart

Contents

64799 words 141 pages

PART I

Chapter 1: Robbery at Sea— October 1862 ............................ Page 3

PART II

Chapter 2: Assassination— In Modern Times ....................... Page 9

Chapter 3: Body on the Bank— Sunday afternoon ................ Page 10

Chapter 4: The Devlin Pool Site— Sunday afternoon ............ Page 13

Chapter 5: Detective Barney Merrick— Sunday ................... Page 16

Chapter 6: Geraldton Police Station— Sunday Night …........Page 19

Chapter 7: Speed Selling Speed— Thursday previous .......... Page 22

Chapter 8: Victim’s House Search— Monday morning .........Page 26

Chapter 9: Search Analysis— Monday afternoon ................. Page 28

Chapter 10: The Highway Barrier— Monday afternoon ….... Page 32

Chapter 11: Senior Detective Guiseppe Marcon— Monday .. Page 34

PART III

Chapter 12: Forensic Digging— Tuesday morning ................ Page 36

Chapter 13: Roozome Farm— Tuesday afternoon ................. Page 40

Chapter 14: Fine Dining— Tuesday evening ..........................Page 43

Chapter 15: More Bodies— Wednesday ................................ Page 46

Chapter 16: Batavia Hotel— Wednesday evening ................. Page 49

Chapter 17: Geraldton Morgue— Wednesday night .............. Page 53

PART IV

Chapter 18: Brawl Reports— Thursday morning …............... Page 54

Chapter 19: Car Chase— Thursday afternoon ........................ Page 56

Chapter 20: Interview One— Friday morning ........................ Page 61

Chapter 21: Devlin Pool Massacre— Friday morning ............ Page 64

Chapter 22: Interview Two— Friday afternoon …….............. Page 67

Chapter 23: Northbridge— Friday night ………………......... Page 70

PART V

Chapter 24: Interview Three— Saturday morning …............. Page 72

Chapter 25: The Storeroom— Saturday afternoon .................. Page 75

Chapter 26: Those Bastards— Saturday night ....................... Page 77

Chapter 27: Preliminary Final— Sunday afternoon .............. Page 79

Chapter 28: Recreation— Sunday night ……........................ Page 82

PART VI

Chapter 29: The Coins— Monday morning …...................... Page 84

Chapter 30: The Cashless Economy— Monday .................... Page 86

Chapter 31: The Guardian Pleads— Tuesday morning ......... Page 88

Chapter 32: Hay Street, Perth— Tuesday morning ............... Page 89

Chapter 33: 265 Willcock Drive— Tuesday afternoon ......... Page 91

Chapter 34: Museum Stories— Thursday evening ................ Page 93

Chapter 35: Final Resting Place— Friday morning ............... Page 96

PART VII

Chapter 36: Pre-Game Partying— Saturday morning …........ Page 98

Chapter 37: The Grand Final— Sunday afternoon ................. Page 100

Chapter 38: Post-Game Posturing— Sunday evening ............ Page 102

Chapter 39: Tarcoola Heights in Flames— Sunday night ....... Page 105

Chapter 40: Arson Analysis— Monday morning .................... Page 107

Chapter 41: Snake-Bit Sailor’s Kit— Monday morning ......... Page 109

Chapter 42: Inquisition by Media— Monday mid-day ........... Page 111

Chapter 43: Collating Evidence— Monday afternoon ............ Page 114

Chapter 44: A Plea for Sanity— Tuesday morning ................. Page 116

Chapter 45: Greenough River Trip— Wednesday morning .... Page 117

PART VIII

Chapter 46: Indigenous Affairs— Monday to Friday ............. Page 120

Chapter 47: The End Begins— Thursday ............................... Page 122

Chapter 48: Flushed Out— Friday morning ........................... Page 125

Chapter 49: Cameras on the Bridges— Friday morning …..... Page 128

Chapter 50: Genealogy Searching— Friday afternoon ........... Page 130

Chapter 51: Duncraig Calling— Friday Midnight .................. Page 132

Chapter 52: Colac Place— Saturday morning ........................ Page 133

Chapter 53: Hilltop Meeting— Sunday afternoon .................. Page 135

PART IX

Chapter 54: Justice Department— Next Friday morning ….. Page 138

Chapter 55: The Evidence is weighed— Later ...................... Page 140

Acknowledgements

Myriads of people are deserving of my gratitude: my wife Jill and daughter Lalla for their support and assistance in editing, Adam for his encouraging ideas, Arissa, Tai, Lyall, Roy, Alice, Alexander and Sarah for their family support.

Thank you to all my friends, colleagues and acquaintances who have provided me with the life experiences as the background for the book.
Part I

Chapter 1

Robbery at Sea – October 1862

The four crewmen conspired in secrecy in the galley to finalise their plans to plunder the captain’s treasure. It would not be piracy nor mutiny but burglary.

#

With strong easterly land breezes in the mornings shifting to strong onshore westerlies in the afternoons, the schooner Charlotte made a fast run out of Fremantle for the first two days. A full set of sails adorned both her masts, so she was able to make full use of the prevailing winds. She heaved herself forward with energy, surging gently up the front of the long ocean waves and flowing down the other side. With that pace, the captain expected to pass Geraldton in early evening of the next day or see the lights of Geraldton just after dark. The ship should reach Port Gregory after dawn the following day.

There the Charlotte would gain the shelter of the placid waters behind the long reef parallel to the shoreline, reefs that destroyed the power of the massive ocean waves on its rocks. She could then be tied up to the small wooden jetty just recently completed by convict labour, built for the Port Gregory whaling fleet and the shipping needs of the hinterland. They would first offload the officer and eight soldiers as guard replacements for the convict settlement at Lynton. The majority of the troopers were already seasick, so they would be relieved and overjoyed at being able to set foot on dry land again.

The Lynton Convict Hiring Station had been established for nearly twelve years to provide labour for the diggings at The Mines in Northampton and at the Geraldine Mine further north on the Northampton River. The detachment’s soldiers, who were being replaced, would be grateful to be returning home with the two-masted schooner in spite of having to endure a long sea voyage in the small ship.

The new detachment arriving would also provide secure escort for the cash box to be delivered to the resident magistrate in charge of Lynton. This cash was needed for the distribution of the pays at Lynton, and in addition, contained monies to be collected by the whaling fleet from the sale of the whale oil that had been previously shipped to Fremantle. The magistrate would also arrange for the transhipment, under guard, of substantial other cash. This was for delivery to the diggings at the Geraldine and The Mines as wages for the miners and the workers in the lead smelters.

For the return journey, there were just a few barrels of whale oil to collect at Port Gregory, but their main cargo was a load of sandalwood to be picked up at Geraldton. The delivery of the human passengers had been a priority, so Port Gregory was the first stop. On the return trip, the relieved detachment would get some leave in Geraldton while the sandalwood was being loaded.

That was the plan of the ship’s captain.

#

Two days out of Fremantle, the Charlotte’s captain laid a course that would keep him well in sight of land during the day and veer a few miles further out during the night. The next day, when nearing Geraldton, he was fully aware of the reef-strewn Abrolhos Islands fifty miles off the coast, so he had to be a little more circumspect. Many early Dutch trading ships bound for Java in the East Indies had foundered here, miles before actually encountering the mainland coast that they were expecting to find. The hearty old captain aimed to pass Geraldton’s Point Moore at a distance of four miles, and by sighting the town or the Geraldton Light, he would confirm his exact position. Thus he could be sure of his course onwards to Port Gregory.

Seated at the food-stained, wooden dining table in the galley, Tom Cornwall and Peter Walsh, two well-worn experienced sailors, met with Joe Kitto and Walter Driscoll, two new galley hands. Cornwall and Walsh had been with the Charlotte for over three years, but they were becoming largely dissatisfied with their future prospects. Both were old sailors, having been brought up around the London docks where life was exciting and active. Here they found that these coastal runs up and down the Western Australian shores were boring to say the least. Even their time ashore in Fremantle did not compare to the good times remembered from their London days.

Joe Kitto and Walter Driscoll were two labouring landsmen, ex-convicts who had served their time and now planned to return to their past glories and lives that had been disrupted by the judge at the Old Bailey. All they needed now was a nest egg to book passage on a ship home to rejoin their mates and the girls around the back laneways of Covent Garden in London city. All four conspirators met that night to finalise their plans for the following night.

Some months ago, seated much the same way as now, they were whispering furtively together at a small table in a dark corner in a pub in Fremantle. Peter Walsh, a sailor on the two-masted schooner Charlotte, had learned that his coastal trader took the regular three-monthly cash box on one of its frequent trips north to Port Gregory. At Tom Cornwall’s suggestion, Kitto and Driscoll had signed on. The first few days of seasickness had almost finished their plans, but the desire for a better life had made them fight through that dismal period. After a couple of trips, they were almost experienced galley hands now.

The four of them planned to “lift” the cash box from the captain’s cabin while the captain took his usual First Watch – the evening to midnight watch. Escape from the ship would be made using one of the lifeboats on the starboard side, hidden from view by the sails. The lifeboat would be lowered into the lee side away from the heavy seas, and the ship would sail away from them. With luck and good planning, it wouldn’t be noticed missing until it was too late. By then they would have made landfall and be well away and hidden.

In the timing of the robbery, it was important to be near Geraldton, preferably somewhere north of town with its sandy beaches and the saltbush and semi hospitable scrub beyond. From there, they could split up and lose themselves in the large township of several thousand people, or perhaps get farming or mining jobs out in the district until the heat died down. The fact that there were soldiers on board might be a problem.

Then the weather changed.

The light onshore and offshore breezes that had been so favourable for the ship’s smooth progress dropped to gentle wisps. The ship was almost becalmed for a short time. The wind then changed to a moderate west-nor’wester. With its fore to aft mainsail, the vessel was able to adjust sail settings to still make headway but was now continually crashing into increasing seas. She was forced to take in sail and slow down to avoid damage.

Cornwall and Walsh, as experienced sailors, knew this weather would delay their expected rendezvous off Geraldton’s coast the next evening, but only for an hour or two. The odds were weighed up: of timing and the seas, the presence of the seasick soldiers, whether “now,” or “next time,” and finally they decided. The message was whispered surreptitiously to Kitto and Driscoll, “It’s still on tomorrow night.”

#

At eight o’clock in the following evening, the captain took over his watch, estimating it would take at least another three hours until the Geraldton Light came into view. Cornwall and Walsh, out of view of the captain and the rest of the duty crew, managed to free up most of the lashings on the lifeboat. It was made ready to lower into the water, and they too watched for the crucial Geraldton Light.

Kitto and Driscoll assisted the cook in serving meals and clearing away after some of the soldiers and half a dozen of the off-duty crew had finished their late supper. The captain and his First Watch crew had dined earlier. After eating, the soldiers were content to get off their rocking feet and bumping chairs and settle into hammocks for the evening. Sailors never knew when they would be needed again to trim the ship, so they always took whatever sleep they could, whenever they could. The kitchen was cleared away, and, with their other galley duties completed, Kitto and Driscoll went up on deck.

There was little movement about the whole ship, but it was never quiet. There was always the crashing of the bow into the oncoming waves, the creaking of the masts under pressure from the sails, and the flapping of the sails as they harnessed the ebbs and flows of the wind driving them forward. Occasionally on deck a sailor would loosen off and tighten up a rope to tension up a flapping sail. The helmsman, using deft touches on the wheel, kept the compass needle almost rigid. The captain gazed from sail to black horizon and watched as his experienced crew did what was necessary.

The Geraldton Light came into view almost exactly when and where he had predicted. He was on course at 11 p.m.

Most of the town of Geraldton was sleeping now, so there were only a couple of houses showing any illumination at all, but there was always one bright Geraldton Light burning at Bluff Point. The town of Geraldton was a growing fishing and whaling town, so occasionally, a boat would be returning after dark. One radiant lamp was kept burning all night, a little north of the town, where it could be sighted easily from up to eight miles out to sea. It signposted the location of the harbour. A proper lighthouse was planned there for the future.

Immediately on sighting the all-important light, Cornwall and Walsh knew that the ship was directly out from Point Moore, just about level with the town of Geraldton. The intending robbers would have preferred to wait a bit longer, until they could row ashore into the bushlands to the north of the town, but by that time, the captain’s watch would be finished and he would be going back to his cabin. Walsh gave the green-light nod to the two galley hands.

With furtive glances all around, Kitto and Driscoll slipped into the captain’s cabin, hefted the cash box from under the bunk, and silently made for the lifeboat. A strong man was needed to carry the box, so it was probably half full with one pound and half pound coins and some smaller ones too, as well as the expected paper money for higher amounts. The lifeboat had already been fitted out with oars and swung out by the sailors. The cash box was placed quietly into the boat, and this was then carefully lowered by the ropes and pulleys to the heaving seas. Four men slid quickly down the ropes which were then dragged through the pulleys to drop into the boat. The most experienced two sailors on the oars urgently pulled away into the darkness in silence.

#

They were lucky. When the next watch came on duty, nobody noticed the missing lifeboat, and the tired captain didn’t bother to check for the cash box before he collapsed into his bunk. But luck went against them with the seas. Their rowing was good, but the powerful winds and heavy swell were stronger. With desperate continuous baling, they managed to stay afloat, but by the time the lifeboat had travelled the four miles to shore, they had been driven six miles to the south of the town. There was no longer a sheltered point to land behind, and no sandy beaches.

Across their entire front reverberated the thunderous crashing of massive breakers, usually with a hint of rocks and reefs. The round glowing ball of the full moon had risen slowly above a long line of white sandhills, and it showed ribbons of iridescent white water highlighting a very disturbed foreshore. Rowing along the shoreline, it was necessary to be always pulling out seaward against the tendency of the nor’wester to push them onto the rocky shore. They stared forlornly, hoping and praying for something. Even with taking it in turns, with pairs alternately rowing or baling and staring into the gloom, all were tiring. Cornwall sensed a change in the tone of the surf in front of them. He pointed to where it showed lines of long rolling waves, not breakers crashing onto rocks. It was a small respite but better than nothing, so they took their chance.

In a boat not designed for surf, they managed to keep rowing forwards, buffeted first with one rolling wave, followed by another, then another. All the time, they kept moving towards shore, rowing flat out to keep forward headway. The rolling waves diminished. The boat was seized by the current of a tidal race that rushed them strongly towards the coast. For a brief time, they were buffeted forward by standing waves, until finally they found themselves cruising into a quiet river mouth with a strong incoming tide behind them. They had made it safely ashore.

#

Looking around, the treasure thieves could see they were in a large estuary of quiet water surrounded by white sandhills, spotted here and there with the blackness of bushes. Visible in the moonlight, against the distant sandhills, were the silhouettes of a couple of shacks over on the northern bank, probably fishermen’s hovels.

“We’ll push up-river,” Kitto declared loudly, effectively taking charge now that they were landsmen again. He had the street-smarts and cunning through many years of living on the fringe of the law. It had been mainly his idea and planning that had got them this far. “The further we go up the river the safer we should be from a sea search.”

“As long as we don’t find any major settlements,” groaned Cornwall, pessimistically.

Rowing quietly for half an hour, the river closed in and the surrounding banks became more densely covered with trees and bushes. A chill descended on the river. The dunes were sheltering them from the nor’westers. With the full moon overhead reflected as a dancing globe on the ripples in the water, and with the banks covered with foliage so dark that it told them nothing, it was creepy. The wind moaned like a dying sailor overhead, but everything else seemed so quiet. They rowed until they saw the entrance to a small creek, just before a slash of white sand, indicating a beach clearing in front of the gloomy vegetation.

“That should do,” stated Cornwall hoarsely, starting to feel that he needed to impose some form of leadership over the party. The tense situation of being in the eerie unknown was starting to prey on all their nerves. They all stared intently into the darkness about them.

They edged nearer the bank, grinding onto a rocky bottom hidden below the surface. Cornwall slid over the side into knee-deep water and wedged the boat ashore. Then, acting from his years of seagoing habits, he used one of the pulley ropes to tie up to a tree. The rest clambered out, with Driscoll and Walsh holding each end of the cash box. The whole group dropped to the ground, exhausted and relieved to be finally ashore.

“We made it,” gasped Driscoll. “Now what?”

All four looked at each other in the gloom. They were safe, and the tension of the last four hours should have begun to ease, but it didn’t.

“I vote we smash the lock and divvy up the cash right now,” Cornwall blurted out gruffly. “Then we can go where we want, when we want.”

“I suggest that we bury the box, get into town, and stay low until the heat dies down, as we originally planned,” declared Kitto. He had doubts as to whether these two sailors could stay out of the limelight if they had lots of ready cash to splurge about.

“Who’s to say you two won’t come back and take the lot?” snarled Walsh gutturally, as he stood to look down on them all. Like his mate Tom Cornwall, he wanted to celebrate with some of their newly won fortune.

“Don’t you trust us?” sneered Driscoll.

“No,” was the quick reply from Walsh whose nerves were still strung on end. Impetuously, he thoughtlessly added, “Even your mother must have had doubts about you.”

“Why you . . .” Driscoll had snapped. As he rose, he grabbed and swung a heavy lump of stick in an arc, striking Walsh on the side of the head with a sickening thud. Walsh collapsed lifelessly.

Seeing his shipmate go down, Cornwall swiftly pulled his sailor’s knife and threw it with the skill of years of practice. It sank into Driscoll’s chest.

Walter Driscoll looked down at the hilt, looked up in surprise, and sank limply to the ground.

“Now look what you stupid bastards have gone and done,” drawled Kitto, slowly getting to his feet. “Driscoll’s dead. Walsh has probably got real head damage, and we still have to get out of here. Let’s both calm down and sort this out,” he continued, holding his hands out palms upwards in a manner of peace. “We are going to need each other.”

“Okay,” rasped Cornwall, his breathing still quite heavy. He kept a wary eye on the only other man still standing. He slowly moved over and pulled out his knife with great difficulty, wedged between the ribs of the limp body. He wiped the blade on the victim’s shirt, thoughtfully hefted it for a while, and then slowly replaced it into its scabbard at his side.

Kitto went over and turned Walsh’s face upwards. His dead eyes stared back unmoving. His crushed temple was seeping blood. “Well, they both caused the death of each other. I guess that makes them even.”

“So now what?” said Cornwall tersely, suspiciously still keeping a close watch on Kitto.

“We’ll sink the boat midstream with rocks in it, bury the chest by that rocky outcrop, bury these two with the oars and ropes at the base of that sand dune, and stick together in town for a month or two. If we cover them up, nobody will ever know that we’ve been here,” Kitto spoke knowingly, as he had clearly thought things through. The bodies were just additions to his original planning.

It took ten minutes to bury the chest in the sandy ground near the rocky point, a good landmark to return to later. The remaining two robbers dragged the two bodies, the oars, and the ropes to the bottom of the sandhill and then began shoving the powdery dune down from above. It took little time to cover them over, but they made sure with additional soft sand.

It took just a few more minutes to fill the bottom of the boat with large rocks collected from underwater as they walked knee-deep along the shore pulling the boat behind them. Then both heaved large stones at the exposed sides of the boat and saw large cracks appear and water beginning to spurt forcefully in.

Kitto grabbed another large rock, and, while Cornwall was distracted, watching the flow of water into the boat, smashed the rock into his downturned head. To make certain, he held the stunned and dying sailor underwater, his eyes desperately staring upward, until any movement ceased. He waited a little longer to be certain.

He eased the body back onto the bank and then watched and waited emotionlessly as the water level rose in the boat. Judging when it would sink, he pushed it slowly out into the middle. It went under about where he hoped it would. He also hoped it was deep out there.

This third body was buried separately under another pile of sand close to the previous two. He had acquired the sailor’s knife with its scabbard and belt before disposing of its owner. He left the other sailor’s knife, Peter Walsh’s, on the body. He didn’t need two knives. All that was visible from their arrival were the footprints, and they would disappear in a few days, even less if the wind blew harder or it rained. The strong nor’wester was a promise of rain soon to follow.

Joe Kitto had no idea of time other than it was still quite a few hours until dawn. He had to get away from here. He left the river and followed the small creek bed inland until he could cross through it and headed north. After just a couple of miles, he found the track to the fishermen’s huts at the river mouth, and, by following it away from the river for just a few minutes, he walked out onto a substantial dirt road. This had to be the well-used main road between the Greenough settlement in the south and the Geraldton township in the north.

By first light, he was in the scrub-covered hills overlooking Geraldton. Finding a large bush with a hollow inside, Joe Kitto crawled in underneath and slept.

Part II

Chapter 2

Assassination – In Modern times

He sauntered joyfully along the bush track, back to his original fishing spot and stopped. He was staring at the barrel of a pistol. In front of him stood a figure pointing the gun at his chest.

“I’ve cut myself badly, but I have just found a buried treasure,” he humbly exclaimed, hefting a blood-smeared heavy plastic bag in front of himself.

“You’re too late,” came the reply. “You were warned. I’ve got my orders.”

The silenced pistol fired twice.

For a few seconds, he stared, coughed a little blood spittle, dropped the bag, and collapsed backwards.

Chapter 3

Body on the Bank – Sunday Afternoon

Sunday afternoon at the Rec.

It was halfway through the third quarter, the premiership quarter, and the players of Railways Football Club were applying the pressure. Towns “Bulldogs” were in front by two goals but were struggling with injuries. Barney Merrick was having the game of his life. As the Railways “Blues” wingman, he had already managed to kick three goals, taken two solid marks in defence, and had racked up twenty-eight possessions by running freely across the centre, cutting through the defensive lines.

The “Blues” runner went out to him, spoke a few words, stood by and watched as he took his mouthguard out and threw it vehemently to the ground. He then scooped it up and ran with the runner to the interchange bench. He was immediately replaced on the ground by another player.

He took the proffered mobile phone and spoke with a panting voice, “Merrick.”

“Barney. A body found in the sand at Devlin Pool,” said his partner Zep Marcon. “I’ll pick you up outside the ground in two minutes.”

Wearing a tracksuit top over his football guernsey and carrying his kitbag fetched from the change-rooms, he climbed into the back seat as Zep paused briefly in the unmarked grey police car outside the Geraldton Recreation Ground. A quick U-turn and he sped uptown to the main arterial road.

Zep was his immediate superior, a detective senior sergeant in the Geraldton Police Station. There he was always referred to as Zep, never by his full name Guiseppi Marcon. Only unproved junior officers ever called him “sir”.

It was usually Zep who drove the detectives’ unmarked car. It wasn’t that he distrusted Barney. It was just that he loved driving. And when the time came, this beauty had the power under the bonnet that made it worth driving. Barney had to almost plead to get the occasional turn.

“What’re the details?” Barney’s voice was muffled as he was bent over double to the floor unlacing his football boots.

“We didn’t get anything in the phone call. The switchboard said the bloke sounded pretty upset,” answered Zep, reaching outside to attach the flashing blue light to the roof of the car. Next he switched on the flashing red and blue lights and the siren hidden inside the front grill of the unmarked police vehicle. Seconds later, with the blue light rotating on the roof, and all other lights flashing and the siren howling, he watchfully edged out into the main highway to the south. He put his foot down, passing everything in the double lanes out of town.

“Who else is covering the scene?” grunted Barney as he now stripped off his sweaty clothes.

“There are a couple of patrol cars already on their way,” replied Zep and then mumbled a curse as one driver in the outside lane was too slow to move across to the left. “I expect they will be there by now. Chris and Roger have been called out to Mullewa to help sort out a road rage accident and several serious assaults. We are the only D’s in town today.”

They travelled the ten kilometres in just under five minutes and turned right into the unsealed Devlin Pool Road. With the glaring afternoon sun in the middle of his vision, shining directly into his eyes, Zep squinted and followed the bright red dusty gravel road for 200 metres. Due to the closeness of the heavy bushes, there was very little road verge space to park. He pulled in behind the two other police cruisers already parked on the road to the river. Barney had finished completely changing clothes and footwear, although he still strongly smelled of sweat and Dencorub.

On the road behind them, one uniformed constable was now stringing yellow and black “Police Line–Do Not Enter” plastic tape across the side road entrance down at the highway. His partner from the second car was calling into the radio for the next arriving patrol car to block the other end of Devlin Pool Road, just a kilometre further south along the highway. With that, the crime scene would be secure from any automobile arrivals that would contain the prying eyes of the public and any local reporters who managed to pick up on the activity. With his tape barricade completed, the constable took more Police Line tape to string across the footbridge that entered the restricted site from the scenic walk track across the creek.

#

The two uniformed Road Patrol officers from the first cruiser were standing further up the road, where Devlin Pool Road veered left to follow along the river. They were interviewing the lone witness who had first discovered the body. He was not at all comfortable and kept glancing towards the bush track leading into the scrub down to the river.

Barney and Zep strode purposefully past that group of three and headed down the side-track as indicated by a nod from both officers. The track surface was soft beach sand, showing continuous daily use by walkers and joggers. Footprints in soft dry sand would be impossible to identify. A couple of trail bikes had also dug long furrows down the centre. Barney followed his senior for twenty metres to overlook the spot where the track curved left along the river. There the trail bikes had done wheelie skids around the bend and churned up a buried hand. It was now released from below the surface to wave to the outside world. Blowflies were already beginning to collect in large numbers.

The two detectives kept their distance, getting a full mental picture of the soft sandy track between tufts of Spinifex grass, clumps of low bushes, and tangles of fallen brushwood. Just beyond the track, the bank sloped away towards the green glassy surface waters of the Greenough River, rippling gently on the rocky shore just a half a dozen metres past the exposed hand. A pair of ducks, disturbed by their presence, paddled slowly away towards the centre of the fifty-metre wide river estuary, creating twin-V bow waves in the surface. They would be further disturbed with the dozens of people yet to follow.

“How long do you reckon the body has been there?” asked Zep, looking down at the exposed hand. At first glance, it was difficult to determine because the trail bike tyres had lacerated one side, shredding desiccated grey skin that now hung in strips from the bone. That part was beyond recognition, but there were some parts of flesh still intact on the other side of the hand.

As a senior detective, he was still Barney’s mentor after five years together, so he usually asked him for his first impressions. With two individual inputs, they usually considered most options. Barney was twelve years his junior and just Detective Merrick. It was part of Barney’s continual training, although both were probably equals when it came to skills at the job.

“At least three or four days, perhaps a week judging by the dehydration and decomposition,” he replied, “and likely it’s a male’s hand going by the size and shape.”

“Foul play?” Zep queried automatically.

“I really doubt that he could have buried himself in this ground,” wryly commented Barney. “Although the track sand is quite soft, he might have found it difficult with the filling in bit. So definitely foul play.” And with a cheesy grin at Zep, Barney continued, “Only the track is soft sand. The rest of the surrounds are grass and foliage. The body wasn’t buried deep, indicating there would have been only a short window of time to get it underground. Probably done at night as it looks like this place teems with people during daylight. Might have come prepared with a shovel. Very definitely foul play.”

They returned to the Road Patrol officers with the nervous witness. Two additional constables had arrived, so they began to organise the analysis of the crime scene.

Chapter 4

The Devlin Pool Site – Sunday Afternoon

Zep wandered purposely along the gravel road for 200 metres to scrutinise the general location of the sandy track relative to the road. There a fisherman’s off-road dirt trail led down to the foreshore where it was intersected by the sand track. It served as a boat ramp and parking bay for the locals who often frequented the riverbank.

Barney remained at the murder site and asked the two newly arrived constables about the footbridge that entered the road from the sandhills to the north.

“Do either of you know anything about that track on the other side of the creek?”

Constable Matt Winter replied, “Yes, I’ve walked it a few times with the girlfriend for an exercise stroll. It’s a three-kilometre walking track from the Greenough Rivermouth Settlement to here. It follows the river.”

Barney then issued instructions. “Okay. Thanks Matt. You and Ian can take a slow walk along that track to the settlement at the river mouth. Each of you check one side of the track walking there and then switch sides walking back. Phone me if you spot anything.”

Constables Ian Barrett and Matt Winter wandered off to cross the footbridge and scour the sides of the compressed limestone walking track northwards along the river-bank. There should be quite enough full daylight to do the trip slowly in both directions.

Zep rejoined the group and introduced himself and Barney to the witness, while at the same time, he drew a small voice recorder from his pocket and asked, “You don’t mind, do you?”

The witness nodded, and, not sure how to answer what was actually a rhetorical question, spluttered, “Um . . . It’s okay.”

Formalities first. The detectives asked and recorded the details of his ID onto the tape and then took his statement. “Tell us your story first,” invited Zep. “Questions after.”

“I’m a farmer from Dalwallinu, and we came to Geraldton for a few days before the start of the harvest. I am staying with my wife and two small kids in a chalet at the Greenough River Caravan Park. We spent the morning swimming at Front Beach in Geraldton and window-shopping in town after that. Then the missus and kids were down for a late afternoon nap, so I decided to take a stroll on the scenic track along the riverbank. Two pairs of joggers passed me going up and then again when they came back, so I guess they only went as far as the bridge. At the start of the walk, I saw three canoes in the river, heading downriver towards the river mouth. I heard the trail bikes on the road but didn’t see them. It sounded like there were two of them. They were long gone before I crossed the final footbridge.

When I walked from the road down the sandy track towards the water’s edge, I saw the hand. At first I thought it was just a stick, but then the smell. I felt sick, so I turned around back to the road and rang 000. I couldn’t get a signal at first, but then I managed up here in the middle of the road. That’s about the whole story.”

The interview was suspended and moved to the other side of the road as the Land Cruiser with the forensics team arrived and began unpacking and setting up at the top of the sand track. After a few more questions for clarification, Zep arranged for the two assisting Road Patrol officers to return the witness to the Greenough River Caravan Park. He would be required to check in to the Geraldton Police Station first thing tomorrow to sight and sign his recorded and typed statement. As they left, the officers were quietly told to check the accommodation registration and get his car details to confirm his credentials when they dropped him off.

#

A lone female figure appeared, walking briskly up the Devlin Pool Road. Barney did a double take, not because she was stunning to look at, and not because she was dressed in her Sunday finery. She was both of those, but he did the double take because she was actually there. “Carleen Camello! What are you doing here? How did you get past the roadblock tapes?”

She was well known to the police for her presence at minor crime scenes around Geraldton. She was usually allocated the little jobs that senior reporters didn’t want. She was efficient but fair and very quick to perceive the details of a crime scene.

She replied with a cheeky smile, “I was at the football when I saw you leave in a hurry. It screamed ‘news story’ at me, so I followed. I couldn’t get past the police tapes on either entrance into here, so I parked the car on the highway and walked through the paddocks and bush until I bypassed them. So now. What is going on?”

“The police barrier was there for a reason,” declared Zep, tersely. “This is a preliminary investigation of a crime scene, and you shouldn’t be here. You will get a media release when we are ready.”

“A media release about what?” was the next inquisitive probe.

“Come now, Carleen,” said Barney, taking her elbow and turning her away from the river. “Let’s talk about it as we walk to your car. I’ll look after this,” he called to Zep as he left with the reporter.

As they wandered back down the gravel road towards the highway, Barney spoke. “This is not for publication yet. I’m going to have to insist that you hold tight onto any story for at least a day, so I don’t expect anything to appear in Monday’s paper. I will give you more specific details when we are able to release them. Is that fair enough?” She nodded briefly while they looked at each other for confirmation.

Barney continued, “We have a body beside the river, unidentified male. That’s all we have determined so far.”

“That’s it?” she asked, sounding disappointed.

“That is all you will need to know. At least until tomorrow, when we ourselves know more. Forensics has only just arrived too. Sorry, but that’s it.”

They walked along in silence for a few minutes, until she mentioned, “I saw your great game today.”

“So why did you notice me in particular?” asked Barney.

“I always seem to notice you. You stand out from the pack. I am impressed with the way you play,” she replied honestly.

Further conversation died as they reached and passed the barrier tapes and the officers manning the blockade. They continued on along the verge of the highway towards Carleen’s car. He looked her over, noticing the few scratches on her arms and legs and the odd small nicks in her clothing where she had scrambled through the wire fence and walked through the paddock and bushes.

“You’ve ruined that outfit,” he remarked. “I will try to make it up by getting the details first to you for an exclusive story. Just this once, mind you.”

When they reached the small red Corolla, she took a card from her purse and passed it to him. “Here is my card. Call me anytime.” She smiled and drove away.

#

As he wandered thoughtfully back to the river, he took out his mobile phone, selected a number, and phoned.

“Yeah?” was the terse reply as he was connected. He could hardly hear it over the noisy talking, laughing, and rattling of glasses in the background. “Hang on. I’ll get a quieter spot.” There was a clunking and movement and the banging of doors. The background noise stopped.

“Hi coach,” said Barney as he was back on the phone. “Sorry about that call out. Occupational hazard.”

“It would have to happen at that time and place,” growled Brad Cocker. “You were sorely . We always knew it could happen.”

Barney swallowed, took a breath, and enquired in an even voice, “What was the result?”

“We lost by a couple of goals. Towns are now into the Grand Final, so we have to beat Mullewa next Sunday to get there too.”

“I expect that things will have settled down a bit by that time,” assured Barney, but he crossed his fingers just the same. “We will be ready for them.”

“We have to be. See you at training. Whenever you can make it!” ironically finished Brad and switched off.

“Boy, did he sound mad!” thought Barney.

Chapter 5

Detective Barney Merrick

Murder was not new to Detective Sergeant Barney Merrick of the Western Australian Police Force. He had seen quite a few crime scenes in his eight years on the force, some of them horrific murder scenes. This would make a pleasant change, or unpleasant one, depending on your point of view, a change from the usual cases that he was required to chase down in Geraldton. Crime scenes here were usually break and enter, car theft, criminal assault, or the occasional minor drug bust. Barney liked to use his analytical mind to ensure that those on the wrong side of the law were brought to justice. He just wished those people he prosecuted whom he knew to be villains were not freed because of the ambiguities of the court system.

Charles Barnabas Merrick was Barney to everybody from the age of twelve. On the day his much-loved grandfather Barnabas Merrick died, he had assumed his own middle name as his first name out of respect for the revered old guy. Anyway he was sick of being called a “right proper Charlie” by all his grade seven schoolmates, just because he was quick at his studies and always seemed to have the correct answers. So Barney Merrick was born, and he had the wit and charisma to carry it off. By the time he reached high school, the name of Charles was dead and buried.

He breezed through high school, finding the rigour of studies to his liking, and he loved the physical demands of sport, especially Aussie rules football because he was good at it. Growing up in North Cottesloe, he was part of the strong Swanbourne Tigers juniors through his high school years. He also played for the high school, but they only played a few matches each year in the School’s Cup competition. That wasn’t enough footy for Barney.

He was accepted into Law at the University of Western Australia and finished his four-year degree, all the time playing for the university’s amateur football sides. He had considered trying out for the WA Football League, but he also wanted to succeed at studies while enjoying a social life. The training demands of league football didn’t quite meet his academic and social needs at that time.

He began his articles with a solicitor in Perth who concentrated on criminal law. During those first six months, his intended career path changed. He was appalled to observe the skill with which the courts were manipulated so that criminals would not be convicted. Too often he saw a strong case against a villain being thrown out because of a minor point of law, tainted or inadmissible evidence, publicity affecting jury impartiality, police procedures not properly followed, and so on. It was just a game of words. He decided that was not the life he wanted to be involved in, so he joined the police force. He intended to use his skills in law to actively put the lawbreakers into court with as strong evidence as possible so that even the best lawyers would struggle to break the case apart.

After two years as a police constable attached to the Criminal Investigation Bureau (CIB), he applied to become a detective. With his previous qualifications and training in law and his proved performance with investigations in the field, he was accepted. After an initial probationary period, he was confirmed as a full Detective Senior Constable. For his first year, he operated in the Perth branch.

His girlfriend and fiancée of four years found the hours he was putting in was not to her liking. She found another man first and then told Barney his services were no longer required. This destroyed Barney. The Perth environment, where he had been so contentedly living for twenty-four years, no longer felt so welcoming. He applied for a transfer to any large town out of Perth and was delighted to be sent to the sunny city of Geraldton.

He had immediately liked the rural city. His arrival had coincided with a rock-bottom real estate market, so his analytical mind said time to buy in. He had bought a small house in a prime location along Willcock Drive in Mahomet’s Flats. It fronted along the ocean at Back Beach, so he could walk through the sand dunes to swim and surf whenever he had the time.

He had been happily working and playing football in Geraldton for five years. Zep was the main reason Barney loved his work here. Zep was a true professional criminal detective, with aims and ethics very much along the lines of his own. Barney enjoyed the company of the occasional girlfriend, but after being burnt in Perth, he was not yet ready to make another full-time commitment. The Railways Football Club was his physical release, enabling him to keep fit, to burn off energy, and to frequently get out in the fresh air and enjoy some social life. Because he was such a strongly orientated club man, they were even forgiving, usually, when his work commitments interfered with his training and match commitments.

