certainly felt like one. Delaney obviously hadn’t come to the call with a completely open mind either: his responses were cluttered with non-committal umms. Perhaps his ears were clogged as well. He kept asking Miller to repeat things. But then a penny must have dropped somewhere because all of a sudden Delaney seemed to be taking him seriously. Was it the similarity in the MO that Miller had described?
‘Your accent,’ Delaney interrupted, ‘is that what you call Geordie?’
Obviously the thirty years in Australia hadn’t quite transformed Stuart Miller into Slim Dusty.
‘Aye, that’s right.’
The voice at the other end brightened. ‘Same as Derek Chapman, so you can’t be completely bullshitting me if you both talk like that. Let’s meet.’
Jim Buckley looked up from the entertainment and gossip section of the paper and grinned.
‘Clocked him.’
Cato was still scrolling through the mispers, checking if he’d missed anything.
‘Say something?’
‘Justin Trousersnake. Snack-Van Boy. Clocked him.’
‘And?’
‘Three, four years ago, Perth Cup, I pulled him over. He had a looker with him in the car then too. Leggy blonde, private school type, a bit lippy. Didn’t know when to shut up.’
‘That what you arrested him for? Lippy, leggy blonde in his front seat instead of yours?’
‘Would if I could. No. He had a big bag of eckies in the glove box and a Dockers rookie with his chick in the back. Simpson, his name was, the one that got de-listed last year for drinking too much. His chick was a bit of a donkey, now I come to think of it.’
Cato shook his head in wonder. ‘Photographic memory, amazing. Was the donkey blonde or brunette?’
‘Redhead. Nice bod but teeth too big for her mouth. Anyway Justin got off the ecky charge. Good lawyer; the same one who does the bikies and gangsters. Not cheap.’
Cato sat up and took more notice. ‘Justin: supplier of ecstasy to the fairly rich-and-famous, now the supplier of coffee and burgers to Hopetoun. Bit of a step down in the world. I wonder what, or who, he’s hiding from?’
Buckley folded his newspaper. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, B2?’
‘Lunch time?’ Cato nodded.
Buckley stood up and reached for his jacket, he paused briefly. ‘How germane is it to your floater?’
Cato stopped and studied Buckley. ‘Germane. Now that’s a word I never thought I’d hear you use.’
Tess and Greg had no luck at Mason Bay. It was midweek and deserted, not even any grey nomads hanging around. They’d had a bit of a poke around some of the campsites near the water’s edge and the short steep sandy tracks down to the beach. Not sure what they were looking for – a smoking gun, a bloody knife, a signed confession? They didn’t find any of those or anything else for that matter. They’d pushed on another twenty kilometres or so to Starvation Bay. At least there were a few shacks here and a proper boat ramp. Greg was back on the history lesson and a thawed out Tess was more receptive now.
‘Starvation Bay, called that in the early days by those whitefellas who couldn’t see all that food in front of them because it didn’t come served up on a plate with shiny cutlery and lovely white napkins.’
It seemed that all along this stretch of coast the names left by the white ‘explorers’ betrayed their ignorance: Starvation Bay, Mount Barren ... they’d called it ‘worthless’ when in fact it had more life than you could point a stick at in a thousand years.
They came to a halt and Tess unbuckled her seat belt. ‘You’re a font, Greg, do you know that?’
The water was flat and bright blue in the growing heat of the day. The bay was sheltered from the south-westerly and Tess could see the foaming whitecaps out beyond the headland. But here, tucked into a corner at the western end, all was calm. A green 1970s vintage Land Rover was parked halfway down the boat ramp with its trailer sitting empty in the water. Whoever it
‘Your accent,’ Delaney interrupted, ‘is that what you call Geordie?’
Obviously the thirty years in Australia hadn’t quite transformed Stuart Miller into Slim Dusty.
‘Aye, that’s right.’
The voice at the other end brightened. ‘Same as Derek Chapman, so you can’t be completely bullshitting me if you both talk like that. Let’s meet.’
Jim Buckley looked up from the entertainment and gossip section of the paper and grinned.
‘Clocked him.’
Cato was still scrolling through the mispers, checking if he’d missed anything.
‘Say something?’
‘Justin Trousersnake. Snack-Van Boy. Clocked him.’
‘And?’
‘Three, four years ago, Perth Cup, I pulled him over. He had a looker with him in the car then too. Leggy blonde, private school type, a bit lippy. Didn’t know when to shut up.’
‘That what you arrested him for? Lippy, leggy blonde in his front seat instead of yours?’
‘Would if I could. No. He had a big bag of eckies in the glove box and a Dockers rookie with his chick in the back. Simpson, his name was, the one that got de-listed last year for drinking too much. His chick was a bit of a donkey, now I come to think of it.’
Cato shook his head in wonder. ‘Photographic memory, amazing. Was the donkey blonde or brunette?’
‘Redhead. Nice bod but teeth too big for her mouth. Anyway Justin got off the ecky charge. Good lawyer; the same one who does the bikies and gangsters. Not cheap.’
Cato sat up and took more notice. ‘Justin: supplier of ecstasy to the fairly rich-and-famous, now the supplier of coffee and burgers to Hopetoun. Bit of a step down in the world. I wonder what, or who, he’s hiding from?’
Buckley folded his newspaper. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, B2?’
‘Lunch time?’ Cato nodded.
Buckley stood up and reached for his jacket, he paused briefly. ‘How germane is it to your floater?’
Cato stopped and studied Buckley. ‘Germane. Now that’s a word I never thought I’d hear you use.’
Tess and Greg had no luck at Mason Bay. It was midweek and deserted, not even any grey nomads hanging around. They’d had a bit of a poke around some of the campsites near the water’s edge and the short steep sandy tracks down to the beach. Not sure what they were looking for – a smoking gun, a bloody knife, a signed confession? They didn’t find any of those or anything else for that matter. They’d pushed on another twenty kilometres or so to Starvation Bay. At least there were a few shacks here and a proper boat ramp. Greg was back on the history lesson and a thawed out Tess was more receptive now.
‘Starvation Bay, called that in the early days by those whitefellas who couldn’t see all that food in front of them because it didn’t come served up on a plate with shiny cutlery and lovely white napkins.’
It seemed that all along this stretch of coast the names left by the white ‘explorers’ betrayed their ignorance: Starvation Bay, Mount Barren ... they’d called it ‘worthless’ when in fact it had more life than you could point a stick at in a thousand years.
They came to a halt and Tess unbuckled her seat belt. ‘You’re a font, Greg, do you know that?’
The water was flat and bright blue in the growing heat of the day. The bay was sheltered from the south-westerly and Tess could see the foaming whitecaps out beyond the headland. But here, tucked into a corner at the western end, all was calm. A green 1970s vintage Land Rover was parked halfway down the boat ramp with its trailer sitting empty in the water. Whoever it
Similar Books
