a number of crimes, including murder. Piper, without his henchmen and gone soft on religion, was too tempting a target for Whitehead to resist. He wasn’t the brightest and when he’d tracked us to the hotel he didn’t ask any questions, just came in blasting. He’d have lined, up a rock solid alibi beforehand.
Black Andy needed to get rid of Whitehead, who was competing hard with him for control of some lucrative rackets. He had someone planted in Chalky’s camp and got the word to him where he’d be and when. I did the job for him, legitimately. Whitehead died before the ambulance arrived.
The police made noises about suspending my licence, but the facts were clear, with plenty of witnesses. The cops weren’t serious; no one was unhappy about Whitehead being out of circulation.
Piper had no intention of publishing a book. He paid the advance back to the publisher, including Melanie’s commission. He tried to pay me for my services but I told him where to put it. He reclaimed the partial manuscript from the publisher and from Melanie, threatening to sue them unless they complied. They did. What happened between him and the Community of Christ I never found out and didn’t want to know.
My affair with Melanie petered out and died when she asked me if I wanted to write my memoirs.
GLOBALISATION
Jacko Brown was an old mate. We’d boxed together in the Maroubra Police Boys Club, surfed together and got shot at in the Malayan Emergency. After dropping out of law school I’d drifted into insurance investigation and eventually into one-man private work. Jacko had spent a bit of time in the police force and then inherited a farm from his uncle and gone bush. We stayed in touch by phone and when he came to the smoke he looked me up and we had a drink. That happened about once every two or three years. It was a one way street until he phoned me and this time it wasn’t to agree on what pub to meet in.
‘I need some help, Cliff.’
‘Tell me,’ I said.
‘I need you to come out here.’
‘Jesus, it’s what, five hundred kilometres?’
‘Nearer seven fifty. But it’s a reasonable road for five hundred or so, gets a bit rough west of Nyngan.’
‘Is there anything west of Nyngan?’
‘Yeah. Carter’s Creek, my town.’
‘People?’
‘Cut it out, mate. You’re not that much of a city slicker. I really need you to come out here and help me, help us.’
He’d never asked for anything from me before and he wasn’t the sort to ask lightly. I agreed to get there within the week, as soon as I’d cleared up the few things I had hanging. I contacted Glen Withers, an old girlfriend who’d recently succumbed to the lures of one of the big private investigation outfits after running her own show for a few years. On the strength of her new earning power she’d bought a newish Pajero, but I knew she’d always lusted after my vintage Falcon and I arranged a temporary swap.
‘Where’re you going?’ Glen said as she handed me the keys.
‘West.’
‘You’ve never been west of Mount Victoria.’
‘Not true. I went to Broken Hill once.’
‘Why?’
‘I forget. I must’ve been drunk.’
‘Well, don’t drink and drive my Pajero. Are we talking a fortnight?’
‘Could be less, could be more.’
‘Thanks a lot, but okay. Take care, Cliff.’
Two days and a couple of lungsful of dust later I was in Carter’s Creek. It wasn’t one of those blink-and- you’ll-miss-it sort of places, but it certainly wasn’t big. The main gravel road was crossed by a couple of dusty streets with a few houses scattered around. There was the pub, a police station, a couple of shops, a fire brigade and a bank. A building hidden by trees looked like a school and another, similarly shrouded, was either a church or a community hall.
The country around the town looked to be well watered and green for the time of year. I’d crossed a couple of creeks and one sizeable river-the Narriyellan. I’d tried to look the town up in the couple of atlases and guides I had but they were well out of date and it didn’t rate much of a mention. The district was described as given over to ‘mixed farming’, which meant nothing to an urbanite like me. After Nyngan I’d got an impression of big properties with good fences and irrigation systems and that was about it.
It was March and late in the afternoon but still hot. I parked the 4 WD in the shade of a couple of ghost gums in company with two utes, a tractor, a light truck and a few dust coated cars and went into the pub. The bar was dim and cool the way a bar should be and the few drinkers present were in groups of two and three drinking and talking quietly. Jacko had never been much of a drinker and I didn’t expect to see him there at this time of day. I ordered a beer and asked the barman where I could find him.
He pulled the beer before responding. ‘Mate of yours?’
I fished for money and nodded.
‘Army and that?’
I sipped the cold beer and felt it clean my throat. ‘Long time back.’
‘You’d be Cliff Hardy then.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Ted, Ted Firth.’
We shook and I drank some more beer. A couple of the other men looked across but no one moved. Firth pulled another beer and pushed it towards me. ‘Jacko said you’d be in. He’s shouted you the first two.’
I noticed that he hadn’t touched the note I’d put on the bar. I sank the first beer and started on the second. ‘I know I’ll be driving out to his place. Is the copper around?’
Firth looked surprised. ‘You want him?’
I lifted the glass. ‘I was thinking about being over the limit. I haven’t eaten since morning.’
He laughed. ‘You don’t have to worry about that out here, mate. With Vic Bruce, it’s live and let live. He’ll be in for his three schooners later. Look, I can get the missus to make you a sandwich.’
When I was younger I could drive five hundred miles and go to a party. Not any more. I put my bum on a stool and let out a sigh. ‘That’ll be great. Then I’ll pay for another beer and buy you one.’
‘You’re on.’
He went off and came back inside ten minutes with a beef and pickle sandwich that would’ve choked a horse. Somehow I got it down, helped by the third middy. I checked my watch.
‘I’ve got to get some money,’ I said. ‘I’ll just slip down to the bank.’
Firth shook his head as he collected my glass. ‘Bank’s closed, mate. That’s what this is all about.’
I sank back on the stool. ‘I don’t know what this is. You’d better fill me in.’
‘Naw. Better let Jacko do that.’
‘Well, I still need money for petrol. I suppose it’s a fair run out to his place?’
‘Not really. Fifty k’s is all.’
‘And I wanted to take him some grog, so…’
‘Jacko doesn’t drink.’
‘Since when?’
He leaned closer. ‘Since his missus died. Sounds like you and Jacko haven’t been in close touch.’
‘It’s been a while.’
‘Yeah, well, Shirl was killed when Jacko rolled his ute. He’d had a few. Wasn’t pissed, mind, but Shirl was a popular local girl and there was a bit of feeling for a while. From her family and that. Anyway, Jacko swore off the grog. Doesn’t have any on the place.’
‘Okay. Just as well you told me. But I still need some money.’
‘You’ve got a problem. Now for a while I was cashing blokes’ cheques but I had to stop.’
‘You got dudded?’