#

After taking copious photographs from all directions, the forensics team at Devlin Pool marked out the space around the exposed hand, preparing to dig a trench, thirty centimetres wide, around the body. Further out too, they would scrape off the top surface, already roughened by many footprints. Everything would be sifted as they dug. While waiting, Barney and Zep emu-bobbed the outer vicinity and the nearby roadside verges but found nothing. That would be done more thoroughly in full daylight tomorrow.

#

Barney’s mobile rang in his pocket. It was Constable Barrett, who, with Constable Winter, was walking the scenic track.

“We are now at the Rivermouth Settlement, next to the barbecue and picnic area by the estuary. There is a car stickered with the ‘This Vehicle has been Reported’ notice,” he advised. “The office says it was reported two days ago, belonging to James Tennant of 86 Fitzgerald Street. Nobody was at home when uniforms called in there yesterday.”

Barney passed this on to Zep, and they immediately drove to the vehicle’s location. It was only three kilometres down river by the walking track, but closer to four kilometres on the road by way of the main highway and back into the estuary road.

The car was a recent model, bright blue Holden, a young man’s car going by the decal stickers, with attitude, adorning the side and rear windows. Some dirty clothes were visible on the rear seat, some empty tinnies on the back floor, as well as a plastic shopping bag with potato chips, cracker biscuits, and a few soft drink cans visible through the plastic. Another job for forensics to sort out.

Barney glanced through the driver’s window at the dashboard lights and commented, “Strange, the car alarm indicator is not flashing. The car alarm has not been armed. Or it has been disarmed.”

“Or a flat battery,” added Zep.

Barney put on a glove and tried the door. It opened. And the alarm remained silent. He leant down and popped the boot, and as he did so, he exclaimed, “Hello, what’s this? There is a set of keys and wallet just under the driver’s seat.”

He left the keys and used a pencil to flip open the wallet.

“The wallet belongs to James Tennant,” confirmed Barney. “His driver’s licence is in the front. Take a look at that wad of cash in the billfold. Stacks of high denominations, probably a couple of grand at least.” He put on his second glove and pulled out the plastic cards from the wallet. “Couple of bank cards, Medicare card, one totally blank light blue card, and a month-old football ticket to Subiaco Oval, West Coast against Carlton. We won that one.”

Zep had inspected the contents of the boot. There was nothing in there, except a few stains on the carpet that made up the lining of the floor. Identifying these would become yet another job for forensics.

It had to be assumed that the car belonged to the victim, until proved otherwise. It had been parked on hard gravel for at least four or five days, about the same time as they had estimated the body was buried. It was located in a heavy use picnic area, so they could not expect to isolate much positive evidence. After emu-bobbing the surrounds unsuccessfully for potential clues, they sent the two constables to return along the track before nightfall.

Zep rang the car-carrier truck company to come and pick it up and deliver it to the police compound. The forensic technicians were fully committed with the preliminary analysis of the primary site right now, so work on the likely victim’s car would have to start later. It was just after dusk when the car was collected and carefully manoeuvred on to the back of the truck to avoid compromising any prints or DNA residues. With instructions to the truck driver to take as much care again when unloading the car, they left him to it and travelled back to Devlin Pool Road.

It was now dark and the area was festooned with bright lights, with a large marquee covering the diggings. A generator hummed in the distance. The going was slow and careful, digging, sifting, and carting sand to dump it in piles nearby, but they were progressing.

The detectives left them at it.

Chapter 6

Geraldton Police Station – Sunday Night

Returning to Geraldton, Barney and Zep checked out the stated residence of the identified victim, but with no lights visible and no answer to the door, it had to be presumed that nobody was home. They continued on to the station, via a drive-through takeaway, and carried their boxed meals and coffees to their office. Detectives Chris Wilson and Roger Knight were at their desks entering incident reports into the computers.

“So where’s our suppers?” enquired Chris glancing up.

“Two streets over, turn left, and it’s right there on the corner,” replied Barney.

“Gee, thanks a million,” said Roger. “You blokes have managed to snare the cream case, a murder no less, while we have been busting our guts in Mullewa trying to sort out a family feud over a smashed television screen. There was drinking, fighting, and even one car ramming another. We stayed to help the Mullewa police until things calmed enough for family services to take over. It’s lucky there was no football in town today or else the whole extended family may have been there to become involved. So what’s in your murder?”

Barney gave them a brief analysis while Zep wandered out to pass the voice recorder to a secretary for transcribing and picked up a replacement. Chris and Roger had packed up and gone by the time he returned.

As they munched their meals, they both went browsing in the available databases for more details on the victim. They would check out Tennant’s home at first light tomorrow. Working late that night would enable them to get the preliminary forensic details phoned through to them in a few hours’ time. Sleep was probably out of the question for at least some time yet.

Zep rang Shirley, his wife of seventeen years, and let her know that he would be quite late, again. She sounded concerned, but she was used to being left in charge of their three boisterous teenage children. Andy and Billy, aged sixteen and fourteen, were in high school so probably had a bit of homework on Sunday night. They needed to be supervised nowadays, because like most teenage boys, both loved computers and had the tendency to switch from homework to computer games or downloading internet music or movies. Young Jeannie, aged twelve, was in grade seven primary school, so she was just old enough to be a problem for her parents and too young to be left independent. She would probably spend most of the early evening in her room texting her girlfriends. Lately, Zep and Shirley had put a digital limit on the three so that they were not totally wasting their evenings.

For most of this past Sunday afternoon, the whole family had been at the artificial turf hockey arena, where all three children played in three different teams. Luckily, this time two of the match times overlapped so the day was not really drawn out, but at other times, there had been three consecutive matches making it a long day for the parents. As on most weekends, Zep had been with them. When he was unexpectedly called away, he had to take the car. It was not the first time that Shirley needed to call a taxi to get home, but she stoically accepted this as her lot.

#

Around 9 p.m., Lieutenant Margaret Gordon, the duty officer, wandered in. Her crisp uniform was immaculate as usual, looking as though she had just clocked on rather than displaying the ravages of the six hours work she had already done. She began in her normal officious manner, “You’ve tied up all of my reserve mobile units and the entire forensic staff out there. Wasn’t there some way you could have secured the site with less manpower?”

Barney was typing at his computer, with his head beginning to nod, showing the signs of his hard football game. On hearing this, he shook his head at Zep as a warning not to rise to the bait. Too often Lieutenant Gordon had got their blood boiling by her inefficient use of the uniformed police. The proverbial delegator. She was good at organising other people at doing her work, but not so good at her own job. Zep was too tired to argue and was about to open his mouth to apologise for his actions when the phone rang on his desk.

The duty switchboard operator had transferred an incoming call immediately through to Zep Marcon’s desk phone. He listened briefly, exclaimed, “What the . . . ?”, and switched the phone to conference mode to allow Barney and Margaret to hear the call too.

The incoming call continued, “. . . just under the head of the body and at about the same depth, the radius, and ulna arm bones and the small bones of a human hand. This second body has been buried longer, so it is skeletal with most of the bones no longer joined together. We seem to have a serial killer using this site.”

Both Barney and Zep stared at each other as they both digested the information.

“Hello . . .” called the voice on the phone. “Are you still there?”

“We are on our way,” answered Zep. “Sorry, ma’am. Gotta go,” he said, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. Barney grabbed a sweater and the car keys from the desk and threw them to Zep as both hurried to the door.

#

“Déjà vu,” declared Barney as their unmarked patrol car pulled up in Devlin Road just a short time later that evening. They were met by Dr Laura Chelva, forensic pathologist in charge of disinterring the body, now two bodies. She reached for her laptop on a collapsible stand that appeared to be designed just for it. It was showing an itemised account of things discovered, until she switched to a series of pictures, which she quickly scanned through while talking.

“We had removed the first body, which is now on its way to the Geraldton morgue with all the siftings we had uncovered,” she told them. “He’s a big man, mid-twenties. I am sending this photo of his face to your mobile. It’s vaguely visible, dried-out skin and covered in sand, but hasn’t been cleaned up yet as there may be evidence around the face. I should be able to get the preliminaries done by early morning. My first call says two shots to the chest, about a week ago.”

Looking at the photograph of the body on Dr Chelva’s laptop computer, it looked a bit like James Tennant, but with attached sand and a week’s decomposition, it was difficult to be certain.

She continued as she displayed another photo that had been uploaded from her phone to computer. “The second body has been there for a lot longer, but how much longer is too soon to tell. We have now uncovered the full arm to the shoulder, but we will need to work carefully on this one. There may be others around here.” She swept her hand about in an arc, taking in the full area. “We may be just moving dirt to cover up more bodies and evidence.”

On hearing this, Zep made the executive decision to close the operation for the night. He rang his boss, Superintendent Strickland, who agreed that right now it was a priority to get things under way. Central CIB in Perth was contacted, even though it was late at night. It was arranged that ground-scanning sonar, plus highly sensitive metal detectors, with additional forensic staff and vehicles would be sent up, to arrive mid-morning if all things went well.

Barney organised for solid wooden barriers to be placed at both ends of the highway entrances to close off Devlin Pool Road. These would both be manned by uniformed officers for the duration of the excavation. Two other officers would patrol at the diggings site to prevent access from other directions, land or sea. Relief and logistic support would be arranged for those on duty. Lieutenant Gordon would have to get over it.

By midnight, most had made for home and bed. It had been a very long day for all, and the following day was expected to be another challenging day for everyone.

Chapter 7

Speed Selling Speed – on the Previous Thursday

Meanwhile three days earlier.

The gang assembled in a pretentious “macmansion” in Tarcoola Heights on the hills in the southern suburbs of Geraldton. Macmansions were designated as such after the fast-food idea of throwing it together quickly and cheaply to look good at a minimal cost. Construction glitz and size was substituted for style. The home-owner[ks1] was Lennie (Slasher) Platts, the leader of the Gero Garbage bikie gang. He had called an evening conference of all members of the chapter in their Tarcoola Heights headquarters.

While they waited for the meeting to start, they helped themselves to various beers from the bar fridge or spirits from the sideboard, and packets of chips and nuts strewn across the table.

“Tennant has disappeared,” Slasher began. “I tried to phone him on his emergency burn phone last Sunday, but it was switched off. I went to his house today, and his neighbours say he hasn’t been seen around for about five days. He was expected here two days ago and didn’t turn up. He may have done a runner, or there may have been an accident, or he could have been seized by the All Angels in Perth. We’ll be in deep shit if our connection with Tennant comes out. If he rats on our operation and our storage, we could be in serious trouble with the law or the Angels.”

“He’s never been out of touch before so as a precaution I am planning to clear out the storeroom. You will work in pairs so that you will have someone to watch your backs at all time. Don’t use your own mobile phones just in case they have been bugged. Face to face contacts only. I’m going to get you to do an additional run to the country centres to offload an extra serve of both E’s and speed to everyone. Phelan and Rhino can make the run north to the usual outlets. I know it’s another long trip, but it can’t be avoided. Take a car and share the driving. No club colours on anything.

“Since we currently don’t have James Tennant to unload our products into the local markets, we will have to work through that area ourselves. I know there is a risk of being seen locally, but if we work carefully, it should minimise the problem. Cookie and Nolan will drop off an extra serve of E’s and speed to the local boys. Payment can be delayed, but they know the consequences if they later shirk the deal. Tell them it is to fill their next few month’s orders, as we may be out of production for a while. That should clear out our full supply of speed.

“We will also dump all our excess E’s into Perth streets as quickly as possible. We won’t make big profits, but we can’t be caught with them. Quinny and Canute should still have enough Perth contacts to be able to still do that job. But especially keep out of sight of the All Angels. We did have an agreement that we wouldn’t go into their territory again. You two will also use your car and no club colours.

“Now for collecting the stuff from the storeroom. We can’t be seen visiting there. It may already be under surveillance, depending on where Tennant is. So far we have been extra careful in keeping ourselves under the radar. At the very least, we will still keep the produce away from this headquarters. Quinny can drop by the storeroom during the wee small hours with shopping bags and collect it. He will then meet you all later in cars at a quiet location. Any suggestions where?”

Slasher paused and looked around.

“Friday morning should be quiet out at the lighthouse car park, a few fishermen maybe,” prompted Rhino.

“That’s the place then. Make sure that it’s unoccupied before you begin dishing around the stuff or move to a place that is. So fellers, these are your jobs for the next few days. Watch yourselves and cover your arses.”

Slasher Platts then looked around at the rest of his assembled gang and issued instructions, “The rest of you, check out the gossip around town. Ask a few quiet questions to find out anything you can about Tennant. But keep away from his house. If there is a problem, we don’t want to be seen anywhere near that place.”

#

Acting on Slasher’s orders, the next morning, the designated six Gero Garbage members met in a deserted part of the West End car park. In front of their parked vehicles were low scrub-covered sand dunes that separated them from the pristine sands of the expansive beach around Point Moore. There would be fishermen along that beach, but they would have driven their vehicles out on to the hard sand to their favourite fishing spot. Behind the car park stood the massive cylindrical steel pillar of the Point Moore lighthouse, with its bright red and white bands circling the building. There wasn’t another soul visible.

They assembled around the boot of Quinny’s car. From the array of containers of crisps and cracker biscuits that contained the pre-packaged plastic packets of speed or ice or E’s, each picked out the appropriate ones for their assigned tasks. The cardboard packaging was just a simple layer of camouflage to cover up the pills and powder.

Ken (Cookie) Cook and Tom Nolan selected a few dozen snap-lock packets from the containers and put them into jacket pockets, before mounting their bikes to supply the local markets. These two Gero Garbage members had the easiest trip, but the hardest job. Both were known around town, so they had to try to move about unnoticed. That meant parking the bikes and lots of walking.

Peter Phelan and Nick (Rhino) Ryan picked up their large supply of the ecstasy tablets and the powdered speed, packed into emptied crisp packets and cracker biscuit packets. These were stashed in the boot of the sedan car along with a few packets of real potato chips and soft drink bottles, all held in plastic shopping bags. This was their attempt at additional camouflage. The pair headed north for their 2,400 kilometres, week-long trip through Carnarvon and Karratha, returning through Tom Price, Newman, and Meekatharra. Each town could require at least one overnight stay, as they would need the time to make connections, arrange transfers, and collect cash, not easy for a flying unannounced visit.

Tim (Quinny) Quinn and Kevin Canute picked up the rest of the crisps containers containing the remaining supply of the ecstasy tablets in ziplock plastic bags and put them into the shopping bags on the back seat. They also put a few packets of real chips and some soft drink cans on top of the crisps. Their task in Perth was to get rid of these surplus supplies at the best price, to clear them out, so that there would be no left-over physical connection to James Tennant.

#

Quinny and Canute travelled the 432 kilometres to Perth, arriving around midday on Friday, and cruised about the main streets of the main suburban centres. They were looking for a few of the known members of street gangs and other previous contacts. They knew many of them because that had been their primary job in the past. Both used to be the link men and sometimes drug pushers themselves, before Tennant had stepped into that position.

James Tennant had moved the production to Geraldton so the gang had stopped using the Perth markets. Having the services of Tennant collecting the chemicals and other raw materials had allowed them to take one step away from the front line. The Gero Garbage became less visible to the All Angels bikies who now controlled this Perth turf.

Their first port of call was a previously reliable old customer who ran a combined newsagent, lotto, and video store on the northern end of the suburbs.

“G’day, Mike. How’s business?” greeted Quinny heartily as they entered the store, and looking about, confirming that there were no other customers.

“Quinn and Canute! Well, Well. I haven’t seen you about for many months,” came the jovial reply.

“We’ve been busy elsewhere,” said Canute. “We’ve just popped in to see how you are getting on.”

Mike’s expression became a little sterner and his manner more reserved. “I’m doing fine, and I can’t do business with you two, if that’s what you are after. I have to stay loyal to my reliable sources.”

“Mike. Mike. Mike. You don’t know what we can do for you and already you are saying no,” fawned Quinny. “Let us propose a scenario to you.”

“No,” said Mike, continuing to protest.

“Suppose that an old friend was able to supply 400 or 500 of the product at half the usual price,” interrupted Quinny. “Just suppose that you would then store them away and slowly feed them into your normal turnover in dribs and drabs over quite a few months. Just imagine the quite profitable margin you could make on the side. Your normal supplier need never know.”

“Make it 40 percent of normal cost,” was a firm offer.

“Done.” They both agreed.

Mike took 500. He disappeared out back for two minutes and reappeared with the cash. His sideline was lucrative, so he always had the cash on hand to purchase his supplies.

Quinny and Canute moved on to repeat this process many times in the next two days. They connected with a few of the lads in the main northern suburban shopping centres and arranged for the “fire sale” to each customer of a few hundred pills at much reduced prices. Then they tried Northbridge, on the north side of the city, which was a lot more dangerous, as this was more into the All Angels operational territory.

They were on foot, strolling along the café strip, when two All Angels roared past on bikes and turned into the back alley of The Minibike Club. This was a quiet bar that was the front for a well-known illegal brothel and gambling establishment. The two bikies were seen going in the back entrance, so now Quinny and Canute knew to watch out for that immediate area.

After a few hours in Northbridge, contacting the occasional street gang member to pass the word about, they passed the laneway once again. The bikes were still there. However, when they reached their parked car quite some distance from the laneway, the bikes roared into life and the All Angels pair rode noisily away in the opposite direction. The volume created was an emphatic statement of the ownership that they had of that district.

For the remaining part of the afternoon and into the early evening, Quinny and Canute spent their time moving around both the northern suburbs and in Northbridge, filling orders and collecting cash.

#

Later that evening, they travelled south to Fremantle, the port city for Perth. After checking into a quiet motel, they used that Friday night to meet with a few of their old connections. It was a lot easier in Freo, as the local street gangs were a little stronger. These were overseen by the Apache Bikie Gang, who operated from Willagee, quite a distance from the port city. This was foreign turf to the Perth All Angels, but it was still treading on the toes of an overlord.

For most of Saturday, they circled about the southern and eastern suburbs, doing a brisk business with former known buyers. Even these centres were not free markets, as all were usually part of the declared turf of other bikie gangs.

They managed to clear all but a few dozen of the ecstasy pills. So for a last time, they headed towards the nightlife of Northbridge.

#

The laneway was empty when they passed it the first time at just around sundown. A couple of hours later, all the remaining E’s had been disposed of in the clubs and bars of James Street and Roe Street. In full darkness, they had decided to head north, home to Geraldton. On checking the laneway at the back of The Minibike Club again, they saw two more bikes back there in the dark shadows. The Angels were either frequent players, business partners, or crowd control employees.

This information was passed on to the rest of the Gero Garbage members when the two arrived home. It could be a useful bit of knowledge.

Chapter 8

Victim’s House Search – Monday Morning

The sun had been glowing through a hazy morning cloud cover for over two hours before Barney wandered over to collect Tennant’s keys from forensics. They had already been fingerprinted for what could be found on them. He was not really quite awake as he joined Zep in their unmarked police car. It was just after eight on Monday morning, and already he felt like he had done a week’s work.

They pulled in behind the highly visible patrol car that had been doing sentry duty outside the house. A second police patrol vehicle arrived and parked in front, and constables Barrett and Winter emerged. Barney looked up and down the street, taking in the parallel lines of the hundred-year-old gigantic and stately pine trees that turned Fitzgerald Street into a shady avenue all through the year. They were joined by the four officers, who now comprised the search team, and began a scout around the outside of the empty house.

They first investigated the detached washhouse near the house, which proved to be empty, save for one modern washing machine, a dryer, and a few packets of various laundry powders. Further down a crumbling cement garden path was an old dilapidated corrugated iron garden shed beside a disused old weatherboard toilet that were both attached to the rear fence. There was an access laneway running past the rear fence that was formerly used for the night carts to empty the toilet “night soil” cans. The gate to the lane was chained and padlocked. One of the keys fitted into the padlock, so Barney checked out the laneway, finding nothing of immediate interest. Now it was only a throughway access for some houses with back garages.

The search of the garden shed revealed that it held nothing but some old workshop tools, a couple of deteriorating nylon bags of lawn and garden fertiliser, a stack of large old paint tins, rakes, shovels, and other assorted gardening implements.

Barney produced the keys again and unlocked the front door. Their three hours of intense searching yielded nothing outstanding, but they were able to begin to build a picture of the deceased.

James Tennant was a farm deliveries man for Manta Farming Supplies. His clients rang through orders which went straight to a recording tape. He apparently didn’t use a mobile, or at least they hadn’t found one. For his orders, he needed some form of accessible recording when he wasn’t home, so he had set up this system for his clients. On the desk were the ledgers, order books, business cheques, and receipts. He obviously picked up small orders from Perth or local suppliers and delivered them personally. For bigger orders, he subcontracted the collection and delivery to a local trucking company.

“He kept it well documented,” said Barney as he looked around further. He was curious.

“Thoughts?” questioned Zep.

“He is the company. Just him. All the paperwork is right here. We probably won’t find Manta Farming Supplies as a registered company,” mused Barney. “He also has no storage of anything here. What was ordered was picked up and immediately delivered.”

“Seems that way,” responded Zep.

Barney continued, “And he only has ledger entries for ten customers. I wonder if he was running a second set of books with another set of clients. Maybe he made personal visits and had cash customers to avoid tax.”

Zep added, “Perhaps he was delivering other products too.”

They packed up the recording tape and office books for further investigation. The other officers searching the house had determined that the fridge contents seemed to suggest that no one had been in the house for around seven days. The kitchen bin was empty and so was the wheelie bin outside. General fingerprinting around the house showed only one main occupant in the distant past. There were occasional odd prints here and there, nothing too recent. If he associated with people, he didn’t do much of it at home. After the week’s absence, the mailbox at the front gate was full, but it was only junk mail, so probably one of the keys was to a post office box.

“Next of kin,” considered Zep thoughtfully. “We can’t really release any name until they have been notified.”

“But there is nothing to show anything of his past,” added Barney. “No personal letters, no documents, no passport, and no formal ID other than what’s in his wallet. His driver’s licence and vehicle licence both give this address, his date of birth as 6 November 1985 and little else.”

#

Back at the office, the fingerprints from the body had been faxed to them from the morgue, and they matched perfectly to those extracted from the car and the Fitzgerald Street house. So the body was confirmed to be that of James Tennant. A court order was immediately arranged to allow them access to his personal records.

Zep rang to check the progress at the diggings. The additional support from Perth had yet to arrive, so the excavation had not resumed. Barney rang through requests for the victim’s phone records, banking details, and tax returns. He had to follow these calls with faxed official documentation before any could be released. Zep gave the keys to Constable Winter to go and collect the contents of the mailbox from the post office.

Chapter 9

Search Analysis – Monday Afternoon

To visibly confirm the identity of the body for themselves and to see what else Dr Chelva had discovered, they visited the hospital morgue that afternoon. She was still awaiting the arrival of the support team from Perth before resuming at the burial site, so she had completed the post-mortem on Tennant’s body.

“Death was caused by two bullets to the chest,” she began, as she glanced at her notes to refresh her memory. “The first one that I looked for went right through the chest, through the rib cage, sliced open the aorta, and went out the back between ribs and vertebra. It was a through and through, probably ending up in the river if it made it that far. We did not find it using the metal detector. The second one hit the sternum, punctured the heart, and lodged around the intersection of the fourth rib and vertebra at the back. So we recovered just one bullet from the body. Death would have been almost instantaneous from either bullet,”

She turned a page and continued, “Lividity after death indicates the body lay on the back for about two to three hours, then was rolled over, probably just one full turn, and buried face-upwards. A series of small skin indentations, post-mortem, suggests hands or fists were used to roll the body over into the grave. A lot of blood was found congealed in the sand on the upper side of the track, under a clean layer thrown on top. This indicated that the body bled out there and was then rolled into the grave that had been dug in the middle of the track. Fresh sand was then used to cover up all the blood. The time of death and burial was about seven days ago. There has been quite a bit of rain in the meantime so the surface was left quite clear.”

Turning over to the next page, she continued, “Forensic entomology was not very helpful. The residuals from Calliphoridae blowflies, which are usually the first infestation for the time just after death, were minimal, suggesting the body was buried quite quickly or it was probably evening when few insects were mobile. Some eggs were laid around the bullet wounds and in the mouth where there was likely to be bloodied spittle. This infestation fed and departed for the surface within a few days. Some older maggots were found in the body in the grave. They would be from some deposits of eggs on the surface of the sand when the adult blowflies would be able to smell the cadaverous gases from the shallow depth. This continuous surface egg deposits over a period of time and the remains of very few mature adults made it difficult to assess time of death through forensic entomology. On the exposed hand, there was more activity, but that only began after exposure.

“The victim’s clothes showed some fish scales and traces of clear white fish meat sticking to the legs of the pants. Likely that was from the victim wiping his hands after baiting his hooks.

“His hands were quite damaged. The right hand was flayed by the wheels of the motor bike, but the left hand had been slashed by something sharp and rusty. He had a handkerchief wrapped around it, but that was blood soaked. Both hands showed other skin scratches, and there was a lot of sand under his fingernails. This was Devlin Pool sand, so he had been recently digging with his hands in that area.

“Stomach and bowel contents showed he hadn’t eaten very recently, probably five or six hours before he was killed.

“Nothing else was found in the siftings around the body. The hands had to be re-hydrated before fingerprints were taken and delivered to you this morning. DNA was extracted and will be sent to CrimTrac in Perth for matching in the National Criminal Investigation DNA Database.

“The single bullet was removed and sent to Perth for ballistics comparison. Seemed it was about 7.62 mm. What was strange was a small trace of blackened carbon around the bullet and in the tracks of the wounds. It seemed to have been some form of plastic, but I will have to wait for spectrum analysis tests from the Perth lab to tell me exactly what it was. I will get these preliminary notes tidied up and forwarded to your office.”

#

Barney and Zep next visited the Geraldton Police forensics lab, where Dr Richard Meagher told them of the findings he had made so far.

“As you already know, the body’s fingerprints matched those found on the car, wallet, and keys. We used Livescan to digitally check fingerprints in NAFIS, but it found no match. He does not appear in the CrimTrac Police Reference System so has no record in any police investigation.

“Fingerprints on the three beer cans in the car all belong to the victim. These were probably ‘roadies’ that he drank during the long trips he took. There was a full handprint on the boot of car where somebody had closed the boot, but it was too smudged by wiping and rain to be useful. But we found a full thumb print on the inside of the boot that wasn’t Tennant’s. Someone else had lifted the boot.

“The spots on the boot carpet were quite widespread. There were common chemicals like methylated spirits, hydrochloric acid, caustic soda, ammonium hydroxide and acetone. Others were farming chemicals like sheep dip, animal worming fluid, superphosphate, and trace elements. The clothes on the back seat had traces of the same chemicals, so may have been a change of clothes used when handling these chemicals. The crisps and crackers packets and soft drink cans on the back seat were all recently purchased and had the shopping docket in the plastic bag, showing a supermarket in the northern suburbs of Perth.

“One strange thing about the car. It’s only an eighteen-month-old model and has nearly one hundred and fifty thousand kilometres on the odometer. That’s nearly a thousand a week: almost a couple of trips to Perth per week. That bloke was never at home.”

“Thanks,” said Barney and Zep in unison.

#

Back in their office, Barney and Zep planned to work on James Tennant’s books. Before starting, while Barney briefed the junior detectives Chris and Roger on the latest, Zep dropped into Superintendent Strickland’s office to update him on the murder investigation. As he was about to leave, the Super said, “Lieutenant Gordon wants you to put in a logbook summary on the use of the uniforms at the piquet lines.”

Zep exploded, “She is just making work. She can get the log printouts from the computer at the end of every day after the lads have entered their shift data. That’s her job, and she knows it.” Superintendent Strickland nodded his head slowly in thought but said nothing as Zep left.

The four Geraldton detectives occupied a separately sectioned-off office space within the large open plan working area of the police station. Together with Chris Wilson and Roger Knight, the two junior detectives, their desks were in two pairs surrounded by filing cabinets that formed part of the office partitioning. In each pair of wide desks, the keyboards were both at one end, with computer screens back to back and the computers out of sight under the desks. This gave them a big flat working space on the remaining double operations benches.

Spread out on Barney’s and Zep’s paired desks were Tennant’s books and the recently received documents. On top of one of the filing cabinets, a tape recorder was playing back the incoming calls for Manta Farming Supplies.

The telephone company had earlier faxed them all of Tennant’s outward call numbers and, more importantly, the inward calls. Details of callers were obtained by using the incoming phone calls and sequencing the orders on the tapes. They matched phone numbers to stated names and voices and the appropriate farm necessities that were ordered.

The voice messages on the tapes spanned a period of over two months. All but fourteen calls could be matched to client orders, but there were a few random calls that seem to be coded, very short and cryptic.

“JT, need 4G.”

“PS, ready for pick up,” and

“CH, more wanted.”

The phone numbers matching these calls were copied down. A follow-up call to the telephone company produced one confirmed local address. The others were mobile phones, one originating in Perth and the others from Bunbury in the South West and Albany in the south. The Albany phone turned out to be untraceable, probably a “burn phone” created with fake ID from a non-existent address. They would start with the local call that they could trace.

#

“Okay!” said Barney, sitting back with his arms behind his head, at the end of the long afternoon in the office. “What can we give out in a media report?”

“Without next of kin, we can’t really release a name until we try other sources. Just the usual type of media release, male, aged twenty-five to thirty and a request for any information to help us. I know why you want this. It’s for Carleen Camello. You had better put out a proper media release tomorrow, or we will get done for corruption and cronyism.”

Barney picked up the phone, checked Carleen Camello’s calling card, and phoned her. “Carleen! Barney Merrick. Care to meet me now for afternoon tea at the Camel Bar?”

“Sure thing,” she replied immediately. “See you there in a few minutes.”

Barney collected his car from the police station, parked in the busy main car park at the rear of the former Murchison Tavern, and waited in the main bar. She had a little further to travel from the Geraldton Guardian offices in Beachlands, near the Point Moore lighthouse.

As they settled into a quiet corner of the recently renovated Camel Bar, Carleen ordered a white wine and Barney had a lime, lemon and bitters. She raised her eyebrows when he ordered it, so he explained, “Due at training in half an hour. Coach’s orders.”

He took a large swig of his soft drink and took in the vision of the young lady before him. “You are looking great,” he said, looking into her sparkling eyes. Glancing around at the barroom nature of the establishment, he continued, “Sorry to just ask you to join me in a bar, but I didn’t have lots of time this afternoon to get in touch with you, and I did promise to fill you in on more details of the body at Devlin Pool. My time is not always my own, and it’s often hard to plan ahead. Next time, I promise to take you to dinner in a lot more upmarket venue.”

“That sounds like you are asking me out on a date,” she replied, “and I’d be delighted.” She smiled demurely at him, sipped her wine, and enquired, “What have you got for me?” She let the question hang for a while before adding, “on the murder.”

“Not much more I’m afraid, no name yet as we have not yet determined his next of kin.”

Carleen took out a notebook and began to write as Barney continued. “So your story will have to include just bare details – male, aged twenty-five to thirty years, found murdered in the sandhills at Devlin Pool, near the settlement at the mouth of the Greenough River. Death occurred about a week ago.”

“Murdered?” jumped in Carleen.

“Yes,” continued Barney. “We can release that aspect, but no details on how yet.”

“Any suspects?” queried Carleen.

“Not yet. It’s early days. Can you also add the phrase ‘Any persons who may have any information are urged to contact the Geraldton Police on 994 635.’

“And, Carleen, please don’t build the story up too high yet. I must admit we are still very much in the dark about this bloke, so I don’t want lots of publicity stirring up lots of inquisitive people. That’s about all I can let you have today. There will be a media release of this tomorrow, so you might want to get hold of your editor tonight. Meanwhile, I have to get to football practice. Big game next weekend.”

“Thanks Barney. Hope to see you again soon,” said Carleen, touching his hand as he put down his drink. He left hurriedly, before his second thoughts took over.

Chapter 10

The Highway Barrier – Monday Afternoon

On a quiet and gloomy Monday afternoon, two patrolmen stood at the wooden barrier that secured the murder scene at the highway end of the Devlin Pool Road. They were three quarters through their eight-hour shift and totally bored. Nothing was happening at this sentry post. Nothing to do, no media crowd to hold back, no inquisitive passers-by to ask their silly questions, and just a steady stream of traffic on the main highway, heading to and from Geraldton. The occasional shower of rain and the dark foreboding western horizon had made this a very depressing duty. Perhaps it was just this place. The additional forensic support teams had yet to arrive, so there had been no reason to open the barrier for anyone during their whole shift.

“Cop that one,” commented one officer, as a late 1970s Holden Kingswood doddered along from the Geraldton direction. “It’s straight out of the ark.”

“It is amazing that it still runs,” added his partner. “It even looks older than it is.”

As they watched, the car slowed down and turned towards them off the road, pulling up outside the wooden barrier, next to the officers. The middle-aged Aboriginal woman driver nodded to the policemen as she turned off the engine and opened her door. The other middle-aged woman in the front passenger seat also stepped out and opened the rear door. From the rear seat emerged a fragile, wizened old lady. All three women were Aboriginals and seemed to be on a mission of sorts. The old girl walked unsteadily, though forcefully, towards the officers.

“What are you doing in there?” she demanded in a tremulous voice, waving her hand in the general direction of Devlin Pool. She looked well over eighty years old, and as she stood with her hands on the wooden barrier to give herself added support, she fixed her eyes directly at one of the young officers.

“It’s a crime scene,” came the standard reply from the police officer. “The general public are not allowed in until we have finished our analysis.”

“I must see what is going on,” quavered the old lady. “I have sensed that the spirit of my ancestor is being woken up.” She walked around the end of the wooden barricade and began to walk doggedly down Devlin Pool Road towards the river.

“Lady, you can’t go there,” insisted the policeman. But he was wary about trying to physically restrain the ancient old girl, especially when he noticed that both the younger, middle-aged women had mobile phones out, with phone cameras that seemed to be already in use. It would not look good for a burly young police officer to be physically restraining a very elderly Aboriginal woman. She also looked so frail that any physical force applied to her could cause terminal injuries.

His partner shrugged and both followed the three women towards the river. They needed to ensure they didn’t breach the security at the diggings. But as well as that, they were not sure the old lady would actually survive the half-kilometre walk each way to and from the river.

#

The two constables recounted the full story to the four assembled detectives in their office next morning.

“We got to the crime scene, and the old girl walked to the top of the sand track. She stopped and looked out over the digging site for about ten minutes. She just mumbled to herself for the whole time. Then she turned and walked slowly back to the car. That was it. She said nothing more. And they drove off.”

“Did you get name and addresses?” questioned Chris Wilson.

“We took down the licence plate of the old bomb,” was the reply. “It is registered to the Taylor family of Spalding.”

“Ah,” murmured Detective Roger Knight. “The Taylor girls. You had better be bloody careful there. They wield a lot of local power.”

Chapter 11

Senior Detective Guiseppe Marcon

Senior Detective Guiseppe Marcon was a career law enforcer. He was born and bred in Katanning, a rural town in the Great Southern Region of Western Australia. His father Giovanni (John) was a sergeant and then senior sergeant of police in Katanning for much of Zep’s early life. With his father as a role model, Zep was always going to be a policeman. He saw policing as helpfully looking after the townsfolk, keeping the fiery youngsters in line, issuing licences, servicing the office paperwork, and occasionally solving crimes.

Zep finished his year twelve with good grades and applied to enter the Police Academy in Perth to train as a policeman. After successfully completing the twenty-six-week training course, he was appointed as a probationary constable. Then he was made up to full constable and served in police stations all around the metropolitan area.

He met and fell in love with Shirley while they both played senior grade hockey. She was an English teacher at Perth Modern High School, and the pair of them realised how compatible they were. They married within six months and bought an old house in Mount Hawthorn, close enough to the city to be quite convenient for both of their jobs.

Within a short while, his personality and drive to be a good policeman enabled him to rise through the ranks to senior constable. He was persistently displaying his analytical strength in detective work, although the thought of the CIB detective branch was far from his mind. That was until his father was killed.

The offending lad was only fifteen years old, a farmer’s son who was driving his father’s big old Valiant. His statement said he was out for a joy ride with his two mates when Giovanni Marcon stepped out in front of him with a “Police. Stop” sign held up. The boy tried to stop, but he had no time. His brakes locked up, and he skidded towards the cop. The cop was dead. He was scared shitless, so he drove off home, dropped off his mates, and hid in the barn. He later smoked some weed to steady his nerves.

The inquest found that the boy certainly had THC from the marijuana in the system when blood-tested twelve hours later. The skid marks showed brakes had been briefly used and the car had slightly slewed to the side where the police sergeant was standing. The two mates of the driver repeated the story word for word. The finding of the preliminary inquest was that the boys were partly at fault, unlicensed in charge of a vehicle causing death. The police officer was also seen as being at fault, stepping out in front of the vehicle.

