‘Not many people like that around anymore.’
‘Not out here, Dave. Farming areas, now most of those blokes are salt of the earth. And the women too. But anywhere there is money to be made there are people who will tell lies and choose greed and power over truth and justice.’
‘Never pegged you for a cynic.’
‘Not cynical. Realistic. I’ll tell you another thing about Tim Tucker.’
‘Hmm?’ Dave was watching the road wind deeper into the bush and wondered where they were going.
‘He’s a millionaire twice over.’
It took Dave a moment to compute what Spencer had told him. He looked over at his partner.
‘A millionaire?’ he asked.
‘Twice over.’
Chapter 6
‘Where are we?’ Dave asked as Spencer pulled up in front of an old rundown pub. He was still trying to get his head around why a twice-over millionaire would live in the middle of nowhere, in a tin shed, without air-conditioning and with only a dog for company.
‘This, my friend, is the Oakamanda Pub. And Dee is one of the best informants around. Local knowledge is king. Nothing gets past this bartender.’
Looking around, Dave tried to work out if the pub was operating or not. It must be if Spencer said it was, but it really didn’t look like it. There didn’t seem to be any other liveable buildings nearby, only the stone one which had a peeling sign hung from the gutters stating it was the Oakamanda Pub. Cold beer and friendly service. There were wrecked cars piled on top of each other to one side, and beyond that he could see the glint of a tin roof. He looked again. Three small houses were situated on the edge of the bush. Beyond that there was only more bush stretching out as far as he could see. The dirt road they had arrived on seemed to continue through the tiny town and off into the scrub. Dave wondered where it went. It obviously led somewhere, so maybe the clientele came from that way too.
‘And the Oakamanda Pub is…?’ he finally asked.
‘One of the best little pubs in the area and Dee owns it. Got a bit of history about it. Bikie history. You’d probably know the story. Was owned by the Demon bikie gang a few years ago. Back in the seventies, I suppose. They pissed off another lot…’
‘Yeah,’ Dave broke in. ‘Nomad Rebels turned up and there was a shoot-out between the two gangs. Four people dead and three injured. The police couldn’t break through the code of silence to find out who started the shooting, or what initiated it.’
‘Dead right.’ Spencer nodded.
‘I reckon I was about seven or eight when that happened and we didn’t have TV on the farm then, but I can remember Mum talking about it. You know, “What is the world coming to” type of thing. Then there were the war stories of the older detectives I worked with.’ Dave opened his door and got out, shielding his eyes from the sun. It hadn’t got any cooler.
Spencer pointed to the front verandah. ‘Demons took the heaviest losses. First shot fired was into Fast Frankie Appleton’s chest there, underneath the window. Fast Frankie was known for his gun-toting ability, but they didn’t stand him in good stead that day. He died instantly, according to all reports. He was the ringleader and manager of the pub. Damien Appleton, Frankie’s brother, went down next in the front bar, then Kev Grant. Dazzling Darryl Punter, or DD as the blokes here called him, from Nomad Rebels was just coming in the back door when one of the others shot him through the neck. Bang!’ He made the action of a gun. ‘Bang, bang. Then one more for good measure. Bang.’ Each time he said the word, Spencer aimed his fingers at the spot the men had died.
‘Found drugs in the pocket of Fast Frankie and more in his bedroom. Not enough to be saleable, which is why we still don’t know what it was all about. Cold case now, of course. Only personal use.’ He paused. ‘More than personal use,’ he amended, ‘but you gotta remember he would’ve stocked up when he came out here. Like farmers’ wives do when they go to town to do the weekly shopping. Anyway, not enough to make it saleable.
‘There was a gun we couldn’t trace on DD, but that was all. If the argument was about drugs or a sale gone wrong or women, the coppers up here at the time couldn’t find a speck of evidence. Couldn’t charge Frankie for possession because he was dead!’
‘You sound like you worked the case.’
Spencer shook his head. ‘No, mate, but one of the fellas I worked with up in Karratha did. He told me all about it. One of the first things I did when I turned up here was to come out and see it for myself.’
‘People still come here? You’d have thought that the murders would have put people off.’
‘To the contrary,’ Spencer said, hoisting up his shorts and starting to walk over to the pub. ‘It makes the place more attractive to them. Dee’s done the whole pub up on this incident. Kept the bullet holes in the wall, found all the newspaper articles and pinned them up around the bar. It’s almost like a living museum. Tourists seem to love it.’ ‘But is it worth it? I mean…’ Dave looked around. It was so quiet, he could hear the flies buzzing. ‘There’s no one here, Spencer. She can’t get too many people through in a day. How does she make a living?’
‘I asked her last time I was here. Thirty to forty tourists a day stop off in the hotter months and anywhere from eighty to one hundred during the height of the tourist season. When the grey nomads get going there’s heaps of trade. All that area out there,’ he motioned with his