Since he was under-age, he was sent to children’s court charged with manslaughter. If he kept to his story, he would be found not guilty of manslaughter and probably just get a reprimand or fine for driving without a licence. The trial was set for a month’s time.

Immediately following the inquest, Zep took leave to go home to Katanning to be with his mother. Shirley joined him as she was already on leave being six months pregnant, expecting their first child. While there, he worked on checking the evidence. He believed his father would not have stepped in front of the car. He was too old and wise for that. He just knew in his mind that the boys were all on dope, speeding, and had aimed the car at his father. But how to prove it?

The skid marks were there all right, but the brakes seemed to have been applied very late considering the unlimited visibility, and the length of the skid marks were quite long, carrying on quite a distance beyond the location of the impact with the body. So the car had to be speeding. Strike one.

Zep checked out the car, still impounded in the police compound. He assumed that forensics had fully done their job, but zealously searched again and found one marijuana joint wedged deep down the side of the driver’s seat. The kids had been smoking and were probably high in the car before the accident. Strike two.

“Can I take this out and test the brakes?” he asked the custody officer of the police compound.

“Sure,” was the reply. “The inquest is over, so it will be released to the family after the kid’s day in court.”

He tested out the brakes. At the estimated speed, on a road similar to the road of the accident, Zep braked hard. The brakes did pull the car slightly to the side, but to the other side, away from side where his father would have been standing. When he tried again, he needed to forcefully apply the steering wheel to actually make it turn towards the way the boy had claimed it had gone naturally. Strike three.

At the trial, this new evidence was presented. First, the boy’s two mates were charged with perjury, but after admitting to concealing the true facts, they were both given reprimands and some community service. The boy received a custodial sentence.

That unfortunate event put Zep on the road to joining the CIB. That was sixteen years ago.

Shin splints had terminated his hockey career, but, with three children, he and Shirley now had other interests to keep them busy.

After stints as a detective in several city police stations and a few country postings, Zep had been posted to Geraldton as senior detective and had been there now for eight years. He was a great detective because he always made sure that his evidence was fully checked out.

Part III

Chapter 12

Forensic Digging – Tuesday

To maintain positive media relations, around mid-morning of the following day, Barney rang the local TV station to let them know he was faxing through an official media release of the discovery of a body at Devlin Pool near the mouth of the Greenough River. He verbally gave them the same details over the telephone, a male, aged twenty-five to thirty, no nearest of kin yet contacted, and then asked that they add the usual request for any information from the public.

“Any chance of an interview?” the reporter responded hopefully.

“I’m afraid that we have so little information to release at present. It would be a waste of your time,” was Barney’s excuse. “Perhaps later in the week.”

#

Next on the agenda, Barney and Zep drove out to check the Devlin Pool site to see how things were going. The forensic technicians had begun full operations late on Monday afternoon. The leadership at the diggings would be undertaken by Dr Helen Lim of the Perth Forensic Department. Back in Geraldton, in the forensic pathology laboratories, Dr Chelva had fully assumed the responsibilities of analysis of the bodies.

Progress at the diggings was slow and meticulous. A search grid had been pegged out and had been scanned by the sensitive metal detector. A follow-up scan using the ground-sensing sonar had checked for non-metallic aberrations.

“Around the second body was clear, but there was something metallic a few metres further along that ridge,” explained Dr Helen Lim in her precise English as she pointed along the sand ridge. “Sonic scanning indicated a lump of buried materials also down there. Our very experienced operator suggested that the shape of it appears to show some more bodies and some other things too. That area has been allocated for the next excavation.”

Helen continued in her meticulous discourse. “Forty metres further along the sandy track at the water’s edge, near the rocky point, the metal scan went wild. It indicated quite a bit of metal scattered underground over half a square metre. Somebody had already been digging there some weeks earlier. There were signs of previous scrapings. The evidence of earlier digging was the softened sand, and sonar indicated there was not just a single lump, but plenty of small pieces of metal scattered throughout the soil. A small group of searchers was allocated to begin there, delving into the sand, sifting and sorting.”

Dr Lim referred to her diggings notes, though Barney was sure that this was just for show. He could sense that she already had all the information memorised and would make no mistakes or omissions.

“First to be identified were the rusted bits of a metal band on the surface alongside the scraping. Next unearthed was a tarnished brass padlock attached to a jagged rusted lump. This was considered to be the remnants of the locking plate and hasp. Here things got interesting. There was a lot of blood over that object. Whoever was digging slashed themselves on that metal. It was assumed that this was the remains of a wooden box, but termites had been and gone, so it was mainly dust. The end handles found were lumps of rust. Scattered tiny bits of paper were the remains of early currency, but they were also too well chewed by the termites to be identifiable as anything useful.

“Lower down under the sand and also scattered around into the scraped sands were more than thirty coins, most of them were heavily sand-encrusted silver florins and shillings and smaller silver denominations. Some of the others were copper. Most seemed to have been handled with a bloodied hand and discarded. The copper coins were split into three lumps. All these were fully encrusted clustered lumps of green-tinged sand with the edges showing some copper coinage inside. There was one larger coin found towards the bottom of the previously excavated hole. This was a coppery colour, perhaps a better-quality brass or bronze and less tarnished than the rest. Visible markings said it was an 1842 one-pound coin.”

Barney and Zep each perked up at hearing of a pound coin over 150 years old.

Helen Lim continued her dissertation, “This had definitely been a cash box, rotten and eaten, but it had been found and scraped out already. Indications suggested that it was so old that there were probably no notes or papers left to be extracted by the finder, but there would have been other coins. We think it was likely that there was quite a haul of pound and half-pound coins. The finder had apparently collected only the high denominations, leaving behind the lesser valued silver coins and coppers and that one-pound coin that was dropped or missed.

“This cash box may have been buried at the same time as your bodies, so the coins could be useful in giving a time frame. Because the pound coin was dated at 1842 and this pre-dates any large settlement in this district, it does not help to establish the most logical time frame, other than after 1842 of course. The other coins would first need to be professionally cleaned up to be able to extract their information.”

Dr Helen Lim wandered with Barney and Zep over towards the small stream. She indicated a pair of evidence markers on the ground, almost in the water, and explained, “Just down there, the metal detector picked up the two shell casings deep in the grasses beside the water. This suggested that the gunman had fired from this track leading down to the body. If they had been ejected for another metre or so further, they would have ended up in the creek. They were definitely 7.62 millimetre pistol shells.”

She continued as she pointed at a rectangle of marking tapes near the creek, “The ground-sensing sonar also picked up quite a lump of something buried in this near side bank of the creek. That anomaly is now marked for later diggings. Just to finish off the search of the area, the sonic operator wandered over the footbridge to the hill on the other side of the creek and spent two or three hours scanning that sandy ridge as well. He was surprised to locate another anomaly on the far side bank of the creek, directly opposite the third site. You can see the marking tapes over there. This was designated as the fourth site and will be looked at later. We now have the area well scanned, so we are now able to allocate sites to dump the sifted sands, so the removal of the second body has resumed.

“The discovery of the cash box seems to indicate the second body is an archaeological find, not a modern murder, and we should be bringing in the museum anthropologists. But at this stage, until we know what’s buried in the other sites, I’m not ready to hand this over to them.”

Thanking Dr Lim for her quick guided tour, Barney and Zep took the coins, shells, and the packaged cash box pieces back to the Geraldton Police Station to be couriered to Perth. The shell and bloodied cash box parts would go to the Perth Forensic Laboratories for further examination, while the coins would be sent to the Fremantle Maritime Museum for examination and analysis.

The second body would be transferred to the Geraldton morgue in a few hours. A couple of bones had been already packaged and despatched overnight to Perth for more detailed examination. It was hoped that DNA could be obtained to identify the origin of the racial group. Carbon dating analysis should be able to give the approximate age of the second victim and how long it had been buried. It was still to be determined whether this was the burial of a natural death or of a murder victim.

It was suggested that the reports from the morgue, the local forensic department, and the Perth laboratories would be faxed through to Barney and Zep at the Geraldton Police Station as they became available. “No way,” countered Zep and rang all concerned to state emphatically to each, “Ring me and give me brief verbals before you even think about sitting down to write the reports. We need to be on top of this investigation at the earliest.”

The first telephoned report came in from Dr Laura Chelva at the Geraldton morgue in the middle of that afternoon.

“The report on the second body will say that it was murder,” her efficient tone held a barely concealed note of excitement. “There had been a heavy blow to the cranium that had smashed in the top of the head. The male victim would not have survived long after being hit. The few remnants of clothing still attached around the bones indicated that it was likely a sailor from an old sailing ship. There were no solid shoes visible, so he either went barefooted or had just canvas shoes which had now rotted away.”

The shuffling of papers rattled down the line as she continued, “Dr Helen Lim gave me a bell from the diggings at Devlin Pool. The excavation on the second site has begun. The small metallic shape and the lump of buried material have revealed more bodies.”

Dr Chelva was apparently using the phone on conference mode as her clicking pen and squeaking swivel chair audibly announced her obvious excitement at the news of the coming forensic challenge.

“On top of the bodies were the decayed and white ant-eaten remnants of a pair of oars with leather collars and the occasional fibres of the remains of a large hemp rope. This site apparently contains two bodies, and the metal detected by the scanner was the encrusted blade of a knife. The handle had been wood, now long gone. Going by their remnant clothing and attachments, they seem to be sailors too. We have tentatively dated them at least over a hundred years old.”

Her voice seemed to pick up pace. “These bodies, designated three and four, will be shortly removed with all the bits and pieces to the Geraldton morgue for further investigation by my team here. Most certainly, they were as old as the second body.”

She paused thoughtfully, sucking in a breath. “An immediate cause of death was observed on the third body. A crushed temple indicated that it too had been a blow to the head. These bodies will be fully exhumed and transferred to Geraldton by this evening. They will then be starting on the third site beside the creek. I will let you know ASAP of any further developments.”

#

With everybody else running about trying to sort out the many other pieces of the puzzle, Barney and Zep found the time to follow up on the first of the odd phone numbers on Tennant’s answering machine. The address turned out to be Roozome Farm which was the farm nearest Devlin Pool Road. Being that close to the murder site was perhaps just a little too coincidental. The farmhouse itself overlooked the intersection of Devlin Pool Road and the Great Northern Highway. That afternoon, the pair went visiting on a preliminary reconnaissance.

“Just to see what pops up,” said Zep.

Chapter 13

Roozome Farm – Tuesday Afternoon

Barney and Zep, in their unmarked police car, drove off the main highway and up the dusty red, gravel-surfaced side road to Roozome Farm. Seeing that the closed farm gate had quite a hefty padlock on it, they parked on the verge next to the entrance.

“Not a very trusting soul,” Barney commented wryly. “Most farms have gates wide open, with lolloping sheep dogs ready to lick you to death.”

They passed through the unlocked pedestrian gate at the side and strolled the 100 metres up to the main house, looking nonchalantly about as they approached. They were met on the front veranda by the occupant of the house. Barney estimated him at around sixty years old, quite short with a slight physique, and mentally filed away his general physical characteristics, as his police training had taught him to do: hair, eyes, skin, features, etc.

Although the farmer was a small, wizened man, pushing into old age, he still moved with a high level of fitness and dexterity. His eyes sparkled as though there was a strong intellect behind them, which was confirmed in the way he spoke to them.

In an outwardly friendly and confident manner, he greeted them, “Good morning gentlemen. How can I help you?”

Zep took out his wallet and showed his police identity, and both introduced themselves. “And you are?” he professionally enquired of the middle-aged man.

“Francis Briggs,” was the reply. He appeared calm and self-assured.

“We would like to ask you a few questions,” stated Barney. He watched carefully for any change of expression in Briggs but didn’t see any.

“Have a seat,” the farmer gestured to a couple of old cane chairs on the front veranda, with a small well-used metal table between them. Then in the neighbourly fashion of country folk, he added, “Can I get you a drink? Beer, soft drink, fruit juice, water?”

“Sure, water would be fine,” answered Zep courteously.

“Me too,” followed Barney and paused a while and added, “Have you any bottled water? My tender stomach can’t take the tank water. Gives me a touch of the runs. Something to do with the phosphates on the collecting roof. Sorry to be a bother.”

“No worries,” said Briggs and disappeared inside.

Barney sat in one chair, and Zep sat on the edge of the veranda, with his back against a supporting post. That way they would be either side of their host when he returned. He reappeared almost immediately with a 1.25-litre plastic bottle, two glasses, and a bottle of Pepsi Max for himself. He poured out two glasses, passed them over to his guests, and sat down.

“We are investigating the murder of a man on the riverbank at the end of that road,” began Zep, waving his hand in the general direction. “This is the closest farmhouse and directly opposite the road intersection. The body was discovered last Sunday. We would like to know whether you heard or saw anything on the weekend or week before that.”

“No,” was the measured reply, as he firmly unscrewed the plastic cap on his Pepsi. “I live close to a very main highway, and there are cars and trucks passing continually, day and night. I have become immune to hearing any traffic at all. You get that way after a while.”

“You didn’t hear any trail bikes last weekend?” asked Barney.

“None that I would particularly remember.” Briggs paused as he took a long drink. “They are always around. Kids from the farm further up the side road.” He replaced the screw cap on his drink. “There were another lot of murders on a farm just a kilometre or two from here about twenty years ago. A bit before my time, but it was in all the papers. Apparently, a bloke ran amok with an axe and murdered a young family, a mother and her three children. It was a real gruesome discovery for the poor soul who discovered the bodies all about the house.”

“Yeah, we read about that,” recalled Zep, not wanting to stray too far off their current line of enquiry.

Barney picked up his glass and drained it in almost one swallow. He then reached for the bottle, “Do you mind if I help myself?” and without waiting for the expected permission, took another few mouthfuls from the bottle. “I really needed that.”

Zep glanced around the farmyard. He pointed to the hen house and bird aviary, with dog kennels either end. “They’re a bit close to the house. They would be quite noisy.” They were directly in front of the house, just across the driveway.

“Foxes!” was the simple retort. “Around here we keep the chooks and birds close to the house. It makes the foxes a little more wary of coming in close to human habitat. We also keep the dogs close by the hen houses too.”

Briggs had both hands on the base of his drink bottle and was unconsciously rotating it as he spoke. “I only keep a few chooks for the occasional eggs and to feed them the kitchen scraps. I no longer bother about racing pigeons, so the cages are all empty. It’s just me here now.”

“What are the other buildings over there, down the track, past the shearing shed?” asked Barney.

“The one on the left is another small farm house. It used to be used by the old owner’s son and his family before I bought the place fifteen years ago. Now I use it as a visitors’ house and occasionally for shearers when they are needed, although I haven’t run any sheep for nearly four years now. Too much costly maintenance and no real money in it.” He unscrewed the cap and took another long drink. “The only stock that run in the paddocks nowadays are the dozens of wild kangaroos that gave the farm its name, Roozome.”

“So you only grow crops?” asked Zep.

“Yeah. Just one paddock each year. Either the field down there along the highway, behind the house, or the one over there beyond your car.” He pointed with his opened Pepsi bottle in that direction. “Just to keep my hand in. I subcontract all the sowing and harvesting. My other two paddocks I rent out to the neighbour. It gives me an income without having to do all the extra work. The kids are all grown up and not interested in staying on the farm, and the wife left me eight years ago, so I don’t need much money to keep me going.”

“And the other building next to the shearing shed?” queried Barney.

“That was the feed store when I kept sheep. Not used much now.” Briggs resealed his bottle and placed it aside.

Zep stood up and made ready to go. Barney took a couple of more swigs from the water bottle. “Thanks for your hospitality,” he said graciously. “I’ll finish this and drop it in the wheelie bin outside your front gate as I go past.”

“Yes, thanks for the drinks,” repeated Zep as they strolled off in an easy-going manner. Walking down the track back towards the car and out of earshot, Zep turned to Barney and said with a laugh, “Tummy upset? Phosphates? That’s bullshit.”

“No. It’s bird shit,” was the sincere reply. “Superphosphate dust and racing pigeon shit all being collected off the roof and washed into his water tanks. It really does affect my delicate constitution, sometimes,” he grinned. “Anyway we got his fingerprints on the plastic bottle, didn’t we?” He took one last long drink from the bottle and still holding the neck, as he had been all along, opened the wheelie bin and appeared to throw it in, just in case he was being watched. He didn’t, but carefully put the bottle into the glove box as he climbed into the car.

The reconnaissance trip had been more successful than they had first expected.

Chapter 14

Fine Dining – Tuesday Evening

Driving back to town, Barney turned to Zep and asked offhandedly, “Can we release the discoveries of the old bones to the press? They are over a hundred years old, so it’s not a modern serial killer.”

“I can’t see why not,” replied Zep. “There is definitely no relationship between the two sets of murders, so a news story on the old skeletons shouldn’t affect our current investigation on Tennant’s murder. It may impact on us having to keep curious onlookers from Devlin Pool, but what the heck! We’re already doing that anyway. I can’t think of any other reason for the Super to complain. I see you are still looking for an excuse to visit that girl reporter.”

“She’s not a girl,” snapped Barney. “It’s just that everybody else at the Guardian is much older. The newspaper has been going for years. Some older reporters have moved here with families because it is more conducive to quiet family living. Also there are many even older experienced Perth reporters who have opted to finish their time here and retire in the quiet realm of Geraldton. Sounds a bit like you, I reckon.”

“My, my, you are quite defensive of the old girl,” grinned Zep, letting the barb pass. “Do I drop you off at training, or back at the station?”

“Make it training. It’s an early mid-afternoon session today to duplicate the match conditions. I’ll get there a little late, but I’m usually excused. I’ll phone Carleen to see if she’ll pick me up after,” concluded Barney. If he lucked out, he could always run back to the station to pick up his car.

“Me, I’m going to drop this evidence off and go home early to get reacquainted with my family,” decided Zep. “Take some time in lieu to get out in the fresh air and kick a footy with ma boys. Shirley has been complaining lately that I don’t spend enough time with the family. Gotta keep the war office happy.”

Zep lived in the Geraldton suburb of Mount Tarcoola towards the city end, overlooking Mahomet’s Flats and the main road overpass over the railway. Though it was only a few 100 metres from the railway and Highway One, the main Perth to Geraldton route, it was generally quiet because he was away up on the hill. The suburb was assured of its tranquillity because there were few through roads and most suburban streets were crescents, or cul-de-sacs feeding off those crescents. Zep would either take the boys to a small grassy park around the corner or travel up to Tarcoola Park near the primary school, for a kick on the wide open spaces there.

#

After training, Barney was walking to the car park when Carleen went to meet him.

“You look absolutely fabulous,” he declared as he moved to her and kissed her tenderly on the mouth. For a short while, she kissed him back, but then quickly broke off.

“Was that for their benefit?” she asked, nodding towards Barney’s teammates, “or for your benefit or my benefit?”

“I just had to do that,” he explained. “It had to be for both of our benefits. First things first. How about dinner tonight at The Tides?”

“Okay,” was the quick reply. “Such a posh pub for the first date.”

“Let’s get to your car.” He gestured towards the parking area. “I have some things to talk about while you drive me to my car at the police station.”

She drove, probably on autopilot, as she listened intently to his news about the unearthing of the three old bodies.

“When we uncovered the first burial . . .” he began.

“So the original body was buried, not just found,” she interrupted.

“Yes, now shush,” he growled with a grin and continued. “We found a really old skeleton buried in the same place. And a little further away were a couple more. They appeared to be sailors from the old sailing ship times.”

He went on to explain how another one had been exposed while excavating below the original murdered man, and the other two nearby were covered with hemp ropes and oars that had leather collars.

“Two of the skeletons had been murdered, bashed in the head. We don’t know about the third death yet but buried together indicates foul play for all three.”

“Wow! What a story!” she gasped enthusiastically. “Any indications on who did it?”

“Nothing whatsoever,” he replied frankly. “Be careful of your speculations. It may be perhaps an internal squabble or a highway robbery. The other possibility of being attacked by locals is a touchy one. Try to tone that possible scenario right down, even avoid it, as we don’t want to start a race riot.”

“Here’s your parking area,” she said as she pulled in to the curb.

“Thanks,” he answered absently and continued with his suggestions. “You have plenty of time now before this evening to get to your editor to get that story sorted for tomorrow’s edition. Don’t quote my name for God’s sake. Unofficial sources et cetera. There will be a press release first thing tomorrow to give the rest of the media the heads-up. Pick you up at seven. What’s your address?”

She told him, and as he walked away, she was quickly reaching into her purse for her mobile phone. He also used his mobile to book the restaurant.

#

The Tides restaurant was exquisitely decorated internally to suit the high end of the market. The tables, with their brilliant white linen tablecloths and tastefully adorned with floral arranged centrepieces, were enhanced by polished jarrah high-backed chairs. The outside scenery was also magnificent. The restaurant was situated on the third floor and had extensive panoramic views to the harbour in the west, along the sandy foreshore to the marina in the north, and out across the rooves of Geraldton city to the purple Moresby Ranges in the east.

They were shown to their table by the window, just as the last beams of the sunset threw gold and red rays at a wispy layer of clouds on the horizon. He wore an open dress shirt, formal trousers, and a glowing smile. She was the reason for the smile, as she had donned a beautiful formal evening-wear light blue strapless gown.

“I don’t get to drag this out that often,” she radiated. “My university ball gown, and it still fits like a glove.”

“Some glove,” he gulped delicately. She tinkled with laughter.

Being a meat man and still in full training, he ordered the Beef and Reef, while she settled on the fish of the day, locally caught Blue-boned Groper, grilled.

“So tell me,” asked Barney as he poured two glasses of wine, “why does a talented Perth girl choose to work for a Geraldton newspaper?”

“It’s the choice between being a small fish in a big pond or a bigger fish in a small pond,” she began. “In Perth, I was working for The West Australian, but they had me pigeonholed into producing copy for their many supplements. I wanted more than that. So I decided to move to Geraldton where the competition for front line reporters and journalists was not as fierce.”

“You said that was your university ball gown, so you have a degree?” queried Barney.

“Yes. I completed an arts degree in literature and journalism at the University of Western Australia as part of my cadetship for the newspaper, and then four years as a junior journo and reporter at The West Australian.”

“So we went to the same uni, just a few years apart. What high school?” said Barney.

“I was a final-year student at Scarborough High when they closed the school and sold it off for real estate,” she replied a little sadly.

“Ah ha!” exclaimed Barney. “A beach girl too. And both of our old schools are now defunct, now just real estate. My old school, Swanbourne High, closed just one year after Scarborough High. So we are now both high school orphans. It was a horrible feeling to lose the old alma mater.”

The evening went so quickly. Barney’s only regret was that he was not able to enjoy more than a couple of glasses of the Margaret River Verdelho that both had decided on. He explained that he was under coach’s orders about consuming limited alcohol during the finals.

Following the meal, the couple wandered for a while along the Geraldton foreshore promenade, watching the rippled ocean, lit by the glow of the street-lights of the town as the waves crashed gently onto the sandy beach. They paused for a while and kissed, long and tenderly. For a while, they just stood side by side holding each other and listened to the waves.

“I guess we can’t stay here forever,” breathed Barney as the night air was getting cooler.

“A pity,” said Carleen, and they walked back to where he had parked the car.

As he pulled up outside her town house, he declared cheerfully, “I haven’t enjoyed myself like that for many years. Thank you for the delightful evening.”

“Coffee?” she offered.

To which he replied sadly, “I would love to, but . . .”

“Coach’s orders,” she finished, and they both laughed.

One last long, lingering kiss and he departed.

Chapter 15

More Bodies – Wednesday

For most of Wednesday morning, Barney and Zep spent the time in the office tied up with reports and paperwork.

A phone message had been left overnight by Dr Laura Chelva. The third and fourth bodies had been brought into the morgue on the previous evening. The morgue staff had worked overtime, curious to solve the mystery of the demise of that fourth person. She left her verbal report on message bank.

“I am enjoying this anthropological research. The bodies were of Caucasian origin going by the decaying in the teeth and the skull structure. We will get confirmation from DNA later. The cause of death of the fourth body was not immediately obvious, but some digital scanning and reconstruction of the skeleton revealed the penetration slice through the rib cage bones.”

Her voice increased in excitement. “You’re not going to believe this, but the scanner picked up some micro-fine details almost invisible to the naked eye. There had been a knife embedded into them leaving cut grooves on the bones between the third and fourth ribs above the heart. A wound in that location would be immediately fatal. The knife blade was similar to the one that was found on the third body.”

Dr Chelva’s voice dropped as she indicated some scepticism as she went on, “It is vaguely possible that it could have been the murder weapon. There is just a small doubt about matching the knife found and the wound tract. The bone cuts indicate a smooth blade about eighteen millimetres wide, between normal ribs. When the knife found on the third body was X-rayed through the encrustations and rust, it was seen to be serrated and fully twenty-two millimetres wide. That’s just too wide to fit the wound between normally spaced ribs, and there were no indications of any serrations in the cuttings.”

As Barney and Zep heard the message, being keen detectives, their curiosity about the earlier murders was further aroused. Who were the group of three earlier men? Going by their cord belts, the knife, oars, and old hemp ropes buried with them, they were obviously sailors. What period of time were we talking about for their deaths and burial? How long before we gained some feedback on the coins?

With three critical wounds in three bodies, it is suggested that at least a fourth person was involved. The knife-wounded man could not have been able to bash the others on the head, and both head wounds would have incapacitated each of the individuals. Plus the fact that all three were buried afterwards.

Were they attacked and slain by an unknown group? The sailor’s knife wound suggested a white person or persons. Alternately, had there been some altercation between the members of the party? And if so, what caused the blow up? So the question was raised, “Who was the fourth person, and where did he go? Or was there more than one killer?”

#

Both still being in an inquisitive frame of mind and definitely eager to solve the most recent murder that was just a few days old, Zep and Barney began phoning the laboratories in Perth to prompt them for information.

Zep telephoned the ballistics lab to ask about the bullet extracted from the body and the shells found in the scrub. He received an earful from the overworked technician.

“Get in line,” she snapped. “We are flat-strap working on yours and a half a dozen other cases from the weekend. We can tell you that the bullet matches the casings, but we have yet to get down to running the bullet through past cases. A few more days should see it through.”

The feedback from CrimTrac in Perth to match the blood on the remnants of the cash box was more helpful. It was Tennant’s blood, so he had likely discovered the coins. The higher value coins were not found, so the murderer must have taken them.

Barney telephoned the Fremantle Maritime Museum for their analysis of the coins that had been couriered through to them on Monday. The museum had the expertise on relic analysis through many years of researching on the Batavia wreck on the Abrolhos and several other Dutch ships that founded on the Western Australian coast on their way to the Dutch East Indies. The phone was answered by a delightful young lady with a very responsive manner. She explained, “We have had your coins under cleansing solution for twenty-four hours now. We have to use a weak solution so that we do not damage the surface, so it does take a little time. They have not yet begun to completely lose their calcareous layers from being immersed in salty beach sand, but should begin to show a visible surface on some of them within a day or so.”

#

A phone call from the Devlin Pool site broke through any thoughts of lunch or further paperwork that Barney and Zep had planned.

“You had better come and look at this third excavation site,” requested Dr Laura Chelva sombrely. “I have been called out here, and I think you should see this too.”

Down the bank beside the creek, just near where the original pistol shells had landed, scrub bushes had been removed. The sand had been scraped and brushed carefully away to reveal the bones of three adult skeletons, which were now almost fully exposed.

Dr Helen Lim, the operational head of the excavation party, briefed them, repeating what she had already discussed with Dr Chelva.

“These are three male bodies as determined by the size of the bodies and the pelvic structures,” she narrated in her usual clinical manner. “They are likely to be Aboriginal males because their teeth show the distinct wearing patterns caused by eating raw seeds and nuts. They have been thrown close together, side by side, so were probably buried together as a group. First impression was that it was a ceremonial burial because they were laid out. But that’s not the interesting part.” She paused to plan her presentation.

“The first one there has a hole in the pelvis. The middle one has a hole in the skull, and the third one has two holes through the rib cage.” As she spoke, she pointed to the visible wound tracts, and then followed with her personal scientific analysis.

“Because of the rounded shape of the holes, they appear to be all made by musket balls. I haven’t determined whether these were the only bullet wounds, but these were the ones immediately visible. We did find one small piece of sand-encrusted metal, which may be a musket ball, attached onto the spine inside the third body. I am sure we will find more as we remove the bones and sift the sand. These three were all murdered. The body count goes up to seven.”

Dr Helen Lim became even more serious with her analysis.

“We now have more murders to investigate, and these ones seem to match the age of the other three white sailors. So we have one modern burial and six ancient ones. We seem to have discovered an early colonial battleground. There may have been a skirmish, and these were the three dead from each side.”

Dr Chelva interjected softly, “There is still that fourth location of ground anomalies over the creek on that hill. The sonar operator, with his years of experience, was convinced that it showed all the indications of being another interment site.” She pointed to a position that was just fifteen metres away, directly across the small creek bed. “I had prepared a sketch map of the original site and have now added the other likely burial sites in too.” She pulled up the scanned image on her ever-present laptop for them to see.

Dr Helen Lim sombrely resumed her report. “We will have these three skeletons packaged within an hour or so and moved to Geraldton by late afternoon. We can start on that next site after that and leave a few operational staff to finalise the sifting of this site.”

There was a long pause before Dr Chelva continued with a small air of trepidation. “Dr Lim and I have been speaking about these diggings. Because these later bodies are over a hundred years old, this will no longer be a police forensics issue. Rather, it becomes an archaeological dig. She has been in touch with her superiors in Perth, and she has been granted twenty-four hours to complete the last site, just in case it is more modern. It will need to be all wrapped up by midday tomorrow so they can be back in Perth by tomorrow afternoon. The full report will be sent to you and to the Western Australian museum.”

Chapter 16

Batavia Hotel – Wednesday Evening

On Tuesday afternoon, the bikers had begun arriving in Geraldton in groups of three or four. Some booked into motels, while others took rooms in the pubs. Some dined in restaurants, others in taverns or bars, and others frequented the fast-food stores. A few sipped on beers in the local outlets, while others took drinks to their accommodations. Tuesday night closed quietly.

On Wednesday morning, men in All Angels colours were visible walking the main street, riding bikes sedately around the town streets and taking in the scenery. More of them arrived after midday, and they also continued to maintain the tranquillity in the town. By late afternoon, many had dispersed to all the bars and taverns scattered throughout Geraldton, but few were drinking any more than a couple. All appeared to be law-abiding citizens, tourists just visiting the town. Conversations with the locals were friendly and, for the bikers, were quite informative.

Mobile phone messages began to link them together. Instructions were passed from group to group. All were made aware of the plans for the night, and, as early evening fell, they dined where they could.

#

There were seven bikes taking up two parking spaces in front of the Batavia Hotel on the old highway north of Spalding. There would be three more in the car park out the back, behind the drive-in bottle shop. Being in the northern suburbs on a road out of town, it was generally a quiet hotel. Not this night.

The Geraldton chapter of the Gero Garbage biker gang usually met there on a Wednesday night, with the four female “cooks” who often accompanied them there for social occasions. The group kept a low profile, so they were not unwelcome by the publican. They usually kept to themselves, playing pool in the front bar, with beer, burgers, and chips as the staple diet. The other patrons were reasonably comfortable to be there too.

Half a dozen more bikes nosed sedately into the rear car park and switched off their engines. Helmets and gloves were left on the pillions as the riders strolled into the pub. Four wandered into the front bar and two moved into the Club Lounge supposedly to have a bet in the attached Pub TAB. Six beers were ordered at the bar and served by a nervous barman. The four men raised glasses in salute to the Gero Garbage group in the corner and took a long drink.

The peace of the night was shattered by the arrival of over fifteen heavy machines driven with attitude into the car parks around the Batavia. Within a minute, all bikers had shut down their motors, stanchioned their bikes, and most converged on the pub. A few stayed with the bikes, sitting smoking and chatting.

“Call the police,” squeaked the nervous publican in the front bar. He was the lone barman in the room and had fears for the security of his hotel.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” remarked a quiet deep voice that carried to everyone in the bar. “You really don’t want the damage that the police may create,” growled Psycho Miller as he eyed the barman and then looked into the faces of the other nervous patrons.

The room filled quickly as three or four All Angels entered through each of the three doorways into the bar. The rest of the new arrivals browsed the other parts of the hotel. They didn’t order drinks. They were there providing the numbers, waiting. The front bar was dead quiet for a few minutes, and many of the other patrons took a quick exit, preparing to leg it home rather than pick up vehicles from the crowded car park.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” spoke up Slasher Platts, the anointed leader of the Gero Garbage bikies.

The quiet voice of Psycho Miller resounded again. “We had to pay you a personal visit to show that we mean business. You apparently have not taken any notice. Your boys are still coming into our turf to sell.” He paused for effect.

“We were forced to unload a very small amount . . .” Slasher began and then stopped.

Psycho continued quietly and evenly, but exuded menace in his voice. “Perth is All Angels’ property. Full Stop. Now we are starting to like Geraldton too. We have the numbers to just move in. I would really recommend that you crawl back to your masters in Adelaide.”

The publican sensed that trouble was brewing and that there would still be likely damage to his hotel if this continued. He stammered, “Gentlemen. This is a public place. Sort your differences out elsewhere. Innocent people are likely to get hurt,” and as he gained a little more confidence in his status, he increased his volume and stated, “C’mon. Take it outside, you blokes.”

Slasher put down the cue stick and walked up to Psycho, saying, “Geraldton is ours.” As he approached, his hand emerged from his pocket and a switchblade flicked out. “If it’s a fight you want, a fight you will get.”

Psycho looked down at the knife and then looked directly into the eyes of its owner. “If you don’t fully understand the situation, you shouldn’t bring a knife to a gunfight,” and nodded across towards his right-hand man who had his hands in his pockets. The gleam of the pistol was made just visible for a few seconds.

Slasher took a step forward. “I thought you were ‘the man’, not the one to cower behind the services of a hit man,” he spoke brazenly as he raised the knife to touch the cheek of Psycho. With just enough pressure to create a spot of blood, he slowly dragged the point for a centimetre, the scratch causing just a few more drops to erupt. He nodded towards the security camera covering the room. “You wouldn’t want that convincing video evidence showing at a murder trial.”

“I could say I feared for my life,” Psycho replied, slowly pulling his empty hand from his pocket and gently raising it to push the knife away with the back of his hand. As it cleared far enough away, Psycho turned his wrist, grasped Slasher’s arm, and dragged it outwards, pulling him slightly off balance. Psycho then kicked him in the hip, which spun him around, and he sprawled onto the floor. He scrambled back to his feet, ready to launch himself, knife held upwards.

Psycho’s voice hissed, “Take it off him Stoney.”

The man on his left stepped in, raising his hand in which he was holding a long flick knife. “Snap,” he said, countering Slasher’s advance as he circled around away from the bar, arm outstretched, the knife waving hypnotically towards Slasher.

Slasher circled also and started to speak, “I suppose . . .” and made a sudden lunge across in an attempt to lacerate the knife arm of his opponent.

Stoney showed his years of experience as he dropped his arm inside the line and swiped back up through the exposed forearm of Slasher. A deep gash appeared in the leather jacket, and blood began to flow. Cut deep, and in a reflex action, Slasher dropped the knife. He backed off, holding his arm.

The shrill tones of a mobile phone broke the silence. “Yeah,” answered its owner. And then he announced to the assembled group, “Cops on the way.” One of the outer sentries had just reported in.

“Time to go,” ordered Psycho, picking up the fallen knife. Turning to Slasher, he raised the knife in salute, saying, “And time for you to return to Adelaide too.”

No more words were said. The hotel was quickly devoid of All Angels. Bikes started up with a mighty roar and then echoed as they moved from the hotel through several radiating streets, but all heading in one general direction. Police sirens could be dimly heard on the distant highway over the decreasing roar.

The Gero Garbage and their four girls also moved for their bikes. Seven engines roared away from the front street. The three in the rear car park had more difficulty. Two bikes had been toppled over, and the third bike had Slasher’s knife sticking out of the front tyre.

#

Barney and Zep arrived at the Batavia Hotel just a few minutes after the first patrol car. With the excessive number of motorcycle strangers around town, both had joined in with the uniformed police to cruise the town and assist if there was trouble. This was going to be another night that Zep and Barney would be getting home late.

They were in time to see the knife-slashed Slasher with a bloody tea towel wrapped tightly about the wound. With his bike immobilised, he was trying to slip away unnoticed on foot with the help of a couple of his gang. All were detained for questioning, and Slasher was escorted to hospital to get cleaned up.

The two detectives, while getting the story from the publican, glanced around the front bar. He could name some of the local gang, but knew none of the visitors. Knife brawls were quite rare in Geraldton, so the visible grievous bodily harm aspect gave Zep the inclination to act more forcefully than usual.

“I’m declaring this hotel a crime scene,” said Zep. “Nothing is to be touched until the police have fingerprinted every glass and bottle that has been served in both bars, including the unwashed ones in that tray. We also want the recording from any cameras so we can try to place the location of everyone through the prints and faces of each person in both the bars. Charges could follow for all for involvement in a knife fight, accessories to grievous bodily harm. We will make them sorry they came to Geraldton to fight. Both groups.”

#

As prearranged, the bikes diverged from the pub in all directions, then converged again heading south-east through the suburban streets of Geraldton towards the Greenough Oval on the old Mullewa Road, where they then turned south along the Walkaway road. At this stage, the bikes were strung out along two kilometres of highway. Ten kilometres on, just past the signpost indicating the small locality of Georgina, they veered off in two lines, passing either side of a utility parked on a children’s bus stop. There was no need to stop. All weapons carried were dropped onto the foam mattress in the back of the ute and the bikes moved on. Within ten minutes, all had passed through. The girl threw the covers over the back, clipped the studs down, and drove to Geraldton for the night.

The big group divided at the small town of Walkaway, some went east to seek Perth down the Great Northern Highway and some went west through to Greenough and the road south. The groups would split again as they reached other options, some to travel the Brand Highway, others to travel the newer Coast Road. The groups would split again whenever the opportunity arose. If the police wanted to stop them as they had done in the past, they would only stop a few. Even then they would find nothing in any search. They were all just innocent bikers out for a joy ride.

Chapter 17

Geraldton Morgue – Wednesday Night

Dr Chen Yap was an assistant forensic pathologist in the Geraldton Hospital morgue. He was working late on Wednesday night, staring at his computer screen trying to put the pieces together to reassemble one of the exhumed skeletons that had been 3D digitally scanned. He looked up and noticed that there was an additional person in the open office space. That person didn’t fit in.

She was an aged Aboriginal woman, nearly ninety years old, wandering towards the body storage facility.

“Hey,” he called out. “What are you doing? How did you get here?”

The old girl stopped, looked at him, and said in a wavering voice, “The spirits of my ancestors are now being held in this place. They are crying out to me. I was called here to answer to them.”

“But it is four floors and a maze of corridors,” mused the scientist. “You must have lost your way and wandered away from the main hospital wards.” As he spoke, he picked up a telephone from the desk, dialled the front desk, and reported, “We have an old girl who is lost up here in pathology. Please have the wards send up a couple of nurses. Immediately.”

The Aboriginal woman looked around at the clutter and equipment and challenged the pathologist, “You have my ancestor here, and he should be returned to his resting place.”

As she seemed to be babbling incoherently, Dr Yap humoured her with placating phrases like, “Yes dear,” and “It’s being taken care of,” and “We are doing everything possible,” and “We will do it as soon as we can.”

The nurses arrived and gently but firmly guided her back to the main wards. Yet when they arrived down there and tried to establish her bed location, it was quickly discovered that she was not a patient of the hospital. She was given a cup of tea, asked a few questions to determine that she would be okay, and with a few smiles and nods, she was shown the front door.

#

The next day, Thursday, while the forensic laboratory was frantically working through the analysis of the last exhumations, she appeared in the fourth floor corridor around midday and sat on a bench outside the laboratory. When discovered by the staff, her conversation was a continuation of the previous day. Nurses were called, and she was quietly but firmly escorted out. She was still protesting for her ancestors.

That same day, she appeared in the evening. Again she was helped on her way. She was still insisting about the disturbance of her ancestors when the pair of assisting nurses happened to pass through a group of mainly Perth-based reporters hanging about the morgue. They were congregated there, hoping to get some additional break. Carleen Camello, who was with the others, sensed a story and followed the nurses with the elderly lady out to the street. She volunteered to drive her home. The story of her ancestors appeared in Friday’s Geraldton Guardian.

Part IV

Chapter 18

Brawl Reports – Thursday Morning

On the morning following the Batavia Hotel fracas, Constables Ian Barrett and Matt Winter and two computer technicians met with Barney and Zep. They had worked half the night putting CCTV video camera pictures together showing the location of individuals drinking in the bar, together with fingerprints on beer glasses left at that spot and so were able to report their findings to the detectives.

“There were around forty people in the two bars, but only twenty-six were drinkers,” explained constable Winter. “At least we only picked up twenty-six different sets of fingerprints, even including those from dirty glasses in the tray that was ready to be washed. Some were the regular patrons drinking in the corners, so with their pictures and prints, we were able to eliminate them during the fracas. We put those eight aside out of contention.

Then there were the fourteen drinkers from the Gero Garbage, which included the four girls in the gang. We think we have most of them located by the video, but some of them moved around a bit away from their drinks, so we have three or four that we can’t be sure of matching faces with prints. Only four of the All Angels bikies were drinkers. We have all four faces matched up to prints. There were two untouched beers still on the bar, barman’s prints only.”

Constable Barrett continued, “Then we have another twelve clear photographs obtained from the videos confirming some of the other All Angels gang members who arrived. These are not matched to prints as they were not drinkers in any of the bars.”

“Great work,” said Zep, realising the amount of work required to get these details. “Get those prints run through NAFIS and the video photos through CrimTrac. Let’s see who we really have here. We can still charge the two knife fighters with affray, a criminal act that can get them up to ten years jail, and perhaps some of the others can be charged if they have Association Restriction orders. Log everyone that you identify into CrimTrac as known bike members present at the affray.”

“In the meantime,” added Barney, “we can take the photos to the barman at the Batavia to get a few names of the local bikie chapter if he can. We will also run through the video with him to see if it triggers any additional information. About time for some lunch at the pub, eh Zep old boy.”

“Oh, by the way,” added Constable Barrett, as he turned to leave, “the lab also sent the report that the fingerprints on that drink bottle you gave them. It was a perfect match for the thumb print inside the boot of Tennant’s car.”

“What!” exclaimed Zep. “Forensics had that bottle for over a day and only now have they let us know. I’ll give them a piece of my mind.”

“I wouldn’t be too free with giving away such a limited resource,” quipped Barney. “But it does mean that Frank Briggs knew James Tennant. We need to question him.”

So instead of a leisurely lunch, Barney and Zep headed for Roozome Farm in Greenough. The two constables were given the task of interviewing the barman of the Batavia Hotel.

#

For a change, Barney had managed to take the car keys away from Zep. As he drove out towards the farm near the Devlin Pool area, Zep’s mobile phone rang. “Sorry to continually interrupt your midday meals,” said Dr Helen Lim with tongue in cheek. “But we out at the diggings have been living on biscuits and water each day.”

“Yeah sure,” replied Zep in the same pattern of levity. “You always time your calls to stop me having my long leisurely lunches or my mid-afternoon siesta.”

“We have just finished extracting the last bodies,” said Helen. “It was quite similar to the third site. Likely Aboriginal, all with musket ball injuries, probably from the same time as the three Aboriginal males. But these were all women and children that were thrown in together. We think there are three adult females and five children aged from about eight to fourteen. So it’s probably a family group that has been murdered and buried here.”

“Was there any evidence different or outstanding to look over?” asked Zep.

“Nothing that has visibly survived more than the hundred years since they were buried,” was the reply. “We took copious photos and videos to relay to the archaeologists as we carefully sifted around and removed the bodies for transport to Dr Chelva in Geraldton for further investigation. We now have to be on our way back to Perth.”

“Thank you for your time and effort,” said Zep.

“It was a pleasure,” chortled Dr Lim. “I always wanted to do an archaeological dig, and this one was a real find. Dr Chelva and I had a ball playing at anthropology. Bye for now.” She laughed as she hung up.

He turned to Barney and said, “Body count up to fifteen with three adult females and five children, musket shot, all around the same period as the three adult Aboriginal males.”

Chapter 19

Car Chase – Thursday Afternoon

Barney turned off the highway onto the side road opposite Devlin Pool Road and parked their unmarked car outside the locked gate of Roozome Farm. The marked patrol car that was following them pulled up on the roadside further along. As a group of six, two detectives, two patrol officers, and two constables, they went through the pedestrian gate and walked towards the house. A white Cortina was parked beside the bird aviaries opposite the house. Further down the avenue of trees, they could see a small cabin cruiser boat attached to the rear of a four-wheel-drive Land Cruiser. The front door of the house was open.

“You two lads take the back door of the house,” waved Zep to two of the accompanying officers, “and you two check out the other side of the house for other entrances.”

Zep walked across the veranda and called out through the insect screen door, “Anybody home?”

No answer . . .

“Police here, Mr Briggs! Please come to the door.”

Still no answer.

Barney murmured, “Someone inside may be injured or in trouble. We need to check it out.”

“We have to consider arresting him anyway,” replied Zep.

So in they went. The house was silent as they moved up the hallway, glancing into the lounge and bedrooms left and right, until they reached the kitchen. No one was home. The four officers came in the open back door, head shakes confirming nothing had been seen from the rear of the house.

The distant sound of a car starting up reached them, and racing to the front door, there was the Land Cruiser, with the boat attached, just disappearing over a small ridge and heading away down the paddock.

“What’s over that hill?” asked Zep to nobody in particular.

“Dunno, but there is a road going along the back of the property that way, and there is probably another gate to access it,” replied Barney.

“Back to the cars,” Zep yelled and then called aside to the two constables, “Stan and Fred, stay here. Check out the place.”

As they ran through the side gate, Zep continued to call out to the other patrolmen. “Check up that side road. See if an exit comes out that way.”

In the meantime, Barney had the unmarked patrol car started, and as soon as Zep got in, he spun the car around, returned to the highway, and headed north. He attached the flashing blue light to the roof and switched on the siren. They rounded a bend just in time to see the car and boat turn off the highway and down the Greenough Rivermouth Road.

The police car followed, and with superior speed and cornering, they made up the distance quite quickly. The driver in front could see them looming behind through his rear-view mirror, so he crossed to the middle of the road and began weaving. The boat on the trailer rocked precariously from side to side. It would be suicide to try to pass on this narrow road with dense scrub closed in on either side, plus with the river one side and power poles on the other.

The situation continued for about a kilometre. Then the road opened out a little as they came into the Greenough Rivermouth Settlement. Passing was still difficult as there were random clumps of bushes or street trees on either side. Then a side-track along the foreshore presented an opportunity to get around, so Barney took to the left. They were passing parallel and alongside and rounding a clump of bushes in front, when Barney called “Shee . . . eit” and braked hard, spinning the wheel. The car broadsided on the gravel surface and slewed to a halt amid clouds of billowing dust. They had come to rest just a metre from a row of large granite boulders marking the end of the picnic parking area.

He put his foot down on the accelerator, spun the steering wheel, skidded around in a continuous dust cloud, and turned back along the side-track to the main road to resume the chase.

“He has nowhere to go,” determined Zep. “The sand bar is still open, so, with the river flowing, he can’t cross the mouth to go south. We will catch him at the river mouth.”

By the time they reached the sand bar, there were numerous other vehicles of fishermen and tourists, but no sight of the car and boat. There was a row of granite rocks temporarily placed across the end of the road at the bar to prevent intrepid fishermen from attempting vehicle crossings before it was safe even for four-wheel drives. At this time of the year, fishermen usually waded across the thigh-deep water to get to their favourite fishing spot out on the rocky point.

“There he is,” called Barney, indicating to his right along the beach. “He is on the hard sand along the foreshore.”

#

With no further thought, he took to the sand and followed. The tide was high, so there was just a small margin of flat beach with hardened sand, but as he drove away from the sand bar, the beach began shelving. The Land Cruiser in front had a reasonable start, and when the hard beach petered out, the four-wheel-drive turned up onto the flat soft sand along the coast, dragging the trailered boat with it. It was proving to be hard going, but it was making steady progress.

“What’s up further?” asked Barney.

“About four kilometres further on, the shifting sand dunes meet the water line, so there’s no way through along the shore to get back to Geraldton,” replied Zep.

“What about tracks?” shouted Barney.

“There may be gaps between the dunes, but I’m not sure. He may know of something through them or over them,” mused Zep. “It will be difficult with the boat. He will have to stop and ditch it.”

“We can catch him,” shouted Barney, heading the police sedan into the soft sand. “I’ll follow him using his wheel ruts which will be compacted.”

They managed about a hundred metres. There was a small dune that was passed over easily by the clearance of the four-wheel-drive and the high-profile trailer, but it wasn’t by the conventional car. It slowed their progress substantially and that was enough for the car wheels to start spinning. The patrol car bogged in.

Barney opened his door, saying, “Call for some police four-wheelers to assist and then commandeer one of those fishermen’s off-road vehicles. I’m going after him. Try to catch up to us.” With that, he swung out and started running across the sand. His fitness wasn’t in question. His speed in soft sand would be a problem.

The Land Cruiser and boat disappeared over a small sand spit about a kilometre in front. Barney found that running in sand in his smooth leather-soled street shoes was quite difficult. He considered the bare feet option, but with jagged shells, sharp sticks, and hard stones, he decided it might be unwise to expose his soft feet to those elements.

Four minutes later, as he reached the rise of the spit of sand, he could see the car and boat about 400 metres ahead on an open sandy beach, with jagged reefs visible along the foreshore just a few metres beyond the beach. There was a narrow channel between the rocks, and the car had been backed fully into the ocean. The cabin cruiser was afloat, and there was a lone man just disconnecting the fastenings. He scrambled aboard as Barney closed to within fifty metres. The motor started, the boat backed out, turned into the small swell, and took off heading north towards Geraldton.

Barney grabbed his mobile phone, scanned the directory, and punched in the number.

“Water police,” was the response after a short wait. Barney gave the details and was assured that a patrol boat would be leaving harbour and heading south as soon as possible. They should be able to intercept the runabout boat within thirty minutes.

As the mid-afternoon sun blazed and the reflection from the pure white beach sand glared into his eyes, Barney jogged back towards the river mouth. He met Zep halfway, being driven by a crusty old fisherman in his rusty old four-wheel-drive Jeep.

#

A short while later, back at the river mouth sand bar, Barney and Zep each phoned different people. Barney monitored the feedback from the water police, while Zep arranged for their other patrol car to find them. He then sent additional support to Stan and Fred, the officers at the farmhouse, with instructions to turn the place over and search everywhere. Finally, he left a message at the police station for them to send some form of four-wheel-drive tow truck or trucks to extract a patrol car from the soft sand and then drag a Land Cruiser from the ocean. That should give them something to think about.

The results from the water police were not encouraging. By the time the police launch had rounded Point Moore and headed south, the small cabin cruiser was aground on the beach sand near the caravan park at Tarcoola Beach. When the water police had arrived there, it was abandoned. A patrol car directed to the scene shortly after found only footprints heading up to the road.

Barney and Zep climbed into the rear seat of the back-up patrol car to head back to Geraldton to continue the chase. Zep grumbled, “My lovely car. I let you drive for a change, and you just about wipe it out on granite rocks, run it over wet salty sand, and then bury it deep in soft beach sand.”

“I’m sorry,” replied Barney grinning. “Perhaps I need to be given more practice in driving it.”

It would not be dark for another three hours which was plenty of time to mount an intense search. So all available mobile units were called in to help. Two patrol cars headed into the southern suburbs and along the southern beach roads there. Two more patrol cars headed north into the suburban flats around the Mahomet’s Beach Surf Club and the surrounding streets. Three motorcyclists and two more cars, including the one containing Barney and Zep, covered the caravan park and the motel strip and then up into the Tarcoola Heights residential suburb.

“Drop us off at the caravan park,” ordered Zep. “We’ll walk through the area while you patrol among those motels.” For the next half-hour, they searched between the caravans and houses towards the highway and the petrol service station there. They crossed the road to the Tarcoola Tavern, checking around the back into the beer garden. They noticed and waved to the police cruiser parked at the top of the long flight of stairs leading up into Tarcoola Heights. It moved on to continue patrolling through the housing estate.

Barney and Zep turned their attention to the inside of the tavern. It was knock-off time for a lot of workers. Later, at around sunset, the place would become really busy with evening pub meals, but at this time, the kitchen and dining room were quiet. That was the only quiet area. The after-work drinkers made all the bars rowdy and crowded places to be. With Pub TAB screening horse and dog races, large paper sheets on numerous pin-up boards showing the starters and their form, and with darts and pool tables, there was barely room to walk between groups of standing men and women. Most bar stools were occupied and a few tables and chairs in the corners had drinkers enjoying themselves. Both looked around carefully, but nothing seemed to be out of place.

Then in the front bar, Zep noticed a small amount of wet sand on the floor next to the bar. He caught Barney’s eye and nodded downwards.

Barney turned to the barman and ordered, “Two middies please,” and tossed a twenty-dollar note onto the bar. A few seconds later, he picked up his change. They grabbed a beer each, took a long swig, and turned to look around supposedly for a quiet place to drink. Faces, figures, and clothing were carefully scrutinised, but there was no sign of the fugitive.

They strolled purposefully back to the other bar, and passing the door labelled “men’s”, Barney nodded to Zep. Leaving their drinks on the side ledge, they went into the gent’s toilet. Inside, there were two stalls next to the urinal. One was occupied. Zep pointed to one small spot of wet white sand on the floor and drew his pistol. Barney did likewise, went into the empty stall, and climbed onto the pedestal. He leaned over waving his gun.

The occupant was seated, fully clothed, clasping a half glass of beer. He stared furtively up at the detective.

“You’re under arrest, Frank Briggs.”

#

The Thursday afternoon practice was the last official football training before the Preliminary Final on Sunday. It had been quite a long session finishing under lights, with a light workout concentrating on team bonding with some ball-skills practice followed by a revision of tactics and set plays so there was no tiredness that usually followed a game or intense training.

As pre-arranged, Carleen arrived late in the session and stood on the boundary, watching until Barney had finished. He showered and changed in record time and met her at her car.

“Dinner?” she asked. “My treat tonight.”

“Great,” he replied. “I feel like fish. How about Skeetas, on the foreshore. That way we don’t really have to get totally dressed up. We can go as we are, and what’s even better, we can go now.”

“Then that’s settled,” she agreed.

A short time later, they had ordered a platter of the succulent local crayfish for two and were enjoying an exquisite Swan Valley Chardonnay.

“This has to be my last glass until after the game,” he openly admitted. “I really shouldn’t be having this, but after the training, I have to replace lost electrolytes. You will have to finish the rest.”

“You have to drink your fair share of the bottle, or we will have to leave my car here and walk home,” she countered.

“Oh, all right,” he conceded, grinning. “Just this once.”

As they finished the meal, she reached for her handbag and withdrew a couple of folded-typed sheets. “Now for my news,” she declared, handing him the manuscript. “It’s a story about those new skeletons that were found yesterday and today at Devlin Pool.”

“How did you find out about those?” he enquired. “We have yet to release any information that they exist.”

“Sources,” she replied shrewdly, tapping the side of her nose. Then she added, “I was at the morgue when that lot came in. The media circus didn’t see them as they were too engrossed with playing verbal one-upmanship on each other. After Josie Taylor gave me her story, I rang an old university mate who worked at the morgue and got the inside info. I couldn’t use it of course, as she would probably lose her job for giving out the details.”

“Humph,” murmured Barney as he started to read the historical article on ‘Massacre at Devlin Pool’ that would be in the following day’s paper. He handed it back to her when he had finished and prudently commented, “Well written, seems to match the evidence, but may be a little contentious and could stir up some people. I assume the presses are already rolling?”

“Yes,” she answered slowly.

“I guess we better get going,” said Barney, standing.

As Carleen dropped him at his place by the beach, she offered, “Coffee?”

To which he replied, “Sorry, I have to have an early night.”

“Are you mad at me?” she asked petulantly.

“Definitely not,” he replied. “It’s just . . .”

“Coach’s orders,” they finished together.

Chapter 20

Interview One – Friday Morning

The interview room was like all other interview rooms: a table, four chairs, a two-way mirror on the wall, and a video camera in the corner. Frank Briggs, looking quite uncomfortable and very untidy after his night in the Geraldton lock-up, sat facing the mirror, with his legal representative beside him, as Barney and Zep entered the room. Barney clicked on a small recorder and placed it on the table.

“You won’t mind this, will you? It’s easier to transcribe the interview from this little recorder than the video on the CCTV. Both will be taping this interview.” And without waiting for a reply, he began. “First question. Have you been read your rights, and do you understand them?”

Briggs looked to his legal rep and then nodded slowly.

“For the recording please,” spoke Barney.

Briggs cleared his throat and rasped, “Yes,” a little nervously and a little hurriedly.

Zep, as the senior of the two and thus a lot more experienced at interrogations, took charge of the proceedings.

“Now, let’s see. We have the following charges against you: fleeing from police custody, exceeding the speed limit while towing, and dangerous driving almost causing an accident.”

Barney could barely keep a straight face at these “malicious” but feasible crimes, so he interrupted and continued with some others: “Abandoning a vehicle in the water, parking a car and also boat on public beaches, leaving the scene of a crime.”

Zep interrupted, “Have you anything to say to these charges?” and both paused and waited.

As soon as Frank Briggs started to speak, to open up and say something, Zep added quickly, “Of course, to these charges, we will also add the charge of murder.”

Briggs, already uptight and ready to speak out to deny the series of minor misdemeanours, gulped and blurted out, “I didn’t kill him. He was already dead when I found his body. I only buried him.”

Zep and Barney inwardly sighed and relaxed. Step one completed. He was talking.

“So tell me what happened,” invited Zep. “Let’s hear it from the top.” Since Briggs was talking, he would be given free rein to confess – he did.

“I went down to the river, and when I got there, Tennant was lying flat on his back with blood all over his chest. There appeared to be two or three bullet holes, but with so much blood, I couldn’t really tell. So I buried him.”

“Why?” asked Zep and Barney simultaneously.

“Because there was a connection from him to me and I needed time to get everything squared away,” he replied straightforwardly.

“Please explain,” Zep prompted.

“Tennant had visited me and had left his car at my place while he walked down to the end of Devlin Pool Road to do some fishing. It was just a few hundred metres from my farm house. When I found the body, I knew that I would become involved in all the rigmarole of a murder enquiry, so I took steps to clean up my involvement. Tennant was lying on the high side of the track, and blood had seeped into the soft sand around him. I dug out the centre of the track, as much as I could manage anyway, and then rolled him downwards into the trench.”

“What did you use to dig with?” asked Zep.

“My bare hands,” was the reply. “I was desperate. The wet sand was soft, and digging was easy, so I was able to dig quite a deep trench within twenty minutes. I was scared that somebody would come, so I didn’t keep digging for long. I figured that the body would be fifteen to twenty centimetres under the surface when I finished, so that would be good enough.” He paused for a few breaths.

“I then rolled the body over, and it dropped into the middle of the hole. His dead eyes were staring up at me as I covered him with sand. I scraped as much of the bloody sand off the surface as I could. I got most of it into the hole and then pushed clean sand uphill from the low side of the track. I kept at it until the ground was pretty much levelled out. It was expected to rain that night and for the next few days, so I knew that the surface would be flattened out and hardened up. I never expected that those trail bikes would dig massively deep furrows through that track.”

“How did you know about the trail bikes digging up the track?” interrupted Barney and received a brief glare from Zep.

“Heard it in the pub,” Briggs responded naturally. “From a couple of the forensic workers having a beer. I got close enough to overhear them.”

“Go on,” prompted Zep. “What did you do next?”

“I picked up the fishing gear from down at the water’s edge and took it home,” he continued easily.

“What was there to carry home?” Barney interrupted again.

“The fishing rod, the tackle box, a bottle of burley oil, and a few loose cans of beer, two empties and two full ones. And the white plastic bucket that was to be used for any fish caught. I used it to carry the beers, tackle box, and burly home. I tossed the leftover bait and the two small fish into the water. I carried the rod with the bucket of gear home and put them all in my boat for the next morning’s crayfishing trip.”

“Crayfishing?” queried Zep.

“Yeah!” continued Briggs. “I pull my pots most mornings that I can get out. I always get at least half a dozen good-sized crays from my two pots. That next morning, I put the fishing rod, tackle box, and all the rest of the gear over the side into deep water. That way there would be no forensics to link me to the body.”

“What did you do with the coins?” demanded Barney.

“Coins? What coins?” Briggs looked totally confused at this question. “I don’t know about any coins.”

“Let’s backtrack a bit,” interrupted Zep. “You mentioned that he had his car parked at your place. It was found three kilometres away at the Greenough Rivermouth.”

“Yeah, like I said,” Briggs went on, “I had lots to square away to cover up my involvement. He left his keys in his car so that I could move it if necessary. When I got back from burying him, I moved his car, drove it down to the river mouth, and left it abandoned. I left it unlocked with the keys and his wallet under the front seat on the off chance it would be stolen. If it was found first, it might look like he went fishing on the beach and got swept away. Or fell into the estuary. It would sow a bit of doubt about his disappearance. It was quite dark when I walked back along the walking trail. I didn’t see anyone, and I don’t think anyone saw me.”

“His wallet, where did you get it from?” queried Barney.

“I took it from his back pocket as I rolled him into the trench. I figured if they found the body in a few months or a few years, they may have difficulty recognising it if there was no paper trail to follow. Then I thought that I did not want it anywhere near me, so I left it in the car to add validity to him being lost at the river mouth. Properly wiped clean of course. Oh, he had two phones in his pockets, but they went into the deep with his fishing gear. I figured that if he disappeared into the water, it would be expected that his phone went with him.”

“So now, a final question for this session. Why did you run from us?” asked Zep.

“I was inside my boat cleaning it up when I saw you two and the four officers. I knew it wasn’t a social visit, not with six policemen arriving. I thought that you must have found something on the body to link me into the crime. I got scared, me being probably your number one suspect and with no alibi to be able to talk my way out of a prison sentence, I took off. I was going to head for Perth, hop a flight East, and start a new life on the money I had put aside.”

“So why did you stop running and hide at the Tarcoola Tavern?” added Barney.

“My mobile phone battery was dead, so I went there to ring my mate to pick me up. I wanted to wait there a while until your search perimeter expanded further out from Tarcoola so that I could move unnoticed. I told him I would be in the dunny. He would get me out of the area until things cooled down. You got there before he did.” Briggs relaxed and sat back, worn out by his confessions.

The two detectives indicated the interview was over by closing their notebooks and standing. Zep stated, “We’ll get this recording typed up for your signature and then we will talk some more this afternoon. We are not yet finished with you. The constables will see you back to your cell.”

Barney added, “We would like you to draw a sketch map of the area of the body. You live in the area so know the place quite well, so should be able to draw in the track, place the body, the trench, and the fishing gear on the track and the surrounding area quite well. We will talk about it next time.”

Chapter 21

Devlin Pool Massacre – Friday Morning

The Geraldton Guardian, Friday 12 September.

Devlin Pool Massacre

Yesterday, we interviewed a very old resident of Geraldton. We were told about a family that were massacred at the end of Devlin Pool Road in Greenough. We don’t know whether this connects to the bodies discovered earlier this week, but the story needs to be told.

Josie Taylor was born in Geraldton around eighty-six years ago. She was told this story by her grandmother about her own grandmother’s father’s family who were killed on the banks of the Greenough River. It was just one of the women’s stories narrated as part of the dreaming around campfires while the womenfolk waited for their men who were off doing secret men’s business and tribal initiations. Her story was as follows:

“My ancestors always camped at the mouth of the Greenough River during the wet months. Harvesting food was good, as there were plenty of root plants, nuts, and seeds around the sand plain for a large group of people to eat well off the land. Fishing was good, and there were plenty of kangaroos, bush rats, and reptiles in the area. My father, Windimarra, told us that he was a young man with us baby children when he first saw white men. A big mob of pale-skinned men were walking south along Greenough Flats looking very tired and hungry. We stayed hidden from them.

“By the time us children had grown up, the white man had moved in and began ploughing up the bushes and root plants. They also caught the fish and killed the kangaroos for food and sometimes for sport. They planted grasses and brought in sheep. Food became scarcer, so the tribe split up earlier and earlier towards the end of spring to head to the summer camps.

“This particular year, my parents, Windimarra and Gnarli, stayed for some extra time at the Greenough Rivermouth camp with a couple of my brothers and their wives and some of their children. The rest of the tribe moved to the first summer camp up to Nabawa in the Chapman Valley. They stayed behind to do some extra fishing, hunting, and collecting of food for the tribe. They would follow on later. I went with my husband and my younger children with my aunties to Nabawa. My own eldest son, who was still just a boy, went with some other young men and some of my uncles to Moonyoonooka to learn the tribal laws and practise the skills of a warrior. My parents and my two brothers and their young families who stayed at the river mouth all disappeared.”

The next part of Josie Taylor’s narrative was told some years later to her grandmother’s grandmother, the daughter of Windimarra and Gnarli, by some old Aboriginal servants of the settlers on the Greenough flats. They had been close enough to overhear the stories from the white men there, but made out like they hadn’t heard or understood. Because they heard the account repeated several times by various men involved and their Aboriginal tradition was to remember their own oral history, they were able to put together quite a detailed report of the events. The white settler’s tale went like this:

“We knew there was an Aboriginal hunting party living at the Greenough Rivermouth, further up-river from the fishing huts near the bar. Apparently, it was not doing well, and they were probably getting desperate to catch something for food. On this particular day, a sheep was stolen and taken back to their camp at the river mouth. An Aboriginal man, with the sheep over his shoulders, was seen leaving the pasture by one of the settlers. We formed up two groups, each of four settlers on horses, and took off after him from different parts of the settlement.

“He had a head start, so he had reached the camp. The tribe were cutting the sheep into parts for carrying when the first group of us horsemen arrived. The three men and a couple of boys ran off into the surrounding bush. We would chase that lot up later. We had caught this group red-handed, so we were going to punish them for the sheep stealing. That was the law, so we rounded up the remaining women and children and drove them in front of our horses back towards the Greenough Settlement.

“We were travelling along slowly for about a kilometre when we were ambushed by the Aboriginal men. They must have backtracked to camp to pick up some weapons. Spears were thrown from the bushes, and the warriors called out to the women and children to run into the bush while they had us white men under attack. One young man on horseback was speared through the thigh, and another bloke’s horse was speared through the throat. The horse collapsed and was bleeding out through the wound with the poor horseman trapped under the thrashing beast. The two of us being uninjured on our horses reached for our muskets, but we were much too late. The Aboriginals had all disappeared into the undergrowth. We pulled the rider out from the horse and looked after the wounded man.

“We were left with the problem of getting that wounded bloke to medical help. It was ten miles in either direction to either Geraldton Town or the Greenough Settlement. We knew where the doctor was at Greenough but were uncertain of the whereabouts of the other doctor in Geraldton, so we opted for Greenough. The spear was without a barb, so was pulled out before it began to do more damage by tearing through the wound. The hole was tightly bound up to stop the bleeding. Luckily, it had missed major blood vessels. His horse was not injured because the spear had penetrated the muscles of his leg but was stopped by the thickness of the saddle. We put the man who had been speared back into his saddle, and he was supported by the bloke who had lost his own horse, sitting behind him on the rump of the horse.

“We headed off towards the Greenough Settlement and were met by our second group of horsemen. After a brief council of war, we figured that the injured man could be taken back by the riderless man on the one horse. The injury was not bleeding, and he was young and strong enough to travel the ten miles. He knew it would continue to be painful, but it could not be avoided and his helper would walk now and then to spell the horse. The rest of us six men would go hunting for the Aboriginals, to bring them to justice.

“We split up into two groups of three, spread apart and weapons out, moving in the general direction that we saw the captives fleeing. We were very wary of a second ambush so moved carefully through any place that had good cover. We noticed occasional tracks in the sand where the young kids, inexperienced in bushcraft, stepped where they shouldn’t have.

“We got closer to them as we approached the river. We could see the women and children on the top of a large sandhill overlooking the river. The menfolk were probably a little further in front. So our group of three blokes cut through the thickets of the small creek and skirted out and around to head off the three men. We came out onto the flats and headed back towards the river. The Aboriginal men were trapped on the riverbank on one side of a small creek entering the Greenough. The women and children were sliding down the side of a steep sandhill towards them on the other side of the creek. There were now three horsemen behind both groups.

“The warriors all had a couple of hunting spears. Each of them put one into the woomera they carried and turned to face us. Somebody yelled, ‘Surrender, you buggers,’ but nothing happened until one man threw his spear. The six of us all took aim and fired. Two of the spearmen went down, and the third staggered with a wound in the leg. He launched his spear, but being unable to stand up properly, it went nowhere. The settlers reloaded their muskets, and two of them fired again to finish him off. The women and children stood there defiantly, shouting and screaming abuse and throwing sticks. We aimed and fired. Reloaded and fired.

“As the gun-smoke cleared and we calmed down a little, we stared down at what we had done. It was all over now. Justice was done, and there would be no more spearing and sheep stealing from this group.

“For the next hour, we dug shallow graves in the side of the sandhills where the bodies lay, pushed them in, and piled more sand down from above. We rode away to tell the others at Greenough that there would be no more stealing from that group.”

To put everything into historical perspective of time, the first mob of white men seen by Windimarra would have been the explorer George Grey and his shipwrecked party walking back to Perth in 1839. So Windimarra was most likely born around 1815, the period of the Battle of Waterloo. Geraldton Town began in 1849, and the Greenough Flats were opened for white settlement in 1851.

Reporter: Carleen Camello.

Chapter 22

Interview Two – Friday Afternoon

Barney and Zep strolled into the interview room. Zep switched on the voice recorder, while Barney threw two copies of the morning’s interview transcript down onto the table, one for each of Frank Briggs and his lawyer.

“The video is also now running,” Barney informed them. “Read through this carefully, and if you agree that it is a true transcript of this morning’s session, please both sign this original copy.”

“And by the way,” interrupted Zep. “Did you get a chance to draw a sketch map of the crime scene as seen by you?”

The lawyer opened his folder in front of him and passed over a sheet of paper.

“Nice,” commented Zep as he glanced at it.

They all waited quietly as all the documents were carefully scrutinised. Barney and Zep perused the map while the others read.

“I’m happy to sign that as a transcript,” stated Frank Briggs.

“And I can certify that is what was said,” confirmed the lawyer.

Both the prisoner and his lawyer signed, and the typed statement was counter-signed by Zep and then Barney.

“Now then,” began Zep. “We have a few points to go over and clarify.”

They all settled in, getting as comfortable in the interview room chairs as it was possible to be comfortable in those interview room chairs. They really weren’t designed for long sessions of seated conversation.

As Barney had been tasked with following up on the forensics side of the case, he was a little more familiar with the processes than Zep. So Barney began to add a few details from the latest discoveries from the forensic analysis.

“We have had a team of forensic lads going over your farmhouse from top to bottom, and the place is basically clean. Your car is also without a blemish. So things are looking up for you.”

Frank Briggs visibly sighed and relaxed.

“However,” Barney continued, “we put a scent analysis device, a sniffer machine, through your buildings and found that the shed down the track from the house screamed meth lab at us. There was absolutely no sign of any chemicals, but the chemical trace odours were all there.”

“That must have been a previous owner,” was a quick reply.

“Come now,” interjected Zep, “you’ve had the farm for fifteen years. You told us that last week. Start thinking straight and talking straight.”

“And,” continued Barney, “your boat had the same chemical scents.”

“Um . . . , Er,” stammered Briggs. “I have an explanation.”

“Now before you say that you were experimenting a few months ago and have gone straight since then, perhaps you need to be reminded that the boot of Tennant’s car also revealed the same chemicals. There is a connection in there and it links to a murder,” asserted Barney.

“What was really going on?” demanded Zep, leaning over towards Briggs.

Briggs shifted uncomfortably in his seat, grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his brow, blew his nose, and stuffed the hanky back into his pocket. He sat with his head in his hands for over a minute while the three others just watched and waited.

“Do you want to call a break?” asked his lawyer. “Do you need to discuss this with me? Take your time and think before you answer any more questions.”

Another minute went by.

“I ran a meth lab, and Tennant was my courier,” blurted out Briggs.

“Go on,” encouraged Zep, knowing now that this was the best way to work on Briggs. Once started, he was easy to keep going.

Briggs continued, “My degree is in chemical science. With the alimony paid to the ex and the farm struggling to pay off the mortgage, I don’t get much extra for a few luxuries. I agreed to an offer in the pub one night to make a batch of methamphetamine crystals for a bloke. Just small stuff. It was easy to get the recipe off the internet, and this bloke, Tennant, was able to get a small amount of the raw materials. The first batch was a bit rough, but it was okay. It paid very well for just a few dozen grams of speed.”

He paused and looked around for support. He received sympathetic nods from the police officers, who were exuding the body language of wanting to hear more.

He continued, “Then I was hit with an ultimatum. Tennant had mates who liked my product. They wanted as much as I could make, at double the original profit margin that I made on that first batch. If I didn’t cooperate, the police would quickly find my illicit meth lab, so I would end up doing time for that first batch. And they wanted some of the stuff turned into fake ecstasy pills by adding ketamine, which is easier for distribution purposes.

“Tennant and his mates used to source their meth from Perth but were finding it too expensive. To actually make the stuff itself in Perth was difficult to keep out of view of the big guys down there. So when he found me, he decided it would be safer to produce locally.”

“Who were the mates of Tennant?” asked Zep.

“I was never told. I only ever dealt with Tennant. If I needed chemicals, I rang him using a code. He dropped off what I needed and picked up the finished tablets. He set me up with a couple of gas cookers, gas bottles, flasks, tubing, with all the other bits and pieces and a pill press. The back shed was ideal for the lab as it was generally downwind from the house and miles away from the next human inhabitants. And the money was great. Cash on the line. I put most of it into an account under the name of a fictitious character I created from a birth certificate that I ordered online, a kid I grew up with who died young. I was going to use that to settle down in the Eastern States when you rumbled me. If only I had been able to get past you two.”

“Tell me about the night that Tennant was killed,” prompted Zep.

“I was out of chemicals, so my cookers were all turned off and cold. I had ordered more. Tennant turned up in the afternoon with a boot-load of bottles and packages. He left it for me to unload, grabbed his six pack of beer in a plastic bag, his tackle box, white bucket, and collapsible fishing rod from the back seat and said he was going fishing. He pinched a pack of bait from my freezer, grabbed my bottle of whale oil burley, threw me two beers from his plastic bag ‘to help me through the job’ and headed down to Devlin Pool.”

Briggs took a breath. “That’s the last time I saw him alive. I went looking for him a couple of hours later, when he hadn’t returned by late afternoon.”

“When you found the body, why did you decide to bury him?” asked Zep.

“For one thing, he weighed over 110 kilograms, and with my age and weight, there was no way I could have lifted him anywhere. His car was parked at my farmhouse. I had just started another brew in the meth lab. If cops found the body that night, the first place they would visit would be mine to ask if I had seen or heard anything. That wasn’t going to happen. So I buried him on the spot.”

“Then what?” Barney prompted.

“I took all the fishing gear home and threw it into the boat. I undressed outside and threw all my clothes into the bottom of the plastic bucket, put a couple of half bricks in on top of them, and put the bucket back in the boat. After a long shower, scrubbing away all the sand and blood, I turned off the stoves to cool everything down and drove Tennant’s car to the Rivermouth Settlement. I made sure that it was empty and wiped down everywhere throughout the car that I thought I might have touched.”

“You missed one thumb print inside the boot where you must have grabbed the boot to open or close the top when unloading the chemicals. Everything else on the outside of the car was rendered unreadable, wiped by you or washed by the rain over the last few days. You did a good job of wiping the inside of the car,” commented Barney. “That one print was how we connected with you.”

“What did you do then?” queried Zep, frowning at Barney for interrupting Briggs while he was flowing with his statements.

“When I got home, I changed into disposable overalls and dismantled all of the meth lab. I put all the used chemicals into sealable bottles, packed all gas stoves, gas bottles, and lab equipment into the lower deck of the boat and then washed out the shed completely. It was near 3 a.m. when I had finished, so I went to bed for a couple of hours. I was up before dawn as usual, packed my bait, and drove to the boat ramp to join the early morning queue. Amateur cray fishermen are as regular as clockwork, so it was expected that I would be going out that morning.

“I pulled my pots as usual outside the outer reefs, taking a little longer than I normally did. By then, I was alone in the area, so I lifted all the stuff up from below, poured out all the chemicals, and made sure everything else was going to sink before I released any of it. I dumped the whole lot into deep water before I cruised home: fishing rod, tackle box, beer cans, the white bucket with clothes weighted down with bricks, and all the meth lab stoves and equipment. I cleaned it all out, right down to the disposable overalls.”

“You have done very well covering your tracks,” admitted Zep. “It will be very difficult to find any evidence of your involvement other than that one big fingerprint. Except of course these interviews with your full admission of being at the crime scenes. We will need a little time to work on what you have said. In the meantime, you will be still under arrest and in the holding cells.”

At this point, the interview was terminated.

Chapter 23

Northbridge – Friday Night

The Gero Garbage bikies, Tim Quinn and Kevin Canute, made their second trip to Perth within a span of eight days. Again a medium sedan car was used instead of their favoured bikes. They were fashionably dressed as young lads out for a good time in Northbridge on a Friday night. Tattoos were covered up with long-sleeved silk shirts with high collars. Each had removed a large earring which was replaced by a small metal stud. It enabled them to blend very comfortably into the usual crowd of young people out at that time.

Their first stop as they drove into the northern suburbs was to pull into a self-service petrol station to fill up. Kevin also bought a two-litre plastic container of petrol, in a container labelled “four-stroke mower fuel”. This would normally have been sufficient to run a lawnmower for a few hours. They had other plans for the fluid.

From the service station, they also bought two soft drinks. In the deserted parking area of a small playground, the two 600-ml plastic bottles were emptied and filled with the fuel. The remaining fuel was tipped over the parking area to evaporate in the warm afternoon sun, and the container was put in a nearby neighbour’s rubbish bin awaiting a verge collection.

With the bottles left in the car and the car parked in an appropriate location, the pair enjoyed the fine dining in one of the many restaurants of Northbridge but restricted themselves to just a few drinks. Both were acting like plain old normal people for a change, boring, but safer that way.

As the evening wore on, the big rush of people dining was petering out. Young people began to accumulate in the bars and nightclubs. There were still many people gathering in the streets, but all were heading places on a mission – many were heading home but just as many were off to have fun.

Quinny and Canute walked past the back alley of the Minibike Club. Three of the bikers’ motorcycles were visible, and nobody could be seen around the place, so they returned to the car, pocketed the bottles, and strolled back. The streets were quieter now.

“Let’s do it,” prompted Quinny. He wandered alone down the dark alley on the pretence he was looking for a quiet place for a piss. All the while, he was sussing out the situation. After strolling about for a good ten minutes, unchallenged by anyone and not seeing any form of camera or person surveillance, he motioned for Canute to join him.

Both emptied the liquid contents of their bottles liberally over all three bikes and each put the empty container carefully back into his pocket. These would be later wiped clean and left to rot in the tall grass on a road verge halfway home to Geraldton. Each took out a box of matches and, with a common nod, flicked a match into the fluid vapours. They were both very surprised at the loudness of the “whoof” and the immediate intensity of the flare up. They paused only seconds before beating a hasty retreat back to the street. The street was still clear, but only for a brief time. They strolled discretely away for a block or two and then casually returned to view the action as part of the growing, inquisitive crowd.

The fiery glow in the rear laneway had many club patrons rushing out to see what it was. The three All Angels bikes were fully ablaze, emitting the strong fumes of petrol and the stench of the burning rubber tyres and plastics of the electrics. Two of the bike owners had run for the club’s nearest fire extinguishers and were approaching the fires.

Someone yelled urgently, “The petrol tanks,” and ran frantically back into the building. Most others were also quick enough to get there, but with the thunderous sound of a three-gun salute, three fireballs erupted upwards. The bike owners, last and a little late, were knocked flat by the rolling blasts. One received a gaping leg wound from a sizzling piece of flying fuel tank, and all three would have ringing in their ears for months to come. The Minibike Club escaped major fire damage but lost six second-floor windows that were shattered from the concussions. The rear wall of the building and the surrounding alley were pitted with metal shards and spotted with black globs of sticky burnt rubber.

Watching down the laneway from the opposite side of street, Quinny and Canute were quite satisfied with the result. They watched until the fire truck arrived and parked across the end of the laneway, blocking the view into the lane. Joining the rest of the dispersing crowd to wander away, they casually strolled to where their car had been carefully parked in another laneway some distance from the event.

The two arsonists could hear the distant sirens of several converging police cars, as they sedately drove away, first using the quiet side streets to reach distant main roads, before weaving through suburban roads in the north of Perth. From there, they headed to the Great Northern Highway and home to Geraldton, 432 kilometres away, very pleased with themselves. It had all gone to plan.

Part V

Chapter 24

Interview Three – Saturday Morning

Barney entered the interview room with the previous afternoon’s transcript and passed it to the two men waiting for the next series of questions. After a long ten minutes, Zep joined them, and the copies were signed.

Zep began, “You have given us a timeline of the events around the murder. All the evidence fits into your story. But there is still one major problem.”

Both Briggs and his lawyer looked intently at Zep.

“You still fit perfectly into that timeline for the murder,” he continued. “You have no alibi. Nothing you have said precludes you from being there at the shooting, then clearing up the scene afterwards. All the same reasons for covering up the scene are still valid. Motive is vague, but it is possible that you had an argument with Tennant over money, supplies, product, or involvement.”

Briggs pleaded. “But I didn’t do it. I have no gun. I admit to being a meth lab producer, but not a killer.”

“You will go before the magistrate in a couple of days on the charge of murder,” interrupted Barney. “That’s the law. We have enough circumstantial evidence to bind you over for trial. There is no murder weapon, but that could be out in deep water with the rest of the gear. The trial will probably be four to six months down the track, and there is no bail for a murder suspect.”

Zep leaned in on Briggs’s personal space and spoke quietly into his face. “Unless you can give us a lot more information about other possible killers, other possible motives, other connections that we aren’t aware of, we can only work with what we have.”

“I have another connection, but it’s just guesswork,” Briggs blurted out. “Tennant and I usually packaged the ecstasy pills into clip-lock plastic packets of about a hundred pills. Each pill weighs about forty milligrams, so we weighed out 4.1 grams to allow at least a 2 percent margin. We then rolled the plastic packets into a tube and stored them, twenty packets at a time, putting ecstasy pills into Pringle crisps cylinders. For the 150-gram Pringles packets, it was about the right weight with a few chips on the top and bottom that made them rattle the right sound. It weighed and sounded like a full packet of crisps.

“For the ice or powdered speed, we weighed out 5.1 grams into each clip-lock packet, and these went into Jatz or Ritz cracker boxes. We put a quarter of a packet of cracker biscuits on top so it would rattle like biscuits. That made the E’s and the speed easy to transport camouflaged. They were probably sold to distributors in those quantities in the plastic packets.”

“Go on,” prompted Barney.

“Tennant mentioned that he kept the packaged product in a storeroom, but he never mentioned where it was. One night, as I was driving home from the pub, going along Fitzgerald Street past Tennant’s place, I noticed a couple of bikies on foot going down into the back lane of Tennant’s place. Now, bikies on foot are a strange phenomenon, and around Tennant’s place made me suspicious, so I parked nearby and watched for about fifteen minutes. When both came out, one was carting a plastic shopping bag, with what looked like a couple of Pringles containers inside the bag. So I guessed that these guys were the unknown mates of Tennant and his storeroom was nearby. No proof of course.”

“If the bikies were on foot, how could you be sure that they wouldn’t walk in your direction and catch you spying on them?” asked Zep.

“I had seen that their bikes had been left around the back of a small park next to a kids’ playground, so I assumed that was the way they’d go. I parked in the opposite direction,” he replied.

“So you are implying that the Gero Garbage are the ones involved with you in the production and distribution of drugs and that there is a storeroom somewhere in or near Tennant’s house,” mused Zep.

“That’s my presumption,” sighed Briggs.

“If we can find that storeroom, we may be able to uncover an alternative killer and maybe get you off the hook. That’s only a big ‘if’. Meanwhile, you are going back to the holding cell until you face the magistrate on Monday.” Zep switched off the recorder to conclude the interview.

After they left the interview room, Barney commented, “With bikie involvement, perhaps last night’s fry-up in Northbridge was somehow related to our murder.”

#

For the next couple of hours, the two detectives worked diligently through some more of the reports that were filtering in.

The research team at Perth Central CIB had no success in finding any next of kin for James Tennant. He had first appeared in Western Australian records some seven years ago when he gained his driver’s licence at the age of twenty years. This original driver’s licence and his earlier vehicle registrations were all addressed to a rental flat in Mill Point Road in South Perth. No one there remembered him, too long ago. Bank details and a house mortgage began five years ago with his current Geraldton address. His licences were transferred there too. He seemed to have no family. Indeed, he didn’t seem to have existed prior to that first date of his driving licence. Also, enquiries to all interstate licensing agencies had not uncovered any information.

From Perth Forensics came the ballistics report. The bullets from the gun didn’t match any previous crimes. The spectrum analysis of the bullet and traces of carbon around the wound revealed that there were particles of carbon and unburnt plastic consistent with the plastic from a shopping bag. The indications were that Tennant was shot from inside or through a plastic bag, which then transferred particles into the wound tract.

“We seem to have plastic bags whichever way we turn,” commented Barney. “Briggs said yesterday that Tennant took four beers with him in a plastic shopping bag down to fish at Devlin Pool, but said that later he carried the beers back loose in the white bucket. I wonder whether he was also carrying drugs in the bag to meet with someone while fishing. There are plenty of ways to get there and away without even passing Briggs’s farm – the other road entry, the scenic path, a canoe or boat, or even a swim across the river from the sand dunes side.”

“Perhaps he was killed for drugs,” considered Zep. “Why else take the bag away?”

“Another possibility could be that his partnership with the bikies had concluded so he was terminated,” suggested Barney.

“Or some other totally different person or persons were involved,” speculated Zep.

“I think his partnerships have all finished whichever way you look at it,” quipped Barney.

Chapter 25

The Storeroom – Saturday Afternoon

That Saturday afternoon, a second visit to the house at 86 Fitzgerald Street was organised, but this time, they were accompanied by a sniffer dog and metal detectors. On this occasion, there were very different findings.

The dog handler began by leading the dog down the back laneway, following the route of the bikies who had been seen entering this way. She was given directions to sniff-search both sides of the lane down to the dead end and back. There was no positive reaction from her until they unlocked the padlock and entered Tennant’s property through the back gate. The dog began to get excited at the gate and went frantic as she entered the yard. She made a beeline for the old shed along the back fence, and when inside, she went straight to the big paint tins in the corner. These were prised open and found to be all empty, but the dog insisted that they had previously held drugs.

“Neat, eh?” commented Barney ironically. “This was the storeroom, and these were the storage containers. Visibly just junk. No wonder you passed over them first time.”

“We were not looking for a drug baron then. We were looking to identify a murder victim.” Then Zep realised he had been picked on and hollered. “Oi. Why is it my fault that it was overlooked? If I remember, I looked in first and you checked it second. Your job is to back me up. You failed there, youngster.”

Barney grinned and teased, “You didn’t have a white cane, so I figured you could see, but now that your seeing-eye dog is here, she found it for you.”

“This may be just one part of the drugs storage system,” continued Zep, refusing to react further. “We’ll have to fully examine the whole property to see if there are other hiding places.”

“A metal detector may not be enough to go over this ground,” admitted Barney, reaching for his mobile phone. “If drugs are buried underground, sealed in plastic containers, they may not be detected, even by the dog. I’ll get a ground-detecting sonar scanner up here as soon as it can be made available.”

While the officer with metal detector scanned the grounds for any sub-surface metals, the dog was given the run of the rest of the front and backyards, the washhouse, and the disused outside toilet.

Meanwhile, the metal detector was blipping almost every second step. Most were identified by the experienced operator as bottle caps of many varieties spread throughout the front and backyard. A few larger different soundings were dug up by his assistant, but turned out to be kitchen utensils, knives, forks and spoons, metal plates, and enamel cups, old, battered, useless, and ditched. Then a large lump of concentrated metals had the assistant digging through an old garbage hole of cans, tins, bottles, and other household junk while the detector moved on. He had to dig it out in case it covered over a hidden site.

The sniffer dog found no further traces outside so was taken inside the house to search. She made directly for the spare bedroom and began pawing at the in-built cupboard. Inside were shelves containing a few full packets of potato chips, a dozen full tubes of Pringles crisps, and some empty ones. The sniffer dog whined at these empty packets.

“It looks like Briggs was telling the truth about the packaging,” conceded Zep. “These empty packets have held the drugs and have been brought back here to use for the next shipment.”

Barney mused aloud, “I wonder whether he eats all the Pringles before he uses the packaging or just throws them out with the rubbish.”

“We can’t check the bin.” Zep was serious when he replied. “All the bins were empty when we first searched here.”

“Well, these packets confirm that part of Briggs’s confession, but gives us no new leads,” verified Barney. “Tennant was the courier, so his prints are likely to be the main ones over this equipment and probably Briggs’s prints are there too. That back shed will be fully dusted for prints and residuals. The paint tins will be collected too, but I doubt that any other visitors will be that careless.”

“Right,” said Zep, “but there must have been money involved. This is a cash business, so Tennant was also handling money, and passing it on to someone sometime somewhere somehow. We will now have to find and follow the money trail.”

“If it was just cash,” added Barney, “that really isn’t very useful in today’s plastic society. You can’t spend big amounts on anything nowadays. It has to be deposited into a bank account to become available for a plastic card. There will be our best bet.”

And he then added, “It’s the plastics again.”

Chapter 26

Those Bastards – Saturday Night

“Those bastards,” screamed Psycho Miller. “It’s not just that they totalled three of our bikes, they now have the cops sniffing around the Minibike Club.”

In the spacious dining room of the Mount Lawley headquarters of the All Angel Bikie Club, a meeting of Psycho and his lieutenants was being held on the Saturday evening following the previous night’s bike burning at the rear of the club. The six seated men, most with beers and some smoking cigarettes, watched with interest as their leader strode to and fro in anger.

“It will probably have them looking closer into the business and checking out the general operations there,” the ranting continued. “I guess we will have to put that club off-line for a few months.”

The All Angels Bike Club had gone to great pains to convert much of their cash flow into fixed assets, by buying into many establishments with good turnover. They wanted premises where the bikies’ cash profits could be washed through the books of these businesses. There were gymnasiums, tattoo shops, new, used, and parts motorcycle shops, pawn shops, and a couple of suburban hotels. An early attempt to get into massage parlours had run up against the might of the established big boys of crime. That was why Psycho had been psycho about the Minibike Club. From a little-frequented establishment, they had built it into something bigger with both gaming and girls in spite of the mob opposition. They managed to forestall a forced sale of the club by threatening a return of violence. They had the numbers, and the mob wasn’t yet ready for a war.

Venues were also selected where there were plenty of young male clients showing up with lots of cash. Members of the All Angels were silent owners or secret partners and could oversee many of the establishments in which they had a financial interest. Managers were put in upfront to run them. Through camera surveillance, the bikies could also ensure the security of these buildings so they could sell their “product” to the flow of cashed-up people. That was the main reason Psycho was unhappy with the bike burnings at the Minibike Club. Their best earner was probably now compromised with the police. There had also been no camera monitoring the rear of the building to identify the culprits.

“No drugs in there until further notice by anybody. Full stop,” he declared to end this one-sided discussion on the matter. “Now that we are here, any urgent reports need discussing?” he asked.

“Two tattoo parlours are cruising well, but the one in Subiaco has been slowly losing for a couple of years,” one lieutenant reported. “The older locals are moving away from tattooing. We no longer have the turnover of customers and so the sideline is also very slow. There is another parlour just up for sale out in Morley that we should pick up and get rid of Subiaco.”

“Agreed?” Psycho looked around, and everyone nodded.

“Our chop shops are growing,” interjected another member, eager to enlighten the group about his own portfolio. “We get cars hot from the street in exchange for ‘product’ and truck them straight to the east. In the return freight, we swap their hot cars back. These go into our chop shops to get renovated. This year, we have sold eight outright to dealers, and at present, we own five high-value units sitting in used car yards on consignment, payment on sale, fully rebuilt with VIN numbers from write-offs. They will pass any inspection. There are another eight in the used car sections of newspapers to be sold privately by negotiation, with modified VIN numbers that should get through.”

“Okay, okay, business looks fine,” interrupted Psycho wanting to finish up the mundane discussion and get on with thoughts of revenge. “Now, how do we get even with that northern garbage?”

Suggestions were varied from an outright takeover in Geraldton, an organised brawl, the bashing of a select few, or an explosive device. Some were considered too soft, and others perhaps would bring down the law in force. Finally they settled with an attempt to wipe out as many of their bikes as possible. Appropriate retribution.

Psycho then began with his strength. He was an organiser. “To pay them back, we will plan a night trip to Geraldton, timing it when we will be least expected and least noticeable and taking special care not to be identified. I will think through the details and let you know.”

He then finished with “Let’s do it.”

Chapter 27

Preliminary Final – Sunday Afternoon

“Let’s do it,” roared the twenty-two Railways players, as they broke up from the pre-match huddle. They were fully psyched up, ready to take the battle right to the visiting Mullewa team. With the Great Northern Football League (GNFL) finals all being played at the Recreation Ground, Railways had the slight advantage as this was their home ground. Here, the players were more accustomed to this grassy surface, the wind eddies, and ground orientation than any other ground in the GNFL. The crowd was also in their favour, with home team fans, plus supporters from Geraldton’s other local teams all favouring locals against the visiting Mullewa township team.

The match began with intensity. Within the first fifteen minutes Mullewa kicked away to a five goals to one goal lead with the pace and agility of the young Aboriginals who were a majority within the team. These lads had been brought up as footballers, with fathers, uncles, brothers, and cousins always with a ball to kick around. Most of them walked to school bouncing, handballing, or kicking a football, and at recess played kick-to-kick on the school oval. As senior players, they were quick and had magical ball handling skills and an innate sense of when and what to do with it. The Railways players looked slow and awkward by comparison.

After the first fifteen intense minutes, the physical strength of many of the Railways players began to have an effect. These players were the sons of fishermen, farmers, and townies and had the strength of physical workers. Their football skills were not as smooth, but they had been trained to use their strength to tackle hard, to gain possession of the ball, and to deliver it to the advantage of their teammates. The team had their share of skilful Aboriginals too. Railways began to claw back the early lead, and by quarter time, they were only two goals and a few points in arrears.

The second quarter was a partial repeat of the first, but the home team’s strength was starting to tell. The margin was just over a goal by half-time.

Barney Merrick played a moderate game that day but was still kept in close check by a series of opponents. His reputation from the previous week had been duly noted and his strengths analysed, so Mullewa players took extra notice of him. He was battered, bruised, and exhausted by the end of the day.

During the first part of the duration of the match, Josie Taylor wandered among the crowd, calling and waving a copy of the Geraldton Guardian with her printed story. “These people have stolen my ancestors from their graves. The spirits are talking to me, telling me that they are not happy. My ancestors want to be returned to their resting places.”

A couple of her young adult grandchildren, nephews, and nieces took up the call and joined in wandering among the crowd continuing the verbal crusade saying, “Give us back our relatives. They need to be returned to their graves,” and other statements like, “It’s their right to be buried there. It was their land,” and these calls led to, “We want that land back in the hands of the people.”

As the game progressed, the scores continued to be close, so all attention turned to the football. People still went to the bars and food caravans, or grabbed drinks or food from their Eskies, but most attention was football-focussed. Josie and her kin retired to a picnic spot at the front of the main grandstand and also became engrossed in the match.

The third quarter was a dour struggle. The backlines of each team were working hard. Goals were difficult to score. Neither side could gain any ascendancy during the quarter that was always known as “the premiership quarter”, where the game was usually won or lost. But not today. The scores were tied at three quarter time.

The last quarter went goal for goal. After more than 100 minutes of intense physical effort, many players had now grown tired and a little slower. Gaps in the defences began to show. Strong runners were able to get free into open spaces and create scoring opportunities. Each side alternately scored three goals; so after fifteen minutes of frantic Preliminary Final football, the scores were still all tied up.

Halfway into the last quarter, Barney grabbed the ball from a tight pack and was just about to break free to do one of his well-known sprints away, when he was tackled from the side and slung viciously to the ground. His head smacked the turf, and he saw stars. So for a few minutes, he called for a replacement while he cleared his head and iced a bruised hip as he sat on the interchange bench. Back on the ground for the rest of the last quarter, he was still a little dizzy and a lot slower than his best.

Railways gained a two-goal advantage with just eight minutes left on the clock. Mullewa rebounded continuously but could only manage three consecutive points. With just two minutes remaining, another goal was scored by Mullewa. It was now a three-point margin.

Back at the centre bounce, there was no clear possession and a scramble for the ball saw it tapped, soccered, punched, and handballed about for almost a minute with strong tackles preventing any player from clearing the pack. Then a desperate kick by a Railways player drove it into their forward line; however, a contested mark sent it out of bounds. The resultant throw-in found it pressured into the Railway’s goal square, but it rolled through for a point. A four-point margin with forty seconds to play.

Mullewa pulled out all stops with a set-play. The kick back into play to the Mullewa ruckman was never going to be marked, but he skilfully punched it behind the pack to a loose running teammate. Two bounces drew an opponent away from his man, followed by a quick hand pass, and the ball was then carried through the centre. It was a long spiral kick to the front of the goal-square where just two players, man-on-man, contested the mark. The Mullewa forward marked the ball, and as he walked backwards to take his kick, the final siren sounded. The crowd went deathly silent as he kicked for goal.

Mullewa won by two points in a game decided by that last kick after the siren.

The home crowd stayed quiet. The Mullewa supporters went ballistic. The Mullewa players collected in a circle in the middle of the ground chanted their war song, the adapted version of “When the Saints Go Marching In”. Both teams made their way to their respective change-rooms, and the crowd dispersed into the bar or made their way home.

#

When Barney emerged from the change-rooms, accompanied by a half dozen other Railways players, he saw a group of older, more mature Aboriginals standing on the tiered seats near the main clubroom bar. They were a little agitated and probably because they were less inhibited through some match-day drinking, they were calling out to anyone within hearing, which happened to be quite an audience.

“The Greenough River banks are a sacred burial site.”

“We demand that land be given back to the Aboriginal people.”

“Land rights for the Yamatji People.”

“Sacred sites are sacred sites, for blacks or for whites.”

And a few other phrases, with f . . .’s and c . . .’s liberally inserted.

This very vocal group were going to be a little difficult to ignore and too numerous to simply move away. The uniformed police stood by monitoring the situation, but the demonstrators were not breaking any law except perhaps “Disturbing the Peace”. The police would have difficulty justifying the use of force in this case.

#

Barney joined Carleen on the viewing balcony in front of the Railways bar and clubrooms and observed the nearby performance. He didn’t need to stay around in his official police capacity, but felt it wouldn’t hurt. He also had Carleen for company, and he needed a beer to drown his sorrows and dull the pain. His football season was over. They sipped their icy-cold beers, standing at the railings looking out over the green expanse of the oval. The colourful language washed through the atmosphere.

“You know, I studied that language as part of my uni degree,” she informed him.

“Yeah?” he replied, in a manner that prompted her to continue.

“In the arts degree in Literature and History, as part of my training as a cadet journalist, one of my assignments was an investigation to look into the origins of the Aussie language.”

“So you can speak that language?” he grinned, and she laughed.

“Every Western Australian school kid can now,” Carleen chortled and went on to explain her theory. “I think it was probably designed purposely by the Aboriginals and incorporated into their English to shock and awe the rest of the population. Back in earlier times, when they were confined to shanties in the ‘five-acre reserves’ on the edge of many country towns, they were a downtrodden people. That language was used as an aggressive front to the refined general population, to set them back apiece and thus gain a little respect. It actually worked to some degree because most other people would then avoid any contact with the Aboriginals. Nowadays, the style of language is used by everybody, but most often in the streets by kids and gangs to emphasise their independence from the normal population. To shock and awe. It’s just another weapon.”

“Fucking interesting,” commented Barney. So she smacked his arm.

Since the Railways’ supporters had little to celebrate, most went home very early or to other local pubs and clubs. The Mullewa supporters drove the 100 kilometres home before beginning their heavy celebrating and drinking. So the bars at the Recreation Ground quietly closed early to avoid any confrontation or incident. Next Sunday might be a different matter.

Chapter 28

Recreation – Sunday Night

Barney limped gingerly to the car with Carleen. He knew that he should have spent more than the brief time he had done in applying ice to his bruised hip, but he was young and indestructible, so he knew he could survive a bruise or two by just giving it time.

“You look like a wounded digger limping home from the last battle,” she commiserated. “Even in your sad face, I can see you can’t believe the season has finished for you.”

Barney didn’t say anything to reply to that, but tried to lighten up. “So what’s planned for the rest of the evening?” he enquired jovially.

“Well, you are definitely no longer under coach’s orders.” she laughed openly.

He didn’t feel up to an evening out on the town, so together they planned to spend a quiet evening at Barney’s house on Willcock Drive in Mahomet’s Flats.

Barney opened the front door to let Carleen inside first, and as he turned back from closing the door, she stood there before him. She said nothing as she reached out and lifted his woolly jumper followed by his tee-shirt over his head and threw it away. Staring into his eyes, she unbuckled his belt, and his trousers fell to the floor. Barney reached out and grabbed her, pulling her closer, and removed her heavy pullover and lightweight skivvy top simultaneously. Then he hugged her in as he undid the back of her bra, dropped the straps from her shoulders and moved back just enough to allow it to fall to the floor. He kissed her fiercely as they both stood tightly embraced and topless. She returned the kiss just as strongly.

In the brief respite for air, Barney stepped back, and kicked off his shoes and trousers. He watched as Carleen unzipped her skirt, and it too joined everything else on the floor. She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards where she believed the bedroom was located. Right first time. They paused together at the foot of the bed, kissing passionately, as each dragged the last remaining underwear from the hips of the other and allowed them to drop off.

Both had waited a week for this, so there was no pausing now. It was frantic at first, but when he realised he wanted this to last forever, she gave him no choice. Sky rockets in space and not just the crashing waves of the nearby ocean.

They lay quietly in each other’s arms for a long time after, sharing the moment and enjoying the closeness of each other’s body.

“Hungry?” he softly spoke, breaking the silence.

“Not as much as I was before that.” she smiled.

“Feel like some food now?” was his next question.

“After,” she replied and rolled on top of him.

They kissed tenderly. She kissed him on the mouth, on the chin, on the nose and forehead. He, in reply, kissed her on the chin, on the neck and throat, and on her ear lobes. They stayed that way for a long time, just rocking slowly and staring into each other’s eyes.

An hour or so later, they dressed and drove to town. After playing a full game of football, a few beers on the balcony at the Rec after the game, followed by an enjoyable couple of hours with Carleen, Barney was ready to devour anything and everything. They settled on splitting a fast food roast chicken with all the trimmings. Seated at the fast food restaurant table, the two of them delighted in sharing the tearing of the beast apart. Both were covered in grease and loving it. There was little left on the carcass after they had finished, but they were more than satiated.

“I guess we had better call it a night,” stated Carleen, sitting back and sipping a coffee. “Tomorrow’s the start of another week, and if it’s anything like this week, it will be a real doozey. I have to get you to drop me off at my place. I would love to go back to your house tonight, but I must get some sleep for tomorrow. I also have to decide whether to sleep-in in the morning or do my usual early morning run to burn off all that extra chicken fat.”

As he pulled into the curb in front of her apartment, she acknowledged, “That was one fabulous evening. Thank you for it all. Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Count on it,” he assured her, and they kissed long and tenderly.

As she stepped from the car, she turned and said, “Happy Anniversary! It’s a week since we first talked together at Devlin Pool Road.”

“Good God!” he declared. “Has it only been one week?” He was very thoughtful as he drove off home.

Part VI

Chapter 29

The Coins – Monday Morning

Barney limped almost imperceptibly into the office a little late on the Monday morning. He still felt his bruised hip and the remnants of a headache, probably from a slight concussion. His mind was still in the clouds with memories of last night with Carleen. So being fit and a macho, he tried not to let much of his physical suffering show.

“Hi boss,” he said flippantly to Zep who was thoughtfully reading at his desk.

“G’day yourself,” was the terse reply. He then continued, “My condolences on the loss yesterday. It was touch and go. Both teams deserved to win, but only one could. It was a pity . . .”

“All right, enough already. I got your sympathy,” growled Barney. “So what’s happening?”

“It’s the report on the coins found at the site,” said Zep as he passed it over.

The feedback from Fremantle Maritime Museum on the old coins had been faxed through to the Geraldton Police Station earlier that Monday morning. The young lady with the delightful nature and friendly telephone voice also had a pleasing turn of phrase in her reporting.

Report on Geraldton Coins

Sorry to disappoint you, but there were no Spanish gold doubloons or early Australian holey dollars inside the lumps. There was only that single one pound sterling English gold doubloon dated 1842. English pounds and half pound coins were used until Australia began issuing their own gold coins in 1852, and for a time, both English and Australian gold doubloons were in common use.

All the silver coins were from early Colonial currency. Even then they were British coins minted in Australia from 1825 onwards, after the holey dollar and the dump were abandoned as currency. These were in circulation for eighty-five years in the Colonies before the new Commonwealth of Australia issued its own silver coinage in 1911. A few colonial companies issued “tokens”, but these were not legal currency. There were no tokens among the coins, so the cash likely originated from government sources.

The silver English florins, shillings, sixpences, and threepences were dated from 1840 through to 1859, but they were all earlier than some of the copper coins.

When the lumps of copper coins were separated, there were fifteen coins. All of them again were the old English currency used at that time. And as a matter of fact, it was used right up until the turn of the century. It was cheap copper, so wore out quite easily with continual use. Most of the copper coins dug up at the grave site were of this cheap copper variety. In 1860, the British government began replacing copper with lighter more durable brass and recalling all the old heavier coins. Being in Australia, we did not start getting the new minted coppers until a year or two after 1860. There were two of the new pennies among the coins that were sent to us. They were both dated 1861, so the deaths occurred sometime after that. By about February 1864, most of the old copper coins had been replaced around Perth. It was taking a lot longer to collect and exchange those in the outlying settlements, but it was slowly happening.

If these men were sailors, this was probably a shipment of a strongbox that likely originated in the Port of Fremantle and contained gold, silver, and copper coins and likely paper money too. We must assume it was some time before 1864 when the copper coins were almost all completely replaced in Perth by bronze. So the date on the collection of coins is between 1861 and 1864 and more likely period is limited from 1862 to 1863.

So you can date the time of the burial of the strongbox within that time, which gives you a probable time frame for your ancient murders.

Good luck in catching the 150-year-old killer.

Denys Newbound.

Archaeology Department.

Fremantle Maritime Museum.

“So the one pound coin was actually a gold doubloon,” declared Barney. “There had to be more coins of value in the cash box, which explains the scraping out of the cash box site. It probably also explains where the plastic bag went. I wonder if the murderer knew and that was the motive for Tennant’s murder. So if we can locate the coins, we should have our killer.”

“And we now have a time frame to check out for the older murders,” added Zep.

Chapter 30

The Cashless Economy – Monday

Barney and Zep began to scrutinise Tennant’s bank accounts to see if there was a digital paper trail to the drug money. This was not as easy as the way it was portrayed on television crime shows. There was no such thing as police linkages to the whole of Australia’s banking system. And these two detectives were definitely not computer nerds.

They did, however, have a telephone and fax machine and a warrant to search the accounts of the murdered victim. They would ring the appropriate bank, fax a copy of the warrant with a written request on Geraldton CIB letterhead, and wait for the copy of the statements to be faxed back.

Tennant had two bank accounts with two different banking corporations; both accounts were created in Perth branches. The first one was his personal account, and the other was his business account. The personal account was used to pay his mortgage and living expenses, so had dozens of small payments made online through his internet banking and numerous payments by EFTPOS to shopping centres, petrol stations, and other services and retailers. It seemed to be topped up regularly by a generous lump sum payment into the account, some form of fortnightly or monthly stipend.

The business account seemed only to be run through internet banking and a cheque book, but this account worked with deposits and withdrawals of a few hundreds to many thousands of dollars. Some of the smaller deposits and withdrawals were cheques, but the really big ones of $8,000 to $16,000 were cash deposits. Large withdrawals were internet transfers of about half the size of the cash deposits.

By checking the small transactions against the ledger book and the cheque book in Tennant’s house, most of the small amounts were explained as business for Manta Farming Supplies. The big transfers were being sent to just three accounts. One was the money being regularly transferred into his personal account for his mortgage and living expenses. He was paying his own stipend from his Manta Farming Supplies and drugs account. The other deposits were likely to be drug related. Zep and Barney were making headway.

“I see the money,” announced Barney in glee.

“Now let’s see if we can see where the money is going. Let’s get the names on those two deposit accounts,” said Zep.

An hour or so later, they had the names of the account holders from two more different banking corporations. The first to arrive gave the name of Duncan Campbell, with his registered address for this bank as a residential apartment in the Perth CBD at 580 Hay Street.

The second account name to be faxed through was a company named Harley Holding Co., and their registered address had Barney and Zep dancing about, whooping and doing high fives. It was the address of the Tarcoola property of the Gero Garbage bikie gang.

“The pieces are starting to fall into place.” Barney smiled in delight.

“We have now established another group that may have a motive to murder,” said Zep. “Now comes the problem of isolating the killer and his motive.”

“Unless it was the other account holder,” interrupted Barney picking up the first fax. “Duncan Campbell of Hay Street in Perth. I wonder where he fits into the structure. Is he a boss, a partner, a source of raw materials, or just another dealer? That’s a hell of a lot of money being paid to him.”

“Feel like a trip to Perth?” asked Zep.

“When?” replied Barney.

“Right now,” was the response. “We can be in Perth for an evening meal in the bright lights of Northbridge. No need to pack for overnight. We can book a motel room in the big city. Check out Duncan Campbell first thing tomorrow and be back mid-morning. It will be a change from this office. Chris and Roger have nothing pressing, so can take anything that crops up.”

“Let’s go,” said Barney. Then he thought of his promise to Carleen.

He rang and made his apologies for having to be out of town for that night. “Duty calls,” he explained. “We are following a money trail from the victim’s bank accounts. I will definitely make it up to you.”

“I certainly know you will,” she countered, “and I expect you to keep in touch by phone.” Then she added. “Oh, by the way, I have written a follow-up to the Josie Taylor article. It will be in tomorrow’s Guardian.”

“Great for you,” he said appraisingly. “Gotta go now and get some things together. Zep’s waiting,” and signed off with “Love you,” leaving her no time to reply.

At the same time, Zep had also rung his missus. He put entirely a different slant on being away. “Hi, darling. I have to make a trip to Perth tonight, and I will be back tomorrow. Is there anything you want me to pick up for you in the city?” Without much of a pause to allow thoughts or response, he continued, “Must get going. If you think of anything, give me a bell. I love you. Bye.” He would grab a box of the exquisite chocolates that she loved from the specialty chocolate shop near the CIB headquarters. It always worked.

As the pair headed for the unmarked cruiser, Barney proposed, “Toss you for driving the first half of the trip.” That was the open road. The second half was heading into small towns as Perth was neared and then suburbia for the last fifty kilometres.

“Bugger that,” said Zep. “My keys, my choice.” But after 432 kilometres of Barney grizzling, sniping, and bickering all the way down, Zep gave in so that Barney would get to drive the open road on the way back. By then, Zep would be enjoying his snooze coming home. He had it planned that way anyway.

Chapter 31

The Guardian Pleads – Tuesday Morning

Carleen’s article that followed her story on the Devlin Pool Massacre of Windimarra and his people was on page three. It was a brief report on the vocal demonstration by friends and relatives of the Taylor family at the Recreation Ground on Sunday Night with a follow-up commentary.

The Geraldton Guardian, Tuesday 16 September.

Voices from the Crowd

On Sunday afternoon following the Preliminary Final at the Recreation Ground, there was a small group of people heard voicing their opinion. They commanded attention by being quite vocal within the range of the members’ pavilion after the match and shouted their desire to see an Aboriginal sacred site at Devlin Pool.

It seems that the story I reported from Josie Taylor has generated some ill feeling in some parts of the community. I am sure that this was not the intention of Josie when she related that history to me, and it was definitely not my intention when I related it on to you, the readers.

The real purpose of Josie telling me about Windimarra and Gnarli and their family was to try to get them re-buried properly. They are her ancestors, and she feels strongly for them. Perhaps this will happen soon, immediately after the police have finished their investigation.

The outspoken group were in fact using Josie’s feelings for her great, great grandfather’s memories to generate a groundswell in other issues. They are not being helpful with regards to the concerns of Josie and her family. I ask that you all, within this group, refrain from your actions to enable the issue to be concluded with dignity and respect for all concerned, present and past generations.

It is to be hoped we will soon see the re-interment of these ancestors and thus an end to these inappropriate actions.

Reporter: Carleen Camello

Carleen hoped she sounded apologetic and conciliatory enough to settle most of the trouble she had stirred up with the original article. She now realised she had published in too soon and probably in too blunt a manner.

Chapter 32

Hay Street, Perth – Tuesday Morning

Barney and Zep checked in with the CIB at Perth Central early Tuesday morning to let them know they were in town. They were informed there had been no progress on the origins of James Tennant.

On the previous day, arriving at dusk, the two Geraldton detectives had allocated themselves a night off. After booking into a twin-share room in a central Perth Hotel, the pair strolled into Northbridge to dine “à la carte” at a renown Italian restaurant. Comfortably full and the night still young, they took a train to the Crown Casino in Burswood to spend a couple of hours and waste a few dollars. In the surrounding opulence of the buildings and decor, both were too alert to want to contribute much to the establishment that had been continuously funded by thousands of losers. They opted for an early night.

On a typical Perth sunny spring morning, they left their car at Central CIB and walked the five blocks to 580 Hay Street in the western part of the CBD. It was a modern high-rise residential apartment building, one of the new breed of buildings built to attract residents back to live in the centre of the city. Before this type of apartment evolved, the centre of Perth died after the business offices closed at 5 p.m. The old saying went that, “You could fire a cannon down Hay Street after 5 p.m. and not hit or wake anyone.” Nowadays, there was life all night in the city centre. But it was not cheap housing. Only the rich young speculators and entrepreneurs could afford the tariff. So being able to fit into this group, Duncan Campbell was quite well off.

The front of the building was a picturesque path through gardens and fountains leading up to a sliding door that opened to reveal a spacious foyer that would do justice to any four-star hotel. The overnight swipe card entry system was switched off because the front desk in the foyer was occupied by a well-attired security officer. Barney and Zep showed their credentials to the guard, who gave them temporary card access to the lift to the seventh floor. After repeated knocking and having waited for over five minutes, they tried the apartments either side. There was no answer from the first one, but in the second apartment, a brisk middle-aged businesswoman answered her door after only a couple of rings.

“Duncan Campbell? Sure, I know him,” she admitted openly. “He is a commercial traveller, travels all over the State. He stays in for two or three days at a time and then he’s off travelling again. Friendly chap. He could sell ice to the Eskimos. He has that natural ability to sell.”

“Do you know when he is expected back?” asked Zep.

“No, I don’t,” she replied. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him for about two weeks. He is not usually away for so long. He has a beautiful bright blue Holden that he usually parks in his underground parking bay, but that’s been gone that long too, so I figured he was off travelling again.”

“Can you describe what he looks like?” questioned Barney.

“Sure,” she replied. “He’s about five or six centimetres taller than me, say 180 centimetres, heavy build, being quite a bit overweight, aged about twenty-seven years, brown short-cropped hair, hazel eyes, and a permanent smile.”

“Do you have any photos of your neighbour?” speculated Barney, as the bright blue car and the physical description sounded bells and whistles.

“There might be one or two on my phone from a party we had last month in number 715 to celebrate someone’s thirtieth birthday,” she said. “I think he was there. I got a little tipsy, so I don’t remember whose photo I took.”

“Can we come in and check?” asked Zep.

“Sure. I’ll get my phone,” she answered as she moved back into the apartment to her writing desk and there began scrolling through her thumbnails of photos. “Ah, here is the party, and let’s see. There he is with one of his many girlfriends, on the side of that group.”

Both detectives looked at the man named Duncan Campbell. They recognised him. He was also known as James Tennant. So he had another identity, which explained why he had no historical background or next of kin.

#

While Zep continued to interview the friendly neighbour to try to get more information about the life and times of Duncan Campbell, Barney went down to the building supervisor’s office, to get the access key card to the apartment. He returned with the supervisor in tow, who let them in with a light blue swipe card. That explained the light blue blank card in Tennant’s wallet. The supervisor was asked to stay and wait just inside the door as an independent witness.

Donning latex rubber gloves, they looked about. The first thing both of them noticed was a well-used wallet on the end of the kitchen bench. Zep flipped it open, tipping out all the cards, revealing Tennant’s photo staring at them from the driver’s licence. There were also a few credit cards, and health care cards, all for Duncan Campbell.

The in-built cupboards showed a full wardrobe of clothes, drawers full of shirts, underwear, and socks. One major discovery was a drawer with a couple of shirts covering five Pringles packets, three empty, but two were full of ziplock plastic packets of pills. There was also a Jatz packet full of plastic packets of powder.

“Plastics,” shouted Barney with delight.

#

Barney and Zep delivered and signed over the methylamphetamines to Perth Central CIB and then used the CrimTrac search engine to see whether Duncan Campbell had a history. He had no police record and had never been fingerprinted, but there was a warrant out to detain and question a twenty-year-old Duncan Campbell over the embezzlement of a pharmaceutical company where he had worked as a trainee salesman. This had been issued from a Queensland court, dated over seven years ago. The description matched this Duncan Campbell. He had been born and bred in Queensland.

Both Geraldton detectives phoned home to say they would be back late that afternoon. They would talk of their success when they returned.

The Perth CIB were left with the task of dissecting the rest of the apartment for any further evidence or clues about the deceased Mr Campbell, drug runner. Barney and Zep went home.

Chapter 33

265 Willcock Drive – Tuesday Afternoon

There was Towns Bulldogs’ red and white bunting blossoming on many shops, with a scattering of Mullewa Saints’ red, white, and black on a few others as Geraldton prepared for the culmination of the football season on Sunday. As they drove back into town in the middle of the afternoon, Zep spoke, “Regrets about having to leave that game?”

“Lots, but not much I can do about it now,” was the terse reply. He would never really know whether his absence during those last fifteen minutes of the semi-final had changed the history of Railways Football Club.

The first thing Barney had to do was ring Carleen, to apologise for not seeing her as promised on Monday and make it up to her with plans for dinner. He also mentioned that he had read her article. It was brief, but it may have got the point across.

For the rest of that afternoon and probably for the next few days, Barney and Zep would be slogging through evidence to try to find a new lead. The all-important first week had gone by without a real break in Tennant’s murder, so now they had to work through the reports and paperwork from the first part of the investigation. There had to be something.

The full pathology reports were in on all the old skeletons, but there was no additional evidence. After the supplementary forensic team had returned to Perth and the excavation sites were all filled in, the Devlin Pool area was no longer restricted from the public. It was now being continuously visited by inquisitive people, and an ice cream and drinks van had parked on the highway corner to catch the passing traffic and the visiting sightseers.

The ballistics report on the bullet extracted from the body confirmed it was a 7.62 pistol round, but from a gun that had no previous history. Francis Briggs had faced the Magistrate on Monday and had been bound over for trial in six weeks’ time for the murder of James Tennant. Zep fervently hoped that something would be uncovered in the meantime. He believed that Briggs was telling the truth, but was still the primary murder suspect in the eyes of the law. However, there was some room for “reasonable doubt”.

They also began typing up the reports for the prosecution. The analysis of the Fitzgerald Street house search had revealed the storeroom and the various drug containers. Tennant’s books had revealed his identity as Duncan Campbell, and his bank accounts had connected him to the Gero Garbage Bike Club in a partnership. His bank accounts from his Perth address, with numerous cash deposits from various localities, had also linked into his drug dealings throughout the South West.

All reports would be finalised over the next few days and sent to the Office of the Attorney General who would take any further necessary action on prosecutions. They had solved most of the small problems, and all they had left to do was to try to find the real killer.

There was still no idea as to the whereabouts of the contents of the cash box. Finding that would go a long way towards finding an alternative to Briggs as the killer. Coin dealers throughout Australia were requested to notify police of any gold doubloons offered for sale.

#

That evening, Carleen informed Barney that they were dining at his place at 265 Willcock Drive in Tarcoola Beach, and she would be the chef. “We’ve done the high end of town, the next level at Skeetas, and the fast food outlet. Now, it’s time for me to show what I can do. Your job is pre-dinner nibbles and drinks.”

Barney had spent a good half-hour after work wandering alone through the supermarket trying to decide what sort of nibbles to get. She had given no indication on what the main course would be, so he tried to think of something that would blend with absolutely everything. He gave up and settled for four small fresh cuts of cheese – ambrosia, blue vein, Jarlsburg, and cheddar, a small punnet of garlic olives, and some plain cracker biscuits. At least these would all go well with the Margaret River Shiraz and still would be okay for tomorrow if they didn’t quite fit into the menu tonight.

Carleen arrived with a plastic shopping bag full of bits and pieces to prepare. She was bemused when Barney pronounced with merriment, “Plastics again.” The reason for his levity was explained as she began preparing the meal.

They picked a little at the cheese platter as she orchestrated a meal of a diced potato, egg, bacon and mayonnaise salad, blanched sugar-snap peas, caramelised onion, and grilled T-bone steaks, while all the time talking about the old skeletons. The modern murder was Barney’s problem, but she was well into history and all the skeletons fitted into that category. She wanted to know and find out more about the skeletons and their origins.

They dined on Barney’s front porch at a small table with some kitchen chairs put out there for the occasion. Candles were on the table but they were unlit as the light breeze coming directly from the ocean a hundred metres away wouldn’t let them stay alight. The soft murmur of the rolling waves on the beach sand and the music of Chopin playing quietly inside in the background made it quite a setting.

Both just picked at the meal, enjoying the fine dining of a well-prepared meal in an exquisite setting, but each was distracted by the presence of the other. In the end, the meal was left half-finished on the front porch. Barney carried Carleen to the bedroom as he kissed her with passion and intent.

Some hours later, around midnight, they woke up and cleared the table, dumping everything in the kitchen. Barney then took hold of Carleen’s hand and led her across the road, through the sandhills to the wide open span of Back Beach. This year, the tides had cleared away the winter bank of seaweed much earlier than usual, so the beach and water were already pristine. The iridescent quarter moon gave just enough glow to light up the pure white sands and the tops of small rolling waves.

Barney stripped off and challenged Carleen to follow suit, or suit-less so to speak, and they both dived into the deep channel between the shore and the sandbank that created the famous Back Beach surf break. The water was cool, but had lost its winter chill, so they stayed frolicking for a short time, until Carleen began to shiver a little. Grabbing their clothes and clutching them to their dripping bodies, they used them to cover up as much as possible and laughing at their exposed situation, made for the house back across the road.

Carleen needed a hot shower and his extra body heat before she was able to feel warm again.

Chapter 34

Museum Stories – Thursday Evening

Whether she liked it or not, Carleen was an unofficial part of the investigation team. She was mentally hooked into trying to find out more about the series of skeletons discovered at Devlin Pool. Her research skills came to the fore as she began to unravel some early local history. She spent two full days researching in the Geraldton Guardian archives, on the internet, and at the Geraldton Library. It would make an admirable newspaper story if she could crack it.

She was too busy to take lunches with Barney, although he pleaded with her. He was bored with the fruitless paperwork in the office. Crime was slow for that week in Geraldton, but there was something brewing in the air. Barney had to settle for a quiet dinner with her at the Thai Restaurant and “coffee” at Carleen’s before he was shoved out the door. She was in an intense mood and wanted to work on her latest research article, but she wouldn’t tell him what it was about.

By Thursday night, she had finished her main research and was so pleased with her results that she invited Zep and Shirley to join Barney and herself for an evening meal at her apartment to reveal her findings. The Marcon children had been left at home with an atypical takeaway dinner. It was a school night, so they all had homework to do. Games or television were allowed, but only after the homework was completed, and a bedroom curfew of ten o’clock was proposed for all of them.

Carleen cooked a delicious pork stir-fry for the four of them, with stewed apple and Greek yoghurt to follow for sweets. During the meal, Shirley chatted about her own latest news. “Because the kids are now old enough, I’m taking on another year nine English class at John Willcock High, so I’m now working more than half-time.”

“Year nine!” exclaimed Barney. “You’ll be sorry. At that age, they are feral. All hormonal. One year earlier they are kids and one year later, they are thinking adults, but for that year in between, they should be sent home for their parents to look after until they grow through that stage.”

“I know and I don’t mind,” admitted Shirley. “I enjoy the challenge, watching them emerge from little pupae to beautiful butterflies.”

After the meal was cleared away and they all had settled down to finish off a second bottle of Margaret River Cabernet Sauvignon, Carleen began to report her discoveries.

“There were some folklore tales around of an early robbery of the payroll for the Geraldine Mine in Northampton around the early 1860s, but nothing substantial. So I checked out the early volumes of the Geraldton newspapers. The town’s first newspaper, the Geraldton Express, didn’t begin until 1878, so that was not going to be a helpful source.

Then I checked the Perth Gazette newspaper, looking into the write-ups of the early court records for the period around 1860 to 1863. That period of time is available with online access through TROVE, the website of most of Australian historical newspapers, and it included the digitised early editions of the Perth Gazette which were found at Alexander State Library in Perth. Bingo!

“There was an inquest in the Fremantle court records into the robbery of a strongbox from a coastal ship that went from Fremantle to the Convict Settlement at Lynton in October 1862. The first part of the enquiry was an argument over whether it was burglary or piracy. The decision would have a bearing over whether the full weight of the British Navy would be brought to bear to chase down pirates, or whether it was robbery and so could be left to the local constabulary. Robbery won. I think it was a decision based on economics. It would be cheaper to occupy a few local plods than to call out the might of the British Navy.

“The second part of the enquiry established that four men had deserted a ship that was under government contract. These men had also absconded with the payroll for the Lynton Convict Station, the lead mines and the smelters, plus a substantial amount of other cash drawn from a bank which was required for the payment of whalers. The enquiry established that the captain of the ship had been negligent in his duty to protect the shipment under his care. It was not an Admiralty ship, so he could not be disciplined under British Naval Laws, but it was recommended to the company that if they wished to obtain further government contracts, that particular captain should be at least reduced in rank down to first mate. It was done, but the Perth newspaper had a field day about British Justice in a ship of private enterprise.

“There was so much discussion on the law and its precedents because it was British Law as applied in a Colonial situation that very little was reported about the actual robbery, so it was quite difficult to find the actual information on the cause of the inquiry.

“There was also a postscript on the story about the discovery of one of the robbers. Apparently, a body was found in the bushy heights above Geraldton. He was a sailor and had been dead for a few days before his putrefaction odours led to the discovery of his body under a bush. He had been bitten on the leg by a poisonous snake and had apparently been slashing his own leg trying to cut and bleed out the poison before paralysis set in. The leg was still swollen and lacerated when the body was discovered.

“The body was identified as Joe Kitto, one of the missing crewmen, by fellow shipmates of the two-masted schooner, Charlotte. The other three absconders were never found. It was assumed that they had divided up the contents of the strongbox, made their way to Perth, and disappeared into obscurity, perhaps inter-colonial or perhaps overseas.

“We now know that those other three didn’t make it past the beachhead. They are probably the three skeletons found at Devlin Pool. It is possible that there was an argument over the cash box and Joe Kitto killed one, two, or all three, and he was going to come back for the cash box when he was good and ready. One man hiding in town would be easier to remain undiscovered than four people.

“Now comes the interesting part. Kitto’s body was buried in a pauper’s grave in the Eastern Road Cemetery in Geraldton, unmarked and unknown. Now that entire cemetery is under a housing estate. However, because he was some sort of a legend for stealing from the Government, a Naval Ned Kelly so to speak, his belongings were preserved. His tattered clothes, scratched and torn when he fled through the scrub, his cloth belt with scabbard and knife, and also his worn-out canvas shoes were all preserved as a museum piece by the authorities. These were displayed for a time as a deterrent against criminal actions, along with the printed story of his gruesome and agonising death, alone and rotting under a bush in Geraldton.

“This display did the rounds of the country towns and then stayed in the Perth Museum for many years, mostly in storage. When the Geraldton branch of the museum opened in the 1950s, Kitto’s display was returned there to become a permanent display as part of its historical heritage. However, when the Gilt Dragon was discovered in 1963 at Ledge Point, and the Batavia was discovered a few months later on the Abrolhos Islands, the Geraldton Museum was set up as a maritime museum. By the 1970s, many of the old permanent displays were stored away in cupboards and drawers to make way for more bones, coins, urns, and other shipwreck memorabilia. Even then the old displays occupied spaces needed for maritime storage, so many of these items were shifted to the pioneer museums at Maley’s Old Homestead on the Greenough Flats or at the Walkaway Railway Station Museum. There is where Kitto’s clothing display now rests, though which one of the two, I’m not sure.

“Ta Daah,” she finished with her arms outspread and bowed her head.

Barney, Zep, and Shirley stood and applauded. “Cut,” called Barney.

“And print it,” called Zep. Both imitated the successful end to an old-time movie shoot.

Chapter 35

Final Resting Place – Friday Morning

Barney leaned on one elbow over the sleeping form of Carleen and gently tickled her nose. She screwed up her face and stayed that way for a long moment and then giggled. They rolled into each other’s arms.

Later, much later, after showering together, Barney looked around Carleen’s apartment for his clothes that were strewn in all directions. Last night, they had poured Zep out of the door, to be driven home by a quite sober Shirley. Barney had promised to get in early to work on the paperwork though he doubted that Zep would be there when he did. It was no longer early.

Barney watched Carleen finish dressing for work and then asked, “Do you feel like visiting a museum or two? Would that be part of your journalistic licence at the Guardian?”

She barely thought about it before she said yes and yes. Both rang their respective offices to say they were continuing with a line of investigation and would be in later that day.

Zep, at the office, replied with a grumble, “If you are chasing down those old murders, you had better call it in as ‘time-off in lieu’ for working the occasional weekends. I don’t think Strickland would like us prioritising those skeletons before the current unsolved murder.”

They were off to Greenough for the morning. Carleen checked the internet for the opening times for both the Greenough Pioneer Museum in John Maley’s old homestead and the Walkaway Railway Station Museum. The museum at Walkaway would not open until 10 a.m., so the 9:30 availability of the Greenough Pioneer Museum meant it was to be visited first. There was time for a leisurely home-cooked breakfast before hitting the road south.

The pioneer museum occupied part of an old farm in the middle of the Greenough plains. The land around was quite flat for kilometres, with the paddocks dotted with trees all permanently leaning on a severe angle away from the prevailing wind. Hot salty air had burnt the leaves from one side of the growing plants causing them to become lopsided. The dry river bed was a few hundred metres away in a small valley. In a severe flood, much of these plains would be awash, but that happened only about once a century.

They were the first customers to arrive at the museum for the day. The volunteer attendant who was rostered on for that morning had time to listen to their story and was able to help them with their search before other visitors arrived. The early accession registers were kept in the back room, so they found chairs and cotton gloves and leafed through the early handwritten and later typed lists of photographs, objects, and documents that made up the collection.

After just over an hour of intense scrutiny of pages and pages of lists of acquisitions, Barney exclaimed with delight, “I think I’ve got it. It’s filed under ‘Snake-bitten sailor’s clothes’ and it’s in a storage box numbered 362.”

“Those storage boxes are stacked in shelving in the storeroom next door,” the attendant announced from the doorway. “It’s the old farm cold storage that has solid stone and is windowless and has a snug-fitting solid wooden door, so it is perfectly dry for storage. I’ll get you the keys.”

Minutes later, they were all staring at a brown-coloured cardboard archival storage box labelled 362 that was tied up with cotton string. “The pleasure is yours,” Barney nodded to Carleen.

She removed the string, opened the lid, and they stared at a piece of old typed paper that had probably been a second or third generation re-typing of the original display notes, giving explicit details of the long and painful demise of Kitto. Carefully lifting the paper out, she revealed the faded, tattered clothes of the long-dead villain. Nestling on top of the clothes was a rope belt and a knife in a handmade scabbard. Barney could immediately see that the smooth knife blade matched the description of the murder weapon from the third sailor’s body at Devlin Pool.

“Case closed,” breathed out Barney and then turned to Carleen, hugging her around the waist, saying, “Well, darling, you now have the ending to your story, and thanks to you, I have the conclusion in my report to write up.”

Barney collected a clean paper bag from the museum shop, and using cotton gloves, he carefully picked up the 150-year-old knife and put it into the bag. He calmly asserted, “It’s been handled by museum staff for decades, and I doubt that there will be any blood residues after this long, but this is the murder weapon of at least one skeleton.”

Carleen added, “And after all this time and its Statewide travels, it is now just six kilometres away from the murder site at Devlin Pool.”

So another set of murders had been finalised and all within two weeks of their discovery.

Part VII

Chapter 36

Pre-Game Partying – Saturday Morning

They came during the week in four-wheel-drives, station wagons, utilities, and cars. They energetically unloaded their camping gear and industriously pegged out and erected their tents. They emptied the necessary living and sleeping goods and chattels from their vehicles into their tents. They unpacked the barbecues and set them up on stands. The representatives of the Perth Nyungar community had arrived in the Maitland Parklands on Cathedral Avenue in downtown Geraldton.

They were there to support their Geraldton Yamatji brothers’ claim against the police for desecration of a burial site. They were well practised at sit-ins, having been situated at times at Parliament House and at Heirisson Island in Perth city. There they had squatted for months, visually and vocally, until forcibly removed. The media had had a field day each time. The Nyungar activists jumped at another chance to chant for their rights and publicity. Dozens of these brothers moved into Geraldton during the mid-week and set up tents, sleeping bags, barbecues, and port-a-loos.

The town police were too few in number to enforce any removal order that might have been given by their local leadership. Geraldton Police Superintendent Lindsay Strickland requested urgent back-up from Perth just in case things escalated out of hand. An added bonus for the Aboriginal visitors was that in the coming weekend, there were the football grand finals, and this crowd loved their footy. A football crowd was an excitable crowd, but this wasn’t just a football crowd. Geraldton desperately needed more police.

Grand Final Week was always a buzz. The forthcoming match on Sunday afternoon was between Mullewa’s Saints and Geraldton’s Towns football clubs. It was a conversation topic for pubs, clubs, schools, and workplaces throughout the Mid-west District. There would be a big Geraldton Towns crowd. Most of the population of the town of Mullewa, comprising a substantial proportion of Aboriginals, would be at the Recreation Ground on Sunday to support their boys. Included in the extensive crowd from other areas within Geraldton and from other towns around, there would also be a big assembly of the local Aboriginal population. Win or lose, there would be many celebrations around Geraldton on that Sunday night.

In response to a further desperate request for further support for the weekend, the Perth Central Police Department sent numerous motorcycle police, additional patrol cars, and a busload of officers with their riot gear in case of need. The swarm arrived Friday afternoon, booked into accommodation, and, after being briefed, demonstrated their presence by moving around and being seen in the city streets on increased patrols.

And the media circus arrived in force too. All the television stations from Perth had to be there where the action was likely to happen. What a sight to behold! The reporters and their bosses were delighted to be able to get among the excitable people to get stories that would improve their ratings. The talking heads clamoured for the best positions in front of picturesque backdrops with cameramen, with sound and lighting following, to ensure the best audio and vision angles. The tent city made for good copy with demonstrative men, women, and children all shouting for airtime at the cameras. Both groups were all well practised and well rehearsed.

Saturday night was noisy around the town, but there were no remarkable incidents. There were of course quite a few drunken individuals and groups roaming and vocalising, but on the whole, all were well behaved. It was the relative calm before the storm.

#

In the police station, Barney and Zep had been called on to lend a hand to settle in the new arrivals. They were led by Lieutenant Michael Camilieri and Senior Sergeant Phil Smith. The lieutenant wandered off to do his own thing and was rarely sighted after that. After general introductions all round, Senior Sergeant Phil Smith immediately made himself unpopular with them by requisitioning the detectives’ office space for the duration of his stay. He was supported by Lieutenant Margaret Gordon, who decided the detective branch could work “elsewhere” for the next few days. A potential riot had precedence over the inspection of a few murder clues in the office.

Barney was collecting a few of his files and reports to take to a small workstation in the corner of the uniforms’ section, when he encountered Smith. The senior sergeant was the epitome of a company sergeant-major; all pomp, ceremony, and drill. His normal-speaking voice came out as an order. His first words to Barney were, “A cup of coffee, thanks lad, milk, one sugar.” Barney bit his tongue and gave the senior rank what he had requested; tepid coffee, mostly milk, and one tiny sugar. He didn’t think he would be asked again, but he had other plans if he was.

“Can they do this to us?” Roger asked Zep as all four detectives were confined to sharing two small workstations in the general office.

“If Margaret says so, she outranks us,” replied Zep, “but it will only be a short stay. So put up with it guys.”

“The old Maggie strikes again,” quipped Barney.

Chapter 37

The Grand Final – Sunday Afternoon

Football frenzy was on the mind of the population on Sunday morning. The preliminary rumblings began early, prior to the onset of the physical clashes. In homes around Geraldton, family reunions, complete with barbecue lunches, were celebrated as people met together ready to converge on the main game, 2:30 at the Rec. Some groups, with younger family members competing in the junior grades, were at the oval by 9:30 a.m. for the under nineteen’s Colts Grand Final match, or at midday for the Reserves Grand Final.

As the time for the main game drew nearer, colourfully decorated cars and trucks arrived at the Rec from all around the district. Those from Mullewa were especially noticeable by being decked out in the red, white, and black of the Mullewa Saints team’s colours. The red and white of the Towns Bulldogs were less visible, but they still had a substantial representation. Then there were the supporters from the five other league clubs who arrived in numbers hoping to see a classic grand final football game – hard, tough, exciting, and above all, a close match.

The local television station was there to televise the match to anyone who was unable to attend. The local radio station, who always broadcast one of the weekly football matches, was raring to go. The Geraldton City Brass Band marched out and performed a couple of stirring numbers and then waited. As the Towns players ran out onto the oval, the brass band struck up the tune “We are the Mighty Bulldogs” and immediately followed it with “When the Saints Go Marching In” as the Mullewa team entered the arena.

The crowd stood and some sang as the National Anthem was played by the band, and as per tradition, the crowd roared for their respective teams, drowning out the last bars of the anthem. The band silently marched, and then quick-marched towards the boundary. When the umpire held the ball aloft and blew his whistle, the band fled the ground in total disarray.

The siren screamed for the start of the match and the game was under way.

From the initial bounce-down, Mullewa repeated its great start of the previous week. The Towns players were helpless to stem the initial onslaught as confident young Mullewa players appeared to have the ball on elastic bands. They were everywhere the ball was and anywhere it was going to. Six goals were scored before Towns even registered a score. At last, the Saints began to slow down, confident that they had gained a sufficient winning lead. Some of the youngsters began “lairising” for their mates in the crowd, and this proved to be a weakness. Towns took over the scoring in the second part of the quarter, which was again a repeat of the previous week. By quarter time, the scores had been pegged back to be just a two-goal margin. Towns Bulldogs had not finished on top of the competition after the home-and-away season without good reason.

At the quarter time break, the Mullewa coach was furious. He benched two of the main “lairising” offenders and berated the remainder of the team for their pansy behaviour in the latter part of the quarter. He then praised them for their initial start and gave them the confidence and desire to continue in their great early form. They took it to heart, and for the second quarter, both Towns and Mullewa matched each other goal for goal. Mullewa was three goals up at the long half-time break.

The third quarter belonged to Towns, and by the end of it, Towns had not only squared the match, but had gained a three-goal lead. The pundits were announcing a Towns whitewash, for they had convincingly won the third quarter – the premiership quarter – and they had shown themselves to be the best team all year.

For the beginning of the last football quarter of the season, there was tension all around the ground, in the crowd, among the players, and especially among the coaches. Here was what it was all about.

After a dour first ten minutes without a score, Towns kicked the first goal and looked like they had just gained control of the match. A four-goal lead in the last quarter was usually enough to win a match with both teams getting tired. Then a clash of heads in a pack saw a player from each side go down with one lad unconscious and the other bleeding. It didn’t matter which team was which, but that respite part way through the last quarter gave the Mullewa players time to form three separate group huddles among their forwards, backs, and centres. As a team, they decided to give it one last try.

They played like a team possessed. There was no visible tiredness and no quarter asked. Their magnificent performance from the first quarter was repeated. They were all square with six minutes to go. Then they kicked two more goals in the last five minutes.

Mullewa had brilliantly won the close match, and the adrenalin in the crowd was enormous, built to a final crescendo by goal upon goal through the last part of the match.

Chapter 38

Post-Game Posturing – Sunday Evening

Red, white, and black streamers erupted everywhere. The Mullewa team sang their war song in the middle of the oval, and the supporters in the crowd joined in. Then the public address system was switched on and played a hideously recorded version of the team song. The supporters joined in again, at least drowning out the sound system. Then without any accompaniment, the crowd kept singing. They were the kings and queens of Geraldton, rulers of the Mid-West.

As the football players made their way into the change-rooms, the crowd in twos, threes, and fours began to move away. Not to their parked cars, but to walk the kilometre or so to the commercial centre of Geraldton. They were not members of the Recreation Football Ground and owed no allegiance to any other Geraldton football club, so they didn’t expect to celebrate in any clubrooms of those clubs. These supporters were going to celebrate tonight in the city, and to celebrate as winners over a team that represented that city.

The road from the Rec to the centre of town led past Maitland Park and then ran along Cathedral Avenue. It may have been just a natural urge of the crowd to parade into town, or a well-orchestrated movement by a few key personnel, but the majority of the Mullewa crowd joined the victory procession. Many other supporters from other teams, caught up in the excitement of the moment, followed suit.

Again it may have been just opportune, but as the crowd passed Maitland Park and turned into Cathedral Avenue, many were handed placards stapled to garden stakes. If they didn’t get a placard, they were passed an Aboriginal black and red flag with the yellow centre circle. Everybody was visibly part of the same crowd. Many parents with children sensed that there was possible trouble brewing, turned around, collected their cars, and went home. Others kept on going through to the commercial centre and settled for a quiet night at a bar, a fast food restaurant or at some other dining establishment. Most of the non-Aboriginal population became part of the crowd that drifted away.

However, a big core of the excited Aboriginals in the crowd assembled to enjoy some festivities that seemed to be arranged for their benefit. Their flag was being waved everywhere in celebration.

The crowd began to occupy both sides of the street, with the surrounding backdrop of the imposing edifice of the magnificent Geraldton Cathedral on one side of the street and the brightly floodlit Queens Park Theatre and the city’s Shire Offices on the other. Television cameras descended like vultures and, backed up with sound and lighting, scrabbled to get footage. This was what they had been waiting for. An excited crowd always made such a good story. This was much better than seeking out stories of personal misery and filming just another sob story. There was bathos and tears like that on the news on every other day of the week. Tonight was different.

Carleen Camello was among the crowd, moving here and there, interviewing people to get follow-up on her story.

The crowd milled about aimlessly for about thirty minutes but then began to coalesce as one group. The traffic was still able to flow through Cathedral Avenue, but this was becoming more and more difficult. Some of that traffic consisted of spectators driving through to have a look. A few dozen enterprising or thirsty lads wandered to the local taverns and brought back cartons of beer. It was either given away or sold at cost, depending upon the relationship to the owner of the cartons. It was truly a picnic atmosphere. A small group began to chant some of the slogans written on the placards and were soon joined by others. With so many different slogans, the shouting became discordant. Sometimes there were single groups calling out, while at other times, it became competitive between the groups. It was a fun outing and mostly done for the benefit of the cameras.

A few empty beer cardboard boxes were thrown into a pile in front of the waterfall at the Queens Park Theatre. These were set alight. Within a short space of time, other fuel was added: fast food packing boxes full of grease, with maybe some remnant food too; tissues, first in singles and then whole packets; cardboard cartons collected from behind the local shops; and then the placards with the gardening poles that were no longer readable in the faded light. Next were added a few old tyres, cane chairs from who knows where, and then wooden park benches from Maitland Park and around the Queens Park Theatre. It became quite a conflagration. It made a great television picture with the flames leaping high and the floodlit Queens Park Theatre glowing a bright orange in the background.

Darkness had set in. The crowd had thinned out somewhat, so that most of those remaining were participants rather than just spectators. The police who had been just watching the show sensed the change in the crowd mood and behaviour. Led by Lieutenant Michael Camilieri and Senior Sergeant Phil Smith, they were directed to the buses parked nearby to collect their riot gear. They assembled nearby.

One of the activists in the crowd felt the time for action had come, and called to nobody in particular. “Let’s march through the main street. Show them we mean business.” As he strode off down Cathedral Avenue, there was a general movement of the crowd to accompany him.

Police Superintendent Strickland, who was monitoring the demonstration from the side, knew it was time to intercede. Once begun, he knew the flow of people would continue to increase, until most of the crowd would be moving down Cathedral Avenue towards the town centre, unless it could be stopped now. He gave the order over his radio and the police in riot gear formed up across the road in two staggered lines. Police cars formed in behind them with lights on high beam glaring through the police line into the eyes of the marchers.

Seeing the front of the police lines, and not able to see too far forward beyond that, the leading demonstrators faultered, and the group lost forward momentum. The parade was stopped. They became just a crowd again. At this time, Superintendent Strickland turned on his megaphone and quietly addressed the assembly, loud enough to be heard by all, but not loud enough to be seen as haranguing the people.

“Okay people. You have made your point. I am sure that this will have made quite an impression on every viewer who watches the news and hears the interviews. Now, it is time to go home and let us clean up this mess. Goodnight all, and have a safe journey home.”

As he lowered the megaphone, the arrival of the fire engine was stridently announced as it began to nose its way carefully through the crowd to eventually park at the roadside nearest the theatre. Hoses were quickly attached to the large set of hydrants near the Queens Park Theatre, and the firefighters were able to immediately douse the bonfire. A group of protestors within the crowd were not altogether happy with this eventuality so began to yell abuse at the police and fire brigade.

In an attempt to forestall any violent actions such as sticks and stones erupting from the more reactionary elements of the crowd, Superintendent Strickland increased the volume and the forcefulness in his next address to the crowd. He spoke crisply and clearly, letting the demonstrators know in no uncertain terms.

“It is time to disperse,” he called. “This is an illegal demonstration, so I am ordering you all to leave this area immediately or else steps will be taken and arrests will be made.”

The scene was silent for quite a few seconds, but no one made any attempt to move. His bluff was being called.

One beer bottle splintered on to the street in front of the superintendent. Fearing that this could become the start of many more, he turned and gave a pre-arranged nod to the fire chief beside the fire engine. Jets of water erupted into the air from the hoses, not the heavy burst from the flame-quenching jet stream, but still a spray heavy enough to fully dampen all of those under its arc. It was freely sprayed around so that within a short time, most of the demonstrators were soaked. With the cool of the evening, they rapidly became disenchanted with being part of the demonstration. The big majority of the crowd quickly dispersed. Most were now eager to get home, get dry, and get warm.

A few of the more stubborn souls stayed and defiantly fronted the police and continued to scream the abuse.

“This is a final warning,” bellowed the superintendent on the megaphone. “You have just thirty seconds to begin to disperse.”

No one moved.

Those obstinate few copped the full thrust of the water jets, which knocked most of them off their feet. The police then moved in among them to check for injuries and moved them on. No arrests needed to be made. The night’s activities died out quickly.

Chapter 39

Tarcoola Heights in Flames – Sunday Night

Sprocket Zimarino and Johnno Johnston of the Perth All Angels Bikie Club reached Geraldton early Sunday evening after the Grand Final had finished. Just out of curiosity they quietly rode through the growing crowd of protesters along Cathedral Avenue. They kept their unmarked helmets on as they drove sedately up the narrow gap between the assembled people. The order had been issued from Psycho Miller to “Get even with them for torching our bikes.” But they also had orders not to be noticed or be visibly caught on any of the CCTVs around town.

“Get in and get out unseen,” ordered Psycho. “Keep away from the pubs’ security cameras and avoid the ones around the shopping centres. There is a football grand final on and a visible Aboriginal demonstration, so the police are going to be very busy on crowd control during Sunday evening. Keep out of their way and things should go smoothly.”

Both then cruised about the back blocks to check out the whereabouts of any Gero Garbage members who may have been at the local hotels after the football. They found none. There were none at the Recreation football ground, but on checking out the raucous Towns Football Club grounds, there were two of the Gero Garbage motorbikes parked near the bar. However, the bikes were parked beside the main doors with many patrons moving in and out of the buildings or just standing around the brightly lit oval. Unfortunately, that presented too much of a problem with collateral damage to bystanders if those bikes were to be targeted and there were only the two bikes to hit.

“Let’s check out their clubhouse,” suggested Sprocket.

So they rode sedately through Mount Tarcoola to the top of the hill where a large stone-walled house stood in the middle of a series of other large residences. Parking their bikes some distance down the street, they walked up to the wall and checked around each side. The driveway gate, a large plate steel structure on rollers, was closed and had an intercom mounted in the wall nearby.

“There’s not much hope of getting in there at this time,” conceded Johnno.

“We have one possibility,” said Sprocket. “When the guys from the footy club get back, that gate will be opened for a time. We just might have a chance. Let’s get organised.”

The two of them returned to their bikes and moved them back into a small side lane about 200 metres from the house. Johnno pulled a white wine bottle, supposedly full, from his motorcycle saddle pack. When he unscrewed the cap, there arose the unmistakable fumes of petrol. He stuffed a cotton rag into the bottle, leaving a couple of centimetres sticking out, and then tried to reseal the screw cap over the rag and bottle. It vaguely sealed, so he carefully put it upright in his jacket pocket. They each took out a rectangle of black cardboard and clipped it to conceal their rear number plate. Then they settled down to wait.

An hour or so later, the sounds of heavy machines roaring up the hill were unmistakable. Johnno uncapped the glass bottle to ensure that it would not get stuck at the critical moment, slightly capped it, and eased it upright into his pocket. He checked for his lighter in the other pocket.

“We can’t actually torch their bikes with them still mounted,” conceded Johnno.

“I know,” replied Sprocket. “I’ll get them away from their bikes when the time comes. You just be ready. We’ll follow them to the gate, and you torch the bikes when they scatter. With luck, you should be able to hit more than just those two bikes. Mount up, a quiet start, no lights, helmet on with visors down and follow in behind them.”

After the two headlights passed them, the starter motors of the two All Angels bikes turned over and the bikes coughed quietly into action. Without lights, they followed out from the darkness of the lane. Approaching the house, one of the Gero Garbage bikers pressed the remote he had in his jacket pocket. The gate began to slide open and the pair in front passed through.

“Stop at the gateway and get ready to throw. Just make real sure that the bottle smashes,” shouted Sprocket as he rode his bike to the base of the gate. He parked it in place so that the gate was unable to close. The gate motor was strong enough to roll the big gate into a locking position, but was not able to deal with a major obstruction.

The two Geraldton bikers turned off their motors, dismounted, and parked their bikes under a carport where half a dozen other machines were located. It was then that they heard motors and became aware of the presence of others at the gateway.

“Hey,” one shouted in the direction of the house. “Prowlers outside,” and he turned to face the two interlopers. His mate joined him.

Johnno, with the bottle uncapped and more cotton rag drawn out, snapped his lighter to the petrol-soaked wick. At the same time, Sprocket drew a pistol and fired two quick shots into the roof of the carport above the bikes. Both bullets made quite a racket as they ricocheted from the roof, then down onto the metal garage door behind, and having lost enough momentum, pinged off this door and onto the concrete floor. The two Gero Garbage boys made a quick exit around the side of the garage. Discretion ruled when against superior firepower.

As Johnno raised his hand to throw the fiery missile, the front door opened and a shotgun blasted in the general direction of the gateway. Sprocket quickly fired his pistol twice at the doorway and a couple of times at each of the two front windows. He aimed high, not intending to hit anyone, just to ensure they kept their heads down and inside. One top window fractured just as the flaming petrol bottle splattered on the driveway. A fireball erupted as the fuel skidded under the scattered bikes in the carport. There were high-pitched screams from a couple of the girls living in the house.

“Let’s get out of here,” called Johnno, as he turned his bike around.

Sprocket pulled his machine away from the gate, which immediately began to close. Highly satisfied with their night’s work, both of the All Angels rode away into the night.

Chapter 40

Arson Analysis – Monday Morning

The fire engine had a busy night, being called out immediately after leaving the Aboriginal demonstration. They were required to attend the extinguishing of eight burning motorcycles in a house in a quiet street in Mount Tarcoola. The petrol tanks on four of them had exploded before the fires were suppressed. The house was scorched, and the garage door behind the carport was seriously dented by flying motorcycle parts, though there was no visible damage to any of the building structures. Since the scene was immediately confirmed as an arson attack, the police were called in by the senior officer from the fire station.

The star-pattern hole in the front window was then also recognised as a bullet hole, so additional police resources were immediately called for. Visibly there had been a two-sided gun battle and the number of weapons used was uncertain, so the house occupants were taken into custody and placed in the holding cells overnight pending further investigation.

Barney and Zep were tired and grumpy, but the Mount Tarcoola fire was too good an opportunity to let it pass. They had worked overtime that evening as support behind Superintendent Strickland and the fire engine and then in Maitland Park to monitor the movement of the squatters. All seemed quiet in the camp; so when the report about the fire came through, they immediately left for the suburb of Mount Tarcoola. Discharged firearms and arson at the known address of the Gero Garbage headquarters had them dashing to the scene. They arrived at the Tarcoola house as the bikies were escorted away into custody, and they spent the next hour browsing about but could see nothing. Little could be done to fully analyse the situation until daylight, so the building was secured, a patrol car was stationed in the driveway, and they waited until sunrise.

Barney and Zep rejoined the security team around dawn after just a few hours’ sleep, put on forensic coveralls again, and investigated the site for some time. The inside of the front wall near the gate was pitted with shotgun pellets and the front of the house showed where other bullets had been fired at it. When the police forensic searching team arrived, Zep called a quick meeting.

“I want the house scoured from top to bottom,” he instructed. “Analyse the scene to determine what had actually happened, but also take this golden opportunity to have a good look around.”

Then turning to Barney, he said, “Let’s get back and see what we can get from the occupants of the house. We probably won’t get much from the blokes, but the three or four shell-shocked women may give us something.”

#

The station was busy as Barney and Zep walked in. The squatters at Maitland Park were confirmed to be dismantling their tents as their primary objective had been achieved on the previous night. The Perth police contingent was moving in and out, packing equipment into vehicles for their return to the city. Senior Sergeant Phil Smith was loudly directing the movement, though his presence was not really needed.

As Barney and Zep passed him, he loudly commented, “Ah, the local detectives finally arrive for work. Your office, or your usual sleeping space, will be soon returned to you. I suppose that you will be glad to see the back of us.”

Barney quipped, “Just the leadership,” and wandered on. Zep shrugged non-committedly and followed.

There were numerous police officers still seated in the detective’s workspace, concluding incident reports from the previous day.

The bikies and their “cooks” were spread around the building and were being supervised or interviewed by any available police staff to determine his or her part in the night’s activities. They had immediately called for lawyers, so little information was initially gained from either group. The main purpose was to hold them to enable the house searchers to have a bit of time to explore. Allowing them to call in a lawyer further added to the delay.

Within a few hours, with statements typed and signed, all had been released. The bikie Peter Phelan was charged with owning an unlicensed shotgun and discharging the said firearm. However, as it was fired intentionally wide to just scare away the intruders who had fired their pistols first, he would probably only cop a hefty fine and lose his gun.

The search uncovered just a few odd weapons here and there such as knives, chains, and knuckledusters but no more firearms were found. The house was apparently drug-free except a few milligrams for personal use.

The two bullets fired into the carport had probably ended up under the fire. These two were not found. Four bullets had chipped the outside brick walls of the house, and a couple of these ricochets were located on the front lawn area. These were now shapeless blobs. The other two were still missing but were not meticulously sought because they too would apparently have little use. More importantly, there were two inside the house. One had gone through the open door and the other through the glass window, and they had both become embedded into the plaster interior walls. These bullets were carefully dug out by the forensic technicians and were sent straight to Perth. They were partially mangled due to impact with the window or the plaster wall, but there should still be enough markings left to identify the particular weapon used. There was always a chance of matching it up to a weapon with a known history.

Of the two attackers, there was no trace. Because both had worn plain helmets and plain clothes, there was nothing worth noting on the closed circuit TV of the gate or house. They had ridden south towards Perth, filled up at the S-Bend petrol station just past the old Greenough Village, still wearing helmets, still wearing gloves, number plates still obscured, and paid cash with cleaned well-worn notes. They had just faded into the night.

Chapter 41

Snake-Bit Sailor’s Kit – Monday Morning

The demonstration had occurred too late on Sunday evening to make the Monday morning’s newspapers, but it would be the number one hot topic for most of Monday night’s news. The local and Perth television channels continuously rang Geraldton’s Police Superintendent, Lindsay Strickland, on Monday morning, pleading, cajoling, and demanding that a police media conference was an absolute necessity. It was finally granted and slotted in for midday. At the very least, it would allow the superintendent to put his preferred spin on the previous night’s events.

In the meantime, the article that Carleen had prepared on the discovery of the robbery from the Charlotte was given a front page introduction on that Monday morning and a double page spread later inside the paper. Front and centre of the first of the double pages was a coloured picture of the worn-out display notice from the top of the clothing from the back storeroom of the Pioneer Museum. The story followed:

The Geraldton Guardian, Monday 22 September.

Snake-Bit Sailor’s Kit.

“These are the tattered and torn clothes of sailor Joe Kitto who jumped ship in 1862 with three other accomplices after robbing the ship’s captain. This robber was found dead under a bush in the hills above Geraldton. A snake bite on the leg had paralysed him, so he was slowly dying. He tried many times to cut the wound to bleed out the poison, but it didn’t work. So he died alone, suffering a lot of pain, as the poison began to rot away his body. His fellow absconders were not caught. That he may have lasted in agony for many hours is a warning to all to consider his folly of stealing from others.

The Exhibit: Tattered clothing, worn-out canvas shoes, cord belt, scabbard, and sailor’s knife.”

#

Carleen Camello Reporting:

“The body of Joe Kitto was positively identified by fellow shipmates from the Charlotte. The ship was in port loading sandalwood on its return trip from Port Gregory, so the captain was trying to locate his missing crewmen. One dead sailor was a start.

“Those items found with the body appear to have linked Joe Kitto to the three skeletons found at Devlin Pool Road. Apparently they were the missing three fellow absconders. We can now put names to the three skeletons. They are Tom Cornwall, Peter Walsh, and Walter Driscoll. It is likely that these three men were the victims of Joe Kitto since at least one of them was murdered with the knife found with the clothes.”

Carleen went on to elaborate on the deliberations that had arisen at the inquest that arose 150 years ago. She detailed the arguments and ramifications of Naval Law versus Civil Law. She then explained the findings against the poor captain who was a victim of circumstance.

The Charlotte was described as a two-masted schooner, a coastal trader, freighting soldiers and supplies to Port Gregory and Galena and returning with whale oil from Port Gregory and sandalwood from Geraldton.

She mentioned that a robbery had occurred, but deliberately did not mention anything about the cash box, or its discovery, because she knew from her association with Barney that it most likely formed an integral part of the ongoing investigation into the modern murder.

Finally, she described her search and discovery of the clothing remains of Joe Kitto, mentioning the valued assistance of the Greenough Pioneer Museum volunteer and the current location should anyone wish to view the clothing. The knife was currently being tested forensically, but she had doubts that anything would be found after being handled by museum staff for 150 years.

She privately assumed that the clothes would be taken out to become a prominent display within a very short time when people began asking to see them. Her article would probably pre-empt these requests and make the Pioneer Museum popular for months to come. At least as a private community museum, it should gain a lot more revenue from having preserved the exhibit for over thirty years.

Photo inserts in the article included a magnificent painting of a two-masted schooner in full sail, grainy black and white photographs of the ruins of the Lynton Station and the Galena Lead Smelter chimney, and one large coloured picture of a large tiger snake poised to strike the reader. An impressive article.

Carleen had enjoyed herself being able to merge her two talents of history and journalism.

Chapter 42

Inquisition by Media – Monday Midday

With the sparkling waterfall of Queens Park Theatre as a backdrop, the midday media interview was held on the sidewalk on Cathedral Avenue. The footpath where the last night’s bonfire had blazed was now cleared, but still showed the black residue of melted rubber and carbonised cement. That same path was now cluttered with blazing lights and television cameras of the local and Perth TV, and also newspaper reporters who were all busily waiting for the inquisition to start. Zep had also been summoned to join the local Police Superintendent, Lindsay Strickland, to answer questions about the previous night’s incidents.

The Super went first to explain that, though there were a lot of people and police involved, the demonstration in Cathedral Avenue had been peaceful, no arrests had been made, and there was no damage to report. It was just a large group of excited spectators letting off steam after the great Grand Final football match. To include a lighter note in the proceedings, he added his personal congratulations to Mullewa for their thrilling victory. He fielded a few questions about the use of the water cannon and responded as follows:

“It was an overexcited lot of spectators. The meeting could have got out of hand, so we cooled them off and sent them home, peaceably and quietly. One final point. I would ask the people of the media not to put too much emphasis on this incident. We will be able to calmly work things through, given the time.”

“What about the request for an Aboriginal burying ground?” asked one talking head.

“That is not a question I can even begin to answer,” he replied. “You will have to ask the local minister, or the premier. It’s not a police issue.”

Then it turned to questions about the fire-bomb in Tarcoola. Zep stepped forward but before answering, he delivered a prepared statement, brushed together minutes earlier with the help of the Super.

“The fire incident in Mount Tarcoola was an incendiary device thrown through a fence by some unknown person or persons. It is believed that two motorcyclists seen in the area around that time may have been involved. They had masked their number plates. Some firearms were discharged, and nobody was hurt. As it is an ongoing police investigation, we cannot give more than these details. If any member of the public has anything to add to assist the police, please contact the local CIB, or phone the Crime-Stoppers hotline on 1800 333 000.”

He was about to step back, when a Perth reporter, whom he did not recognise, asked a question, “What sort of incendiary device?”

Zep looked to the Super, who nodded, so he replied, “We believe it was a glass bottle of petrol, a so-called Molotov Cocktail, but we still have to confirm it.”

That response opened the floodgates with a dozen queries asked at once. Zep stood and waited until they had all finished clamouring to ask the same question and replied to the general request.

“Does this mean it was related to the fire in Northbridge last weekend?” he repeated the question. “The answer is . . .” He deliberately paused to take a breath. “We cannot say. As I said, it is an ongoing investigation, and we cannot comment on the particulars of the case. Thank you all.” With that, he stepped back, joined the Super, and they walked away.

“Well done Zep,” commended the Super as they cleared the crowd and were joined by Barney and several senior uniformed police officers waiting in the wings.

Carleen, who had been part of the media frenzy that was now packing away their equipment and moving off, wandered over to Barney and said demurely, “Good morning, Mr Merrick.”

“I believe it has just turned afternoon, Miss Camello,” he replied, as they wandered apart from the group. “How about lunch?” He knuckled his temple as a departing gesture to Zep, his partner and immediate senior, and the two of them strolled into town to dine.

The sidewalk cafe in the main street had been carved out of just that. Go Healthy Cafe had a few tables and chairs deposited on the footpath to expand the small premises inside. It made it both difficult for pedestrians to get through and also for diners to eat peacefully, but the coffee was excellent and the food was good. Both ordered sandwiches and takeaway coffee and gleefully grabbed one of the vacant outside tables, depositing their order-numbered flag in the middle of the table.

“I’m so hungry I could take a bite out of you.” Barney ogled, reaching for her hand and staring into her eyes.

“Down beast,” she admonished, “not in public.” And then she breathed back, “Later lover boy, but be aware that I bite back.” She then quickly changed the subject.

“The riot last night was not intended to be that big,” she divulged. “I was talking to some of Josie Taylor’s family there. They were expecting twenty to thirty people, the squatters from Perth, some family members, and perhaps a dozen locals from after the football. Just enough to be visible and to get the message across.”

“It wasn’t a riot,” Barney broke in. “It was just a demonstration. Using the word ‘riot’ is newspeak for any noisy collection of people voicing an opinion. Surely, they knew that they would get quite a few supporters from a football crowd before everyone went home.”

“What changed everything was that Mullewa won,” said Carleen. “It was a close game, so everyone was excited and buoyed up. Hundreds joined in and made a crowd of probably well over 800 at the start and over 300 towards the end.”

“With alcohol all day long that was a recipe headed for disaster,” Barney declared gravely. “We were lucky to get away without a serious incident.”

“Anything more you can add on those motorcyclists in Tarcoola last night?” she asked inquisitively, changing the subject again.

“It’s an ongoing investigation, and we cannot comment on the particulars of the case,” he said in a monotone. She hit him on the arm just as the coffee and sandwiches arrived.

She was three bites into her sandwich when she stopped. A penny had dropped. “Two motorcyclists, yesterday evening?” she questioned rhetorically. Then she said, “I was in Cathedral Avenue just after the match, interviewing a few of Josie Taylor’s relatives for a bit more background information, when two motorbikes went quietly through. All in black and without Geraldton colours. I only remember this because the youngster with us said, ‘Coorrr, cop those two hogs.’”

“And your point is?” he asked. At that moment, the penny dropped for him too. Simultaneously, they both exclaimed, “Television cameras.”

They grabbed their sandwiches and takeaway coffee and headed downtown to the television station. Barney phoned Zep to meet them there.

It didn’t take much convincing for the local TV station to make available any footage that had been taken during the preliminary assembly before the demonstration. The local station had the two bikes on tape, but unfortunately, none of their cameras were at the right angle. This Geraldton GWN station knew that one of their opposition stations visiting from Perth were also there, filming before the demonstration, so they rang them. They cooperated by streaming back some of their tapes that contained the motorbikes. Bingo.

The bikies, in passing a camera, had presented their unmasked rear number plates to the world.

Chapter 43

Collating Evidence – Monday Afternoon

Even by the dim light of evening in the tree-sheltered street of Cathedral Avenue, the rear number plates of the two bikes passing through the assembled crowd were clearly seen to be PK 4124 and DW 6035. These were immediately run through vehicle registration checks. The registered owners of the bikes were Angelo Zimarino and Ian Johnston of Mount Lawley in Perth.

Both of these names had cropped up from the Batavia Hotel incident. The analysis of fingerprints on the glasses on the bar confirmed that each was there as part of the visiting All Angels group. Their fingerprints were also on police files because both had served prison time. Zep and Barney could also match the location of the fingerprinted glasses with a picture from the video. They didn’t need to pull up their records to see a picture of each of them, but they did.

Angelo (Sprocket) Zimarino was a long-haired, clean-shaven man, aged thirty-five years. He kept clean shaven to show off the trademark tattoo on his right cheek – an engine sprocket. In a garage accident as a teenager, a red-hot serrated washer had just slightly branded the centre of his left cheek. The small scar had earned him the nickname of Sprocket. He immediately had it tattooed darker and later had it enlarged. He had done previous prison time for grievous bodily harm, going armed in public, and public brawling. If there was a brawl involving members of the All Angels, Sprocket was likely to be in the front line.

The other bikie, Ian (Johnno) Johnston, was always being picked up for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. His offences ranged from car stealing and petty theft to public brawling. He had done a couple of short stints in prison. He was a known associate of Sprocket and was usually found with him.

From the report of the knife fight in the Batavia Hotel, the barman had said a gun was mentioned. Everyone’s focus had immediately turned to the man on the right. The fingerprints and video combined had located the All Angels bikies at the bar, from left to right, as Johnno Johnston, Stoney Stone, Psycho Miller, and Sprocket Zimarino. So Sprocket, being on the right, had the gun. The barman didn’t see it, but it was mentioned by Psycho Miller just before the knife fight involving Stoney and Slasher. At that time, Johnston was standing at the other end of the bar, so he definitely didn’t have it.

That gun was likely the same one used by Sprocket during the bike burning at the Tarcoola House. There was now a definite link between the Gero Garbage Bike Club and James Tennant. So there was now also a distinct possibility that there may be a connection between their feud with the All Angels Bike Club and the death of James Tennant. The Perth CIB was immediately notified to keep close tabs on Sprocket and Johnno until ballistic evidence was confirmed.

It was now necessary to get a prompt bullet ballistic analysis. They had been sent by courier on that afternoon’s flight to the city, so the Perth Laboratory should soon be getting them. To ensure a rush job, they were contacted and assured it would be put into the high-priority queue so only a day or two of waiting, at most, would be expected.

#

Barney and Zep also began to dissect the bank statements of Duncan Campbell. There were funds being paid into his account that matched the transfers from Tennant’s books. This was his fair share from the money earned from the sale of drugs to the Geraldton outlets, minus his running expenses. These drugs were quite an income-earner for him, so it enabled him to buy that exclusive Hay Street apartment.

Then there were also large cash deposits going directly into Duncan Campbell’s account from places about the South West, Albany, Bunbury, Rockingham, and especially in Perth. From the packs of drugs discovered in his city apartment, it appeared that he was also regularly skimming off a packet or two of pills from the storeroom and distributing them separately in the South. More mileage for him, but oh, so very lucrative! He would have paid off that luxury city apartment within four or five years. None of the cash from those sales was shared with the bikies. So in addition, he was embezzling his employers.

With the extra drugs that Campbell, alias Tennant, was distributing around Perth, it was also likely that he was the reason that the All Angels were upset about the Geraldton product being constantly found around their turf. Perhaps it was the background behind the feud between the two clubs and the two recent visits from Perth bikies. Was there a third visit made by Sprocket to terminate Tennant? Ballistics was going to be the key.

Chapter 44

A Plea for Sanity – Tuesday Morning

Carleen was appalled at the way the demonstration had evolved from the first article she had written a week earlier. No wonder Barney had been a little sceptical back then. On the Monday afternoon following the media conference, she had put another article together for Tuesday’s edition containing a further plea for sanity. This was going to be a page three commentary on Sunday night’s demonstration. The main report in the Tuesday’s Guardian was a front page story on the demonstration written by one of the senior reporters. Carleen’s article read:

The Geraldton Guardian, Tuesday 23 September.

Buried with Dignity

Sunday night’s demonstration was a call to be heard by the Geraldton descendants of Windimarra and Gnarli. Their story, told last week, needs to have a conclusion.

We have arrived at this point in time, coming from a period in history when the white settlers began farming on the Greenough and the local tribesmen were being evicted from their traditional hunting grounds.

This scenario was repeated all around the globe for several centuries, as the British, French, and Spanish carved out empires from the lands of the natives who already occupied them. There were massive wars lasting years as the might of those more modern nations brought armies to bear against any who opposed them. The natives of those lands were not regarded as people but only slaves to conquer. Killing them was just part of the war.

The settlers on the Greenough were part of this conquering force. They used their might when they thought it was necessary. Killing was common. But if a white person was killed in the struggle, there were laws to extract revenge. The conqueror’s laws.

We have surely changed. We are now one people in a modern nation. There is no longer the need to resolve any differences through confrontation. We, as civilised people, must meet, discuss, and negotiate.

The main issue that seems to be dividing our community is that Windimarra, Gnarli, and their family have a right to be buried with dignity. We have to communicate with each other to ensure that we find the most appropriate manner in the most appropriate place.

I call on the City of Geraldton’s civic leaders and the Geraldton Aboriginal Council to meet and resolve this conflict.

Reporter: Carleen Camello.

Chapter 45

Greenough River Trip – Wednesday Morning

For one fruitless full day, Barney and Zep hit the paperwork while they waited in vain for the phone call to announce the results of the ballistics comparison between Sprocket’s gun and the Devlin Pool Murder weapon. The next morning, Wednesday, threatened to be a repetition of the previous, so Barney considered a plan to view the current murder scene from another direction.

“How about we both investigate the Devlin Pool crime scene as seen by arriving by river?” he suggested to Zep. “We are not certain that the murderer came by road, although it’s the most likely option. A canoe trip up the Greenough River from the river mouth to Devlin Pool appears a better proposition than being stuck here in the confines of the office.”

Zep thought about it only for a short while and then replied, “No, I think I had better wait by the phone and finish of a few reports, but there may be some clues for you to uncover, and there may be a story in it for a certain Geraldton Guardian’s news reporter.”

Barney immediately rang Carleen. She totally jumped at the chance, in her official capacity as a reporter of course.

In a borrowed open Canadian canoe, they launched next to the picnic and barbecue area and paddled down to the sand bar across the river mouth. The bar was still closed to normal traffic, but four-wheel-drives could wade through the ten centimetres depth of water, fine except for the occasional washaway pothole or scoured channel of twice that depth. They drifted and watched a dozen cars traverse the bar to access the sand tracks southwards through the dunes or to the rocky outcrop jutting out near the river mouth. It was a favourite spot for fishermen at all times, but especially now that the tailor were running, numerous and hungry.

In a couple of more weeks, the bar would be fully dry and traversable by all vehicles. Usually there was no trouble crossing the bar as it had been totally closed for the three previous years, with sand building up to become fifty metres wide and half a metre above the waterline. The surf had deposited the sand, pushing it back onshore from the time the river had last flowed out. Then the wind had added another layer from the surrounding sand dunes. Even in seasons when the bar stayed closed, the river was still flowing slightly, but underneath through the sandbar. Nutrients in the river water offshore made it a good fish feeding place and fish meant fishermen.

“We know those old sailors took a boat upriver, because of the oars and rope that were buried with them,” considered Carleen. “But how did they get through that bar and that surf?”

“They were lucky,” replied Barney and then started doing some maths. “The sandbar was open with a deep channel and that happens about one year in six. There was a full moon tide, probably close to the neap tide in October. They would only get that really high tide about six days per year – a one in sixty chance of that strong reverse flow into the river. There is another neap tide but that’s at Easter and the bar is always closed at the end of summer. They probably only had about a thirty-minute window to catch the favourable heavy inflow of water to get them through those breakers that always exist out there. So that’s about one chance in fifty for the time of day. So in total – let’s see, six times fifty times sixty – they had about one chance in 20,000 of getting into the river. The fact that there had to be substantial late rains to keep the bar open and still deep enough that late in the year would lengthen those odds even further. That’s how lucky they were.”

“Let me write that down?” said Carleen, reaching for the pen and notebook in her backpack. “Do you want coffee?” she asked as she remembered the thermos flask in the pack.

“Later,” he grinned, and they both laughed.

The slow canoe trip up the Greenough was delightful in the tranquil waters that were protected between the sand dunes on the west and the high hills on the east. They could hear the revving of four-wheel-drive vehicles in the sandy dunes, catching occasional glimpses of them as the track meandered closer to the river. On the scenic walking path on the eastern side, there were several groups of walkers, some who waved at the canoe and they waved in return.

In the upper reaches of the estuary, the river narrowed and trees on both sides gave it a tunnel-like appearance. It was nearing midday on a warm day as they approached the sandy landing at Devlin Pool. However, there was still quite a chill in the air. They both felt it.

“This place is enough to give anybody the heebie-jeebies,” shuddered Barney. “I think it’s the ghosts of Windimarra and Gnarli and their people. They were killed and buried here probably sometime before the sailor’s arrival, so their spirits were already lurking here to protect this place.”

“I wonder how the sailors got on when they landed,” questioned Carleen, following his train of thought. “This chilly feeling would unsettle anyone.”

As they beached the canoe, Carleen asked the obvious question, “I wonder where the boat is, and whether there is still anything left of it.”

Barney had speculated about that before, so gave his opinion, “I reckon that they sank it in the river. I don’t think it would have been hidden and used again to escape back into those seas. It was probably holed and pushed out there to sink. It may be close to shore, or it may have drifted kilometres away before sinking. In this location, there is a lot of silt coming off the Greenough Flats, so it is probably buried deep under the black gooey mud. In a flood year, it may get uncovered for a time, if there is anything left of it after being battered by river debris.”

“I’m going to write that into the story. Perhaps it may tempt some skin-divers to search for it after a flood year.”

They landed the canoe at Devlin Pool, and all around them were the white sandy patches where either a hole was excavated or a sand pile was dumped. It was all flattened out now waiting for next season’s rains to revegetate the spaces.

Leaving the canoe high and dry on the bank, they carried the picnic backpack across the bridge and up the path to the top of the hill. It was the highest point around and overlooked the patchwork of white spots below where the diggings and sand piles used to be. It was a great vantage point. Sitting on the soft white sand off to the side of the walking track, it was an excellent place for a picnic. They enjoyed their coffee and sandwiches and were bypassed by quite a few walkers out for the scenery and exercise, or curious to inspect the burial sites.

The afternoon southerly sea breeze was beginning to pick up, turning the location into the dry wind-swept place that Greenough was renowned for. In the paddocks in the distance could be seen the bent-over trees, growing at severe angles because salty winds had burnt out one side during their entire growth.

“It’s lucky that it’s a tailwind,” declared Barney as they paddled back. “Otherwise it would be hard work getting down river.”

After dropping the canoe back to the owner and Carleen back to the Guardian to continue with her reporter duties, Barney returned to the station office by early afternoon. He was met by Superintendent Strickland as he sauntered in.

“I hear that you have been swanning about the river on company time, Barney. It seemed to be a waste of time to me,” grumbled the officer.

“It is not certain that the murderer arrived by Devlin Pool Road. We checked out the scenic track, but we hadn’t checked the river,” said Barney hopefully.

“Quite an unlikely possibility, Merrick. Better move it. Marcon’s waiting for your return,” snapped the Super.

Feeling like a naughty schoolboy who had just been disciplined, he found Zep in the process of packing a few things into his car. “Go home and pack an overnight bag,” ordered Zep. “I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes.” He continued, “The ballistics came back positive. We are going to Perth to help them catch Sprocket the killer.”

Part VIII

Chapter 46

Indigenous Affairs – Monday to Friday

The plea for sanity in Tuesday’s Guardian by Carleen Camello was too late and too localised.

For Monday night’s news, one of the commercial TV stations of Perth used the story to promote their own media importance and thus gain ratings. That station put their own slant on the demonstration, and it was their lead item.

The talking head sombrely faced the camera, with a grim expression on her face, and delivered the prepared lines.

“Last night in Geraldton, the police used water cannon on unarmed defenceless people to break up a peaceful demonstration,” she read dramatically. The visual footage showed the final few of the protestors being hit with the forceful wash. “Some of the people who were demonstrating talked with our reporters and here are some of their comments.”

What followed was a set of specially selected parts of interviews showing a few of the more extremist comments, most of which were made as an off-the-cuff performance in front of the cameras.

It didn’t look good for the police.

The rest of the television channels mentioned the issue, showing footage of the fire, the extinguishing, the chanting demonstrators, and the initial spraying of the majority of the crowd.

#

As a reaction to the selected biased television news, a number of activists, both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal, seized the baton they had been passed and began a second wave of demonstrations, this time in the Perth City CBD. Following Monday night’s news, throughout Tuesday, placards announcing the core of the Aboriginal claims appeared on street corners within the city streets of Perth. A call to arms from spruikers on those same corners created enough groundswell for a spontaneous march to Parliament House at midday on Wednesday. The increased commotion attracted the attention of the other TV stations, and each began to report on the new demonstrations.

On Thursday morning, the Minister for Indigenous Affairs in Western Australia was despatched to Geraldton by Premier Steven Sibson with instructions to “sort it out.” He took his departmental head, the Director of Indigenous Affairs, with him.

Before he landed on the Friday morning flight, he had arranged a meeting on arrival with the local MP, the mayor, a lawyer representing the City of Geraldton, and the city engineer. They were to meet with the Minister and his department Director. To this meeting, Carleen Camello was invited to have input, as it was her reporting that initially led to the trouble that was continuing to brew. As previously expressed in print, Carleen concluded her description of the events with the plea, “I am sure that a lot of the furore that is going on will die down if we allow Josie Taylor and her people the opportunity to bury her ancestors in a place that will re-establish their honour and dignity.”

After input from other stakeholders, the decision was made to put several proposals before the Geraldton Aboriginal Council on where to re-bury the bodies. This Council would have the final decision between the two locations to be offered.

Before the meeting concluded, Carleen added a brief comment: “It might be an advantage to have any concluding meeting at a neutral location, so that neither side feels pressured. I sat on Devlin Pool Hill during the week, and it is pleasant, serene, and neutral, and also quite a relevant location to be considering the proposals.”

The mayor asked to talk to the local elders that afternoon at the home of the tribal leader. Most were able to be there. The proposition was put to them to discuss it among their full Council of Elders and reply on Saturday.

“We could finally meet with your representatives to get your decision at one of your houses, at the Council Chambers or at Devlin Pool,” was the suggestion put to the elders.

As expected, the elders’ decision was that a final meeting was to be held at Devlin Pool. The offer of a Devlin Pool meeting subtly suggested it was being considered as the priority site for the burial resolution. The elders’ choice for representation was Josie Taylor to meet with Mr Steven Sibson, the premier of Western Australia, to finalise the negotiated deal. He was the government leader, and she was the oldest living descendant of Windimarra and Gnarli. She was spiritually connected with them, so she should have the final say.

The first response was “No way! The Premier won’t agree to that.” from the Minister for Indigenous Affairs. Over the phone, he put the proposition to Premier Sibson who immediately overrode his minister. The premier was quite willing to step in as long as the continuing adverse publicity was quashed. He would be seen to be doing the right thing, and was assured that “the deal has already been arranged, everything except the final resting place.” He also felt that he had the personal panache to carry through any small hitches. He knew that this issue had got out of hand and had been carrying on for too long. “I will be there tomorrow,” he declared. “Arrange it.”

Chapter 47

The End Begins – Thursday

“This vehicle has been reported”, stated the fluorescent orange cardboard signs that were glued over the front and back windows of the early model Ford parked just four houses down and opposite the All Angels clubhouse. It had appeared on the verge three nights ago, and based on the average removal time, it would probably be there for another two or three days. The front driver’s window was shattered, showing the ringed pattern of one solid blow. Both the front tyres were flat, and the front headlights and rear tail-lights had been smashed. The owner would not be in a hurry to be stuck with what was left of the old vehicle. It would be a write-off.

In actual fact, it was a police surveillance vehicle, with dual radio CCTV cameras, daylight and night vision modes, inside both the front and rear lights. The images from these cameras were transmitted directly to the Police Traffic and Surveillance Branch into their backroom secure receivers.

There was an all-call out on Sprocket Zimarino, to sight and report, with a caution, “Do not approach, probably armed and known to be dangerous. Notify Police Central or CIB. Do not take any action.” However, he had not been sighted in the last three days. His usual residence was the clubrooms of the All Angels in Mount Lawley where he shared the security duties with four or five of the more senior members of the club.

The suburb of Mount Lawley had been chosen by the All Angels because of its close proximity to the northern parts of the City of Perth and Northbridge, which was previously known as the suburb of North Perth. It was also the suburb of old money, where pretentious mansions dotted the suburb. These clubrooms were chosen for their size and security and were on a hill behind a large limestone wall. The age of the wall pre-dated any laws against bike clubs building large security fences. In fact, the ornate granite stone wall was almost heritage listed. Many bedrooms in the massive house allowed a number of members to stay when the need arose. The extensive gardens were levelled and replaced by lawns to give a wide zone of security, with added movement sensors, alarms, and security cameras that covered the grounds. In this quiet street, it was a difficult place to approach unobserved. It was also nearly impossible to set up a physical surveillance on the house without becoming noticeable. Hence, the “reported vehicle” was put in place.

With the matching bullets from both the arson and the murder, Sprocket became the most wanted man in Western Australia. At the end of three futile days of trying to sight him, the decision was made to pick up another member of the club living in the house. Stoney was arrested while he was out of the headquarters on a Thursday morning shopping errand. Before beginning the interview, he was read the standard police caution: “John Stone. You are not obliged to say or do anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say or do may be used in evidence. Do you understand?” When he nodded, they continued.

As the identified knife fighter in the Batavia Hotel in Geraldton, he was charged with affray, assault with a knife, and with grievous bodily harm to Lennie “Slasher” Platts who was a resident of Geraldton. Video evidence played during the interview showed Stoney stepping in and slashing the forearm of Lennie Platts, who later needed twelve stitches.

“John Stone, aka Stoney, you will be taken before a judge tomorrow and probably bound over for trial, maybe in two or three months,” stated the arresting officer. “Because your charge was specified as violence with a deadly weapon, any application for bail would be opposed. Your lawyer has been notified and is on his way, but we understand that he is in court and may not be able to get here before morning. You could, of course, be recommended for some leniency over these charges if you voluntarily assisted the police with their immediate enquiries.”

Stoney was silent for a long while as he considered the alternative. Then he nodded slightly and replied, “Depends.” He was not going to put his own life in danger by ratting on any members of the club.

“Where is Sprocket?” was the first question.

Stoney looked at them blankly and said, “Dunno.” He was not about to break the bikies code of silence to the police.

“Where has he been for the last three days?” was the next question.

“Ask him yourself, tomorrow.” Then Stoney clammed up.

Stoney was to be kept over for the weekend, with the reason given that the magistrate was booked up until the following Monday. The charges would then probably be dropped, and he would be released before any court appearance was necessary. He was not likely to get more than a reprimand over the affray which had lasted fifteen seconds, and on video it appeared to be primarily a defensive act. The four days in custody would keep him out of circulation until Sprocket was tracked down. By releasing him without a court appearance, it could cause some doubts about his loyalty to the club, and perhaps add some friction into the All Angels senior group.

#

Around midnight on Thursday at the bikie headquarters in Mount Lawley, a single motor cycle came into view, approaching from in front of the surveillance vehicle and turning into the briefly opened gateway. In the short time he was in camera shot, the zoom lens in the night-vision camera was unable to clearly determine the physique of the rider, and could not see the facial features due to his dark helmet visor. It could be Sprocket or it could be Johnno. If it was Johnno, he was sure to know the whereabouts of Sprocket, and anyway, both were wanted for arson in Tarcoola.

The police really needed to use this opportunity to get inside the All Angels headquarters. The decision to go ahead was made. The police Tactical Response Group (TRG) were under orders to be ready to go in at 4 a.m. A pre-dawn strike, when most people are at their least defensive, was planned to exercise the arrest warrant. Barney, Zep, and CIB detectives from Perth Central would accompany them.

The gate was going to be the main obstacle. It was an open vertical bar, wrought iron swinging gate, powered by electric motors and remotely controlled. The locking mechanism was reinforced steel. Several scenarios of ramming, explosives, or contacting the maker to find the frequency of the remote were considered. The second and third alternatives were eliminated, and a strong four-wheel drive truck with a bull bar was brought forward. At the last minute, one of the detectives remembered that when he was booking Stoney into the cells, he had had a remote in his pocket and this was now in the custody store. Problem solved.

#

The TRG went in at 4:15 a.m., and because they had gate access, they were in the house before anyone was awake. All occupants were secured before anybody could get out of bed. There was no trace of Sprocket. Johnno was found still half asleep after his long ride during the previous days and with his girlfriend, who screeched at the police for intruding on their privacy.

“Where is Sprocket?” demanded Zep, from behind the officer of the TRG team who had his gun in Johnno’s face.

Johnno was still not fully awake and not yet defensive when he was first questioned. “Girlfriend or sister’s place,” mumbled Johnno. He then clammed up, remembering the bikies code of silence.

Zep took Johnno’s young girlfriend out to the kitchen and began to question her. With a few suggestions about the dire predicament she now found herself in, and the possible consequences of withholding information, the girl gave the details. “She lives somewhere in Subiaco, but I dunno where. He may stay over there for a day or two, or he may go and visit his sister’s in the northern suburbs somewhere.”

Ian Johnston, aka Johnno, was arrested and charged with discharging a firearm and arson as his motorcycle number plate had confirmed that he was one of the two bikies at Tarcoola.

“I don’t even have a gun,” he moaned.

In the nearby suburbs, another six All Angels flats and apartment residences were concurrently hit by detectives, police, and four-man TRG teams. One of them was the home of Psycho Miller and his missus.

“Is Sprocket here?” was the demand. “He is wanted for the murder of James Tennant in Geraldton. Either we are invited in for a search for that one individual or we sit here and wait until a search warrant is arranged. Then we will go through this place with a fine-tooth comb.”

All six residences granted immediate access and were searched for the one missing individual, but there was no trace of Sprocket.

Chapter 48

Flushed Out – Friday Morning

At the Mount Lawley bikie headquarters, the TRG team were required to stay in case Sprocket returned. They were also tasked with securing the premises until armed police and forensics arrived. The remaining occupants of the house were given the option of being confined to their rooms without mobile phones, or placed into protective police custody away from Sprocket, the known killer.

Around 7 a.m., it was getting light enough to search the headquarters properly. The forensic team arrived in the lab van. Four men in white coveralls climbed out and were met on the front pathway by Barney and Zep who had spent the last hour going through the rooms of Sprocket and Johnno. Zep immediately asked one of them to move the van out of sight in case Sprocket returned. He took out the keys and hurried away to do it.

Barney was swinging a pistol in a transparent evidence bag in one gloved hand and carefully holding up a hefty opaque plastic bag with his other. Sadly, the pistol was not the calibre of the murder weapon, but both the pistol and the shopping bag were found in Sprocket’s room. The bag contained several hundred golden sovereigns, mixed in with beach sand. The plastic was perforated by bullet holes and smeared with a lot of brown stains, likely the blood from Tennant’s hand, injured as he dug out the coins.

“We’ve already located this important piece of evidence,” emphasised Barney. “This plastic bag in particular should be enough to prove Sprocket is our killer. His prints, Tennant’s blood, and matching the bullets to his other gun will do it. Take special care to preserve any forensics that may be in, on, or around it.” He held it out for the forensic technician to wrap a larger evidence bag around it. The techie took the weight as Barney lowered it in, sealed and tagged it, adding his signature to the tag.

At just that time, a lone motorbike cruised slowly past, saw the forensic van still parked at the front and the group assembled on the front driveway, and just kept going.

“Damn! That’s probably Sprocket there,” proclaimed Zep, pointing at the motorcycle passing in the street. The bike increased speed to move hastily away.

Barney promptly handed over the other evidence bag containing the pistol to the forensic technicians and ran to join Zep in their unmarked police car. As they sped off, Barney put the flashing lights on the roof, switched on the siren, and radioed in the situation. A second marked patrol car on sentry duty and crowd control outside the premises also reacted to their signals, fell in behind them, and joined the chase.

They followed the bike that was heading south out of the suburban streets of Mount Lawley where it turned east into Bulwer Street to head towards the railway.

“The railway will provide a barrier,” surmised Barney. “He will probably turn north at the next major intersection. If he turns south, he will get tied up in Perth CBD traffic.”

Zep added, “See if there are other patrol cars in the area. Can we get a police copter up? He may be heading past the airport if he heads north.”

The sedan had little chance of catching a motorcycle that could weave in and out of the growing morning traffic. When they reached the intersection with siren screaming and lights flashing, most cars moved aside to let them pass. They saw that the bike had not turned in either direction but had headed onwards towards the railway station.

“It’s a looped car park, with two entrances,” stated Barney who knew the area. “We must keep following to make sure that he doesn’t turn around and backtrack back this way. I’ll radio the other cruiser to head to the northern entrance to try and head him off.” He frantically hand-signalled to the following cruiser to turn north, so it would be already heading in that direction before he could confirm these intentions on the radio.

“At our speed and in this traffic, we probably can’t catch him, but at least we can force him to go out the other entrance,” conceded Zep. So they followed.

“We can only hope the patrol car can get to the far exit in enough time,” said Barney. He took up the handpiece again and spoke into the police-band radio, “Any patrol cars in the vicinity of East Perth Station northern entrance are required to assist in apprehending a lone motorcyclist possibly heading north. Harley Davidson bike, black leathers, no tags, and black helmet. Are there any motorcycle police anywhere near there to assist? This traffic is murder, so a motorcycle will be at an advantage.”

Without sighting the cyclist again, they entered the extensive car park that was attached to the East Perth Interstate Railway Station. There they were forced to slow down to study the rows of cars to make sure that the bike was not hidden among them, waiting until they passed so that he could backtrack behind them. They hoped that the other patrol car had control of the other entrance.

The flashing lights of that patrol car appeared, coming down the road from the far entrance. They radioed through to Barney and Zep, “We made great time to the exit. All the traffic flow was going the other way, heading into Perth. We didn’t pass him, so he can’t have made it out this way. There are another two patrol cars just arriving at the entrance behind us. They will form a roadblock.”

“So where is he?” called Zep, as he slowed down and continued to carefully scan the parking area.

“There he is. On the ramp going up the pedestrian overpass,” called Barney still on the radio. “Dammit, it’s impossible for a car, and if he makes it around that first U-turn with a bike, there are no other obstructions to stop him.”

The bike made it and continued over the overpass, forcing a dozen or so pedestrians to scramble and press themselves against the railings to avoid being mown down. Reaching the ramp on the other side, it sped off southwards towards the city and the freeway. Both of the chase vehicles turned away to begin the five-kilometre, traffic-riddled, roundabout way to get to the other side of the railway. Barney radioed in the situation.

The motorcyclist now had a million alternative ways to elude them.

The radio control centre broke in. “Negative on the police copter. It has just commenced re-fuelling, so wont be available for twenty minutes. Sorry folks.”

“What are Zimarino’s options from there?” Zep quizzed Barney who had the local knowledge.

“The major ones are at the Freeway. If he turns left and heads east over the river on the Windan Bridge in East Perth, he can then go who knows where. Or if he turns right, through the Graham Farmer Tunnel and north up the freeway, he can choose any one of a dozen exits. Other options are to continue over the freeway for a couple of kilometres and then either turn left across the Causeway Bridge to half a dozen main roads east or south, or turn right towards Perth and link the freeway again, with another north or south choice, or possibly go straight through into the Western Suburbs.”

“So, we have basically lost him,” sighed Zep.

“Not quite,” cried Barney, reaching to turn the two-way radio back on.

Chapter 49

Cameras on the Bridges – Friday Morning

On the police two-way, Barney urged the monitoring operator, “Patch me through to Traffic Camera Central.”

At Traffic Camera Central, there were dozens of split screen plasma monitors displaying the feed from more than two hundred remotely controlled traffic cameras dotted throughout the metropolitan area. These were being scanned by half a dozen operators, who watched the ebb and flow of a major city’s traffic. Where necessary, the cameras could zoom in to observe just a few cars or zoom out to see the wider picture, and by remotely adjusting the frequency of changing lights, Traffic Camera Central could alleviate any visible congestion.

Barney was told to switch radio channels and was connected with the officer in charge. He quickly explained, “We are chasing the prime suspect of a murder, who is heading either east or west onto the freeway from the Plain Street entrances. Can you please check the last fifteen minutes for a lone motorcyclist, in black, probably doing over the speed limit? If possible, can you trace his trail?”

Barney continued, “Just in case he doesn’t use the Freeway, can you also start monitoring the Causeway Bridge, the Narrows Bridge, and any other cameras around the Perth exits? This fellow is armed and dangerous.”

The historical feed for two cameras, one at the entrance to the Graham Farmer Tunnel leading to the northern freeway, and the other on the Windan Bridge heading to the east, were extracted from computers and rapidly scanned by experienced operatives.

“We have him entering the Graham Farmer Tunnel. Just waiting for the tunnel exit cameras.” The officer paused a few seconds and then continued, “Ah! There he is, passing the Leederville traffic interchange just ten minutes ago, still heading north.”

At this stage, Barney estimated they were a good fifteen minutes behind. Pursuit from this end would be impossible, so he asked for Police Central to try to organise patrol cars or bikes that were close to any exits to look out for the motorcyclist. He could exit at any one of a dozen off-ramps.

Traffic Camera Central interrupted. “We have him passing the Stirling Station off-ramps eight minutes ago. The police fixed speed camera a kilometre further on has him passing doing 110 klicks. He was only speeding enough to trigger the camera and not really enough to be highly visible. The rear number plate was PK 4124.”

“That confirms it is Sprocket,” exclaimed Zep.

“He passed the Reid Highway exit five minutes ago. Hang on. He left the Freeway at Hepburn Avenue two minutes ago. We have no way of determining whether he went left or right after going up the off-ramp.” The officer in charge paused for a time and then said, “Well, gentlemen, sorry but that’s all we can give you on the freeway traffic cameras. If you wait a while, we may pick him up either at the Wanneroo Road lights in the east or at the Marmion Avenue lights in the west.”

Some long minutes later, a negative report came in.

Police Central came online again to say that they had no mobile units within five kilometres of that location.

Sprocket was in the northern suburbs, but there was no way to track him. For the second time that morning, he had eluded the pursuers, first the patrol cars and then the cameras.

Chapter 50

Genealogy Searching – Friday Afternoon

The capture order stated “Armed and dangerous. Do not approach without armed back-up.” The all-call had been broadcast to all police to be on the lookout for Sprocket Zimarino. A full physical description and a photo had been included in the transmission where it was possible. A little later, in the early afternoon, a select group of detectives, including Barney and Zep, assembled in the operations room of Perth CIB, to put their heads together to come up with another plan to track down the fugitive.

“I wonder why he came off at that particular off-ramp?” pondered Barney.

“Good point,” added another detective.

“Johnno’s missus said he had a sister in the northern suburbs,” prompted Zep.

“That sounds like a possible rat hole,” was another detective’s input.

The senior of the group spoke up. “That’s all very well, but who is she and how do we find her?”

Zep had a few ideas on tracing missing persons as he had dabbled a bit during his spare time in researching his family history in Australia. His father’s family was second generation Italian, but his mother’s family was early pioneering stock. So he knew his way around tracking bloodlines. He began to list the steps required, and the group began to collate the research.

“Step One,” he said. “Was Angelo Zimarino born in Australia, or overseas? If it is Australia, we have to contact the Registry Office of each state until we find him. They have indexes of all births, marriages, and deaths and even have some online, but only the earlier ones are online. The modern indexes are not available outside the Registry Offices, so we must approach them specifically for the data. If he was not born in Australia, we will have to try the immigration records. That’s a Commonwealth Department, so all records are centralised. Go to it, boys, starting with Western Australia.”

The first problem was getting private information over the phone, but after explaining the reason and being identified by asking the registry to phone back directly to Perth CIB, they were given the details that Angelo Zimarino was born in Perth in 1986 to Giovanni and Maria. At least his date of birth on his licence was confirmed.

“Step Two,” said Zep. “Find the other children of Giovanni and Maria Zimarino to get his sister’s name and date of birth. There may be more than one.”

The follow-up phone call to the Registry Office gave them the names of Sprocket’s siblings. There were just three. Graciella was born on 19 October 1980, twins Roberto and Julianna in 1983, but a note in the registry confirmed that both twins died of complications within three days, and then Angelo was born in 1986. There were no other children. So that confirmed the only sister’s name was Graciella Zimarino and with a date of birth.

“Step Three,” continued Zep. “Did she have a driver’s licence in that name?”

Police records were checked immediately, revealing only one Grace Zimarino for the whole state of Western Australia, but that person didn’t match the date of birth. So either Grace didn’t drive or she had been married. Back to the Registry Office for a marriage. If this didn’t exist, it would become difficult.

Registry was getting used to picking up the phone to find the CIB office on the other end. It was fortunate that Zimarino was such an uncommon name, so all their index searches were limited to a few individuals. Graciella was married in 2002 to John Smith.

“Bloody Hell,” said almost everybody in unison. “We’ll never . . .”

“Don’t panic,” interrupted Zep. “Step Four. Find all the driver’s licences of Grace or Graciella Smith.”

There were only forty-seven of them, fifteen of these were living in the northern suburbs.

“Step Five,” announced Zep. “Match the birth date of 19 October 1980 on the licence.”

“Bingo!” bellowed a detective at one of the computers, reading the licence. “234 Colac Place in Duncraig.”

Zep took a bow when the others applauded.

Chapter 51

Duncraig Calling – Friday Midnight

Psycho Miller answered his mobile phone. “Sprocket! Where the hell are you?”

“I’m not saying,” was the terse reply. “Just in case the cops have a tap on your phone.” Actually Sprocket was in the bushes in Pinnaroo Cemetery, to where he had walked a kilometre from his sister’s house, just in case they had organised a position locator on Psycho’s incoming calls. The cemetery had only one road entrance but kilometres of boundary fence that he could climb over to get out in any direction into the convoluted streets, crescents, and thoroughfare laneways of the local suburbs.

“I’m using a burn phone I picked up months ago. As soon as I finish speaking to you, I’m out of here,” he admitted. “What have you heard?”

“They raided the headquarters, my house, and five other places, looking for you,” Psycho informed him. “The lawyers were called in. Johnno is in the lock-up over the shooting and arson. We believe Stoney is also being held for the knifing in Geraldton. They particularly want you for murder.”

“What can you do to help me?” asked Sprocket tensely.

“I guess we need to get you out of the country until everything cools down. I assume that the cops have grabbed your passport and any papers from your room. Find a place to hole up for three or four days while we get a new I.D., another passport, and a flight to Singapore organised. You should be able to book onwards from there.

“In the meantime, get your hair dyed blond and shaved down to a number one cut. You can’t go bald as you would be too pale-headed. We will get you the woman’s face paint colour to cover over that tatt on your cheek. When we pick you up, we will have cheek inserts to change the shape of your face, reading glasses, and a business shirt to cover up the tatts on your arms. I’ve got a fairly clear photo of you here, so we can get the new passport maker to Photoshop your I.D. photo to that image. I’ll arrange a suitcase with some of your old clothes, but you can buy others. We’ll organise enough cash to tide you over until we can drop you more through Western Union and organise a credit card access.”

“Okay, sounds like a reasonable plan,” responded Sprocket hopefully.

“Ring me on Wednesday night to let me know where you are,” said Psycho. “We should have everything ready by then.”

As soon as Sprocket switched off his phone, he climbed the cemetery perimeter fence and jogged in a roundabout course back to his sister’s house in Colac Place.

Chapter 52

Colac Place – Saturday Morning

Barney and Zep had been given permission by the senior inspector to accompany the armed force to arrest Sprocket, so they stayed in Perth for another day. Early next morning, both were kitted out with bulletproof Kevlar vests and police coveralls. They were requested to carry their issued side arms, just in case. They would travel in the fourth car with other senior detectives, behind the three carrying the three TRG teams.

The house at 234 Colac Place was at the end of a small cul-de-sac enclosed by other suburban residences. Arrival by vehicle was out of the question as it would be highly visible coming down the street long before they reached the objective. So any approach had to be on foot. At the rear of the house were other dwellings facing a different cul-de-sac, so one team was sent to gain access to the rear of number 234, through back neighbouring properties and over the fence. They were given time to set up, and when they were established, they gave the word on their headsets.

The front teams were to make a quiet entrance on foot down the street and take up positions at the front and sides of the house, before a door-battering ram was to be used to gain access for the frontal assault team.

Part-way through setting up, a neighbour’s dog started barking frantically as it sensed strangers moving closer. Sprocket peered out of the front window and saw the police moving in towards the fence. He immediately started shooting through the insect screen of the window. The police TRG men scattered and found cover behind a low front wall and behind any other cover that was available. A couple of them, already in position, returned fire through the front window hoping to keep Sprocket from getting more accurate shots at their scattering team members.

From inside the house, a woman screamed, “Stop shooting, my children are in here.”

With that plea, all TRG shots were fired very high until all officers had achieved reasonably secure positions. Only then did the police TRG team stop firing. Sprocket continued with half a dozen spaced out and random shots with his hand only visible through the shredded insect screen.

“We are at the rear door, and it is locked,” came the call through headsets. “We will have to break it in.” This was going to be touchy as the defender was armed, aware, and already shooting.

Sprocket’s hand re-appeared, and he fired another two inaccurate shots.

There was a sudden crash inside, and then the whole place went quiet.

From the rear team came the call through the radio headsets. “We are going in, in three, two . . .”

“Hold it!” shouted the voice of the senior officer in charge. There was a woman coming through the front door holding a pistol up high, by the barrel.

“One.” Crash went the rear door.

“Armed police, don’t move!” echoed through the house. There were no other noises.

The woman stood frozen at the front step. The house went quiet again.

“Drop the gun,” was the shout from the officers at the front. She did. The armed police moved in, some going straight into the house, while the senior detectives handcuffed the woman to ensure the security of the outside situation. Barney and Zep joined them on the front step and went inside.

Sprocket was inside, draped over a shattered large screen plasma television set, flat out on the floor. His arms and legs were splayed out. There was no blood, and he didn’t appear to be shot. He was just out cold. They handcuffed him as he lay there. To get to him, they had to step over a spilled pan of bacon, eggs, and tomatoes oozing onto the floor.

“What happened to him?” asked Zep as he entered the front door.

“Dunno,” was the reply from one of the rear team. “He was there when we got in.”

When the woman was brought in, she cried out in anguish, “My stupid brother. He was putting my children in danger. He would not stop shooting, so I hit him with that frying pan.”

“I wonder what else is on the TV today,” quipped Barney.

Chapter 53

Hilltop Meeting – Sunday Afternoon

Premier Steven Sibson was a country boy. He had grown up in a country town but he left it to go to university and then into politics, so he decided to travel to Geraldton by road. His chauffeur would do all the hard work, driving him there. Afterwards the driver would return the car to Perth alone. That way the premier could enjoy four hours of peace and quiet in the country and observe the fields, forests, and small towns. In between, he would catch up on reading the recommendations in the report faxed to him by the Minister for Indigenous Affairs. After concluding the negotiations, he planned to return home on the afternoon commercial flight.

Arriving in Geraldton around midday, Premier Sibson was greeted with a luncheon organised for him at the Geraldton Civic Chambers, along with the Local Member, plus the mayor, and the rest of the preliminary discussion group. It enabled him to sort out a few points and issues before the negotiated get-together. He was then driven to the site.

The planned meeting place for the negotiations was to be seated on camp chairs under a canvas shelter at the summit of the sandhill overlooking the burial flats of Devlin Pool. Perched on the highest place for kilometres around, they would be gazing across the sparsely vegetated sandhills towards the deep blue ocean in the west, the still brown waters of the Greenough River below them, and the green pastures and trees of the Greenough Flats to the south east. Within the sandhills around them, the last of the spring blooms were slowly drying out. Summer was coming.

The meeting place was chosen not only to create atmosphere but also to provide the opportunity for Josie and Premier Sibson to study the terrain that was the focus of the discussion. Josie was accompanied by her eldest daughter and her youngest grandson, who happened to be a highly successful lawyer. The premier was joined by the Geraldton Mayor. Carleen was invited along, as an honoured guest and the person most satisfactory to both parties, to record the meeting and fairly publish the results.

Because the day was warm and overcast, the first thing decided by the group was that chairs and shelter were not needed. They would sit outside on the soft white sand. It was probably Josie’s idea, but everybody thought the occasion called for it. The party of just six sat cross-legged in the sand in a semi-circle facing the river and the flats below. Down in the car park, next to the wooden bridge, were Josie’s battered old 1978 H.Z. Holden Kingswood and the premier’s gleaming four-year-old government white Bentley, but parked further away along Devlin Road was the security detail required to ensure that the party remained uninterrupted.

Premier Sibson started the proceedings. “The police will return your ancestors to you as soon as you have decided where they will be buried. You have several options, and you can choose the most appropriate for you. The ancestors’ remains can be cremated or buried in a casket at Utakarra Geraldton General Cemetery or here at Devlin Pool.”

“No cremation and no casket,” Josie bluntly interrupted.

“Okay. That’s certainly settled,” stated the premier. He continued, “The Utakarra options available are for a family plot in the general area or an historical mausoleum in the pioneering section, with appropriate monuments of course. The other option is here at Devlin Pool, and I will let the mayor explain that part.”

The mayor began. “Josie, as you can see, the flats down there where your ancestors were discovered are sandy and low-lying. Those patches of soft white sand are where the searchers uncovered all the bodies and filled in the holes again. I have a report from the Geraldton City engineer that shows that the area is likely to be flooded back to the gravel road about once every twenty years. The 100-year flood had water flowing across the road. They have also suggested that any small diversion of the river while in flood is quite likely to scour out those flats and wash everything away right back to the road or beyond. Those river flats are not appropriate for a memorial grave site.

“The hill we are sitting on has a limestone core, with sand deposited all around by the wind over the ages. The limestone at the top is only a half metre below us here. It would not be washed out by floods. That was all in the engineer’s report.”

Premier Sibson continued from there, “If you choose Devlin Pool for your ancestors, we have two proposals for a Windimarra memorial.

“One. That they all be buried in the earth in a grave site behind this hill, protected from wind and sand and a memorial cairn erected on top of the hill.

“Two. That they be interred properly, deep under a stone monument built on top of the hill as a memorial to the family. The memorial would be built from the best stone we have in the district and in the shape of a large-viewing platform that looks out over all we see. It would be named the Windimarra Lookout. It will last forever.

“Three. If you choose Devlin Pool, whichever of these two burial proposals here that you choose, this hill we sit on will be declared an Aboriginal sacred site and a burial ground for just that family. However, no more burials will be allowed here.

“The final part of the proposal also has two options. One is that the Greenough Scenic Walk be routed around the back of the sacred site hill and a separate path is constructed up to the grave site and lookout. Or our own preferred option is that the path remains where it is, over the hill and passing the lookout, but also passing through the sacred site. If the path goes across the top, we would rename the Greenough Scenic Walk as the Gnarli Scenic Walk because it would then be leading through the memorial of Gnarli’s resting place.

“We are making this offer because those flats down there are not just the burial site of your ancestors. It contained three white thieves and murderers and a drug-running murder victim. It is tainted ground and still quite easily accessible by trail bikes and other vehicles from that road. It is also a popular fishing spot. We are suggesting that the menfolk, Windimarra and his male family members, are brought over here to be with his women and children. What do you think? Do you want time to think about it all?”

Josie Taylor looked about, at the flats below, at the scenery, at her daughter and grandson, and at Carleen.

Carleen spoke quietly, “Buried with honour and dignity. They would love that.” Her daughter and grandson nodded in agreement.

Josie said emphatically, “Not Utakarra. They will all be buried in the earth together on top up here. The Windimarra Lookout and the Gnarli Scenic Walk sound like a fitting tribute. My ancestors should be at peace here. We will accept those conditions, with one more peace proposal.”

And with a glint in her eye, she looked down to the parking area and grinned, “Provided we swap cars.”

Premier Steven Sibson looked up at her in shock, thought a few seconds, then grinned, then laughed out loud, and bellowed, “Done.”

It was an additional small cost to the government, but well worth it to show an immediate tangible evidence of good faith.

Part IX

Chapter 54

Justice Department – Next Friday Morning

The officers of the Attorney General’s Department rode into town. Based on the written reports of the accounts of James Tennant alias Duncan Campbell, they were in Geraldton to examine the assets of Tennant. His banking system proved that his earnings were almost entirely based on the sale of illegal drugs. The Attorney General’s Department obtained the court order required to seize the Hay Street Apartment and the Fitzgerald Street House under the Proceeds of Crime Act, as the purchases had been fully funded by the drug money. His bank accounts and car were also seized. Pending any claims against these seizures, they would be sold off, mortgages finalised, and the profits used to assist in the war against crime and compensation for victims of crime.

The Gero Garbage bikies had kept the selling of drugs below the visible level. There were only milligrams of personal use drugs found in their Tarcoola House, and none of the gang had ever been picked up or had been seen dealing in the drugs. They were apparently clean. But there was their own bank account that said differently. The cash money deposits were coming from somewhere, but the bikies would not disclose the sources. However Tennant’s accounts confirmed that there were the substantial drug money transfers being paid into the account owned by the Harley Holding Company. None of the bikies had jobs or paid tax, so there were no other visible forms of income.

Again, it was confirmed that the mortgage of the Tarcoola House was being paid from that account using income from the drugs. The house and the Harley Holding Company account were seized under “proceeds of crime”. The bikies assets were scrutinised. Of the few motorbikes that survived the fire bomb, provided there was no bill of sale that pre-dated the bikies’ arrival in Geraldton, those bikes were also seized, along with personal cars purchased recently. Any insurance claims on the ruined bikes were also viewed under the same conditions. The Attorney General’s Department promised that none of the Gero Garbage Bikie Club would be charged with drug offences on two conditions – that the seizures were not challenged and that they left the state. With no house and just two bikes left between them, they left to return to Adelaide to rejoin the Finks Motorcycle Club.

Farmer Francis Briggs, for his “valued assistance” in the case, was treated leniently. Although his nest-egg account was seized, his farm was left untouched. His cars and boat pre-dated his drug association so were returned to him, though his Land Cruiser would need serious restoration from the salt-water immersion. The sentence for operating a methylamphetamine laboratory and destroying the evidence in the murder scene would be an expected five years’ prison sentence, but likely reduced to just two years, with a minimum of twelve months to serve before parole.

In Perth, with the evidence of his prints on the bloodied plastic bag and his gun established as the murder weapon, Sprocket admitted to being the only one involved in the murder of James Tennant. He dared not point the finger at his leader, Psycho, who had issued the order. His life would not be worth living, even in prison. He would get “life”, the usual twenty-year sentence, out in seventeen with good behaviour. His arson and shooting attack was another three-year sentence, but was to be served concurrently. His mate, Johnno, was sentenced to two years for the arson attack and being an accomplice at the Tarcoola Heights shootings. Nobody ever found out that he was also an accomplice with Sprocket for the killing of Tennant at Devlin Pool.

Geraldton was now clean of drugs, but it would be just a brief respite. The vacuum would be quickly filled, but this time the supply lines would need to be longer and perhaps more visible for the police to be able to sight and seal.

Chapter 55

The Evidence Is Weighed – Later

With the killer behind bars and the mysteries of the other skeletons all solved, Barney and Carleen joined Zep, Shirley, and the three children at Skeetas Restaurant on the Geraldton foreshore. It was a time to celebrate all their successes.

Carleen was boasting that her typed transcript of the hilltop meeting had been approved by both the Premier’s Department and Josie Taylor and her family. She was allowed to use as much of it in a newspaper story as she wished, as long as the full facts were revealed. It had been published locally in the Geraldton Guardian during the week following the hilltop meeting, and she was excited that it would also be soon published in The West Australian, the statewide newspaper. She was gaining quite a reputation with her investigative reporting. Both of her earlier stories, the “Snake-Bit Sailor” and the “Devlin Pool Massacre” had been purchased from the Guardian by the national paper, The Australian, for expansion and publication in the magazine section. They were also looking at some of her follow-up articles.

Both Josie and Premier Sibson hoped that publishing the burial site decision would put an end to all the demonstrations, at least until another issue was found to trigger them off again. The memorial deeds were being prepared for Parliament’s approval.

Zep confirmed that Sprocket had confessed but he wouldn’t name any accomplices and he would not give any reason for the murder. In a statement, the barman of the Batavia Hotel said he had overheard that there had been some form of implied territorial argument, but could not swear to hearing anything in particular. The Gero Garbage bikies said nothing. The inference was that it was a drug turf war. It was now over.

Barney had done a little research himself and was eager to share his findings with the assembled group.

“How many coins do you reckon were in that plastic bag we found in Sprocket’s bottom drawer?” he asked Zep.

“I’ve no idea,” Zep replied. “I just carefully held the bag without looking into it. It was old and damaged plastic, so I didn’t want it splitting apart and dumping its contents everywhere. It was evidence, so I handled it as little as possible before I gave it to you.”

“All right then. How heavy was it?” asked Barney.

“Well, it weighed about the same as a two-litre plastic milk bottle, so I guess about just over two kilograms,” estimated Zep.

“That was precisely my guess too,” concurred Barney. “I have been doing some Googling, and each coin of one pound sterling supposedly weighs exactly eight grams except for minor wear and tear, so that means there were about 250 one pound coins.”

“Surely 250 pounds back then is worth a lot more now?” asked Shirley.

“Oh yes of course,” acknowledged Barney. “And not just through inflation. I did the maths and two kilograms of gold coins at 91.6 per cent gold content is approximately fifty-nine troy ounces of gold. Last night’s gold price was $1670 in Australian dollars, so the gold value of the coins is just over 98,000 dollars.”

“Wow!” was the simultaneous gasp from the three other adults.

“So 250 pounds then is worth nearly a hundred thousand dollars now if we were still using the gold standard. That’s a heap of inflation for you,” added Carleen.

“And that’s not all,” continued Barney. “We don’t yet know which coins were in there. According to the report from Denys Newbound of the Archaeology Department in the Fremantle Maritime Museum, Australia was using English gold coins up until 1852 and then began producing our own. Those 250 in the bag may contain a few more English coins like that single one found in the hole, but most of the rest should be Australian.

“I checked an online catalogue, and the average collector’s price for the common Australian gold coins of that time is about $6,175 each. Uncommon dates can be $16,000 each. That makes the value of the coins at around one point five million dollars, minimum.”

Stunned silence followed.

“A million and a half dollars,” breathed out Shirley. “Now that’s what I call a buried treasure.”

Carleen then broke into the conversation. “I have some news too.”

When they all looked her way, she said, “Barney has agreed to let me move in with him. We are not engaged mind you. We will be just living together for the time being.”

The rest of the evening became a celebration of both the conclusion of the three cases and the start of a romance.

Towards the end of the festivities, Barney had another question, “So what will happen to the coins?” He paused, looking around the table, and then followed up with, “The silver and copper coins and the one gold doubloon that were discovered and retrieved by the police forensic teams at the Devlin Pool site then became the state’s findings. After the inquest, these were ceremoniously handed over to the Greenough Pioneer Museum to join the rest of Joe Kitto’s exhibition. The 1842 English gold pound may have presented a problem of security for the old museum, but a valuation of the well-circulated currency put its value at about 600 Australian dollars, less than one-tenth that of any early Australian gold coins. It will be put on permanent display, sealed under unbreakable plastic.

“Now, there is no company, corporation, or government department still in existence in Fremantle or around here that will be able to think of a way of claiming the rest of the gold coins. All those old mining companies and whaling companies are defunct. So it was lost property on Crown Reserve Land and was not part of an Aboriginal heritage.

“The deceased Duncan Campbell had originally found them, so under ‘finders-keepers’, he seemed to be the one that had the only logical claim, but he is now dead. These coins had not been part of his criminal earnings, so the court ruled that they could not be incorporated into his assets seized under ‘proceeds of crime’.

“Campbell was the late single child of a mature couple and these parents are long gone. He was unmarried, and had no other known family.

“So these coins now sit in an evidence box stored somewhere in the system waiting to be claimed.”

Barney looked around at his party assembled at the restaurant and said, “Do any of you have a Duncan Campbell somewhere in your family tree?”

Do you?

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