‘What you do for a living. Investigate. You can have a look at the sabotaged machinery and photos of the dead stock. I can show you the notes and I’ve got recordings of the phone calls. You can talk to the people I’ve mentioned and see if anything occurs to you. Sort of sniff around.’
‘I can do that, I suppose. But this’s foreign territory to me. I’m not sure that I can come up with anything. Just suppose I do suss out who’s responsible. What then?’
Jacko rubbed the grey bristles on his lean jaw. ‘I’d feel like shooting him, but I suppose I’d try to sort out his objection, get him onside. It’s so obvious that a community bank’s what’s needed here.’
‘Wouldn’t be obvious to the big boys, would it?’
‘It could be if it’s managed right. We could live and let live. It works in other parts of the country.’
‘What if it’s someone who’s not against the idea but just hates your guts? Would you step aside and let someone else head the thing up?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that, but I guess I would. It’s the idea that matters, not me.’
It was the sort of answer I’d have expected. He hadn’t changed from the straight-as-a-die character he’d always been. ‘You’d better fill me in on your financial situation.’
‘I’m going to pay you.’
‘I don’t mean that! I mean what sort of pressure are you under money-wise-mortgage and all that? How much time’ve you got? How badly has this… campaign damaged your business?’
‘Sorry, mate. Shouldn’t have jumped in like that. I haven’t got a mortgage. Uncle Joe owned the place outright. I’ve borrowed from time to time for equipment and stock but nothing much. When the bloody bank said it was going to close I cleared my overdraft. I’d be buggered if I was going to deal with a bank in Sydney’ He leaned forward.
‘That’s the whole point. Those central office blokes don’t know anything about what it’s like out here. You get good years and bad. People help each other, at least they used to. That’s the sort of… commodity those bean counters can’t understand.’
It occurred to me that Jacko’s sound financial position might be a cause of envy and have triggered the problem. I asked him about his employees.
‘Only three, plus Kevin, who’s pretty well useless these days. Old Harry Thompson’s been here since Uncle Joe’s time. He can still do a day’s work. Then there’s Syd Parry and Lucas Milner. I suppose you’d call Lucas the head man. Aboriginal. Best man with stock for miles around.’
Maybe a race issue as well, I thought. There were plenty of possibilities, too many, but I agreed to do whatever I could to help.
Jacko thanked me, made a pot of coffee and I spiked mine with some scotch. I was weary and was pretty sure I’d sleep well but a nightcap never hurts. We were winding it up when there was a grinding crash outside.
The food and drink had slowed me down and Jacko beat me to the door, switching on a light as he went through. The area in front of the house was floodlit. Kevin had smashed the ute into a gum tree and was sitting slumped in the driver’s seat.
Jacko ran out, opened the door and reached for him.
‘Don’t touch me, you bastard,’ Kevin yelled. ‘Leave me alone, you fucker.’ He scrambled out, lost his balance and had to lean on the hood of the car. There was a gash on his forehead spilling blood down his face and onto his shirt. He tried to swing a punch at Jacko but missed by a mile and sagged back.
‘Kev, son, I just want to help you. I…’
‘Help me? You can help me by selling this excuse for a farm and getting us out of here. I hate this place. I hate you…’
His shoulders jerked and he burst into tears. Jacko moved towards him again but Kevin fended him off and staggered away in the direction of the washhouse. He stumbled but managed to stay more or less upright. Jacko looked helplessly after him and then turned his attention to the ute. I joined him and together we tugged at the crumpled radiator and mudguard.
‘No harm done,’ Jacko muttered. ‘I’m more worried about him.’
‘I’ll have a look at him.’
Kevin had stripped off his shirt, wet it under a tap and was wiping blood from his face. The cut was seeping now more than running and didn’t look too deep. He was still very drunk and having trouble remaining upright.
‘You all right, Kevin?’
‘Fuck off.’
I took him by the shoulders and sat him down hard on the edge of the bath. His cigarettes were in his shirt pocket and his lighter was on the floor. I got one out, stuck it in his mouth and lit it.
‘Calm down,’ I said. ‘You’re not the first kid to get some bad breaks.’
‘The fuck would you know?’
‘Where’d you get the booze? I thought you said you didn’t have any.’
He squinted through the smoke. ‘None of your fuckin’ business.’
‘You’re right. If I was you I’d have a shower and drink a gallon of water. And you’ll still feel like shit in the morning.’
I left him there and went into the house. Jacko was standing in the sunroom with the whisky bottle in his hand. He shook his head and capped it. ‘Wouldn’t help, would it?’
‘Probably not.’
‘That’s another thing those arseholes don’t know about-the effect all this shit has on families. I know what you’re thinking, Cliff. But it couldn’t be Kevin.’
I examined the threatening notes which had been placed near Jacko’s front gate. They were word processed and accurate as to spelling and grammar, but it doesn’t take much education to write things like ‘Drop your plans or else’. I looked at the photographs of the dead animals, but a dead sheep to me is just something on the way to being chops as a dead cow is a T-bone in the making. And a dead horse is one I won’t lose money on at Randwick. Jacko had retrieved the bullets. All I learned from them was that a heavier calibre weapon had been used on the cows and horses than on the sheep.
There was no point in going undercover in Carter’s Creek. Every man and his dog knew who I was and why I was there. I didn’t even try to make myself agreeable. I figured that people would talk to me whether they wanted to or not, because anyone who didn’t would come under suspicion. As a strategy it worked pretty well. I phoned the Western Holdings office and got an appointment with Tod Van Keppel without any trouble.
I rolled up to the elaborate gate with a tankful of Jacko s petrol, spoke my piece to the intercom device and the gate swung open. Easy as pie. In contrast to the rundown look of the Brown farm this place was spick and span. The fences looked immaculate, hedges were trimmed and the grass was well watered. The buildings-barns or whatever the big ones were-and sheds had fresh coats of paint and every shining galvanised iron roof serviced a large water tank.
I drove a couple of kilometres past all this operational efficiency to a sprawling ranch-style building that seemed to double as a residence and office. The road looped around in front of it with a dozen parking places marked out in white paint. The parked vehicles, a couple of 4WDs, a Tarago van, a ute, a station wagon and a gleaming silver-grey Mercedes, were all newish and well maintained. Dusty and travel-stained and with its second-hand roof-rack, Glen’s Pajero looked shabby beside them.
I followed a sign in the form of a finger with the word ‘Office’ printed on it in a Gothic script around the side of the building to a set of steps. The glass door with a louvre blind on the inside carried a sign reading ‘Please enter’ in the same script. I did, and stepped into air-conditioned comfort-thick, pale carpet, cool white walls, comfortable-looking chairs and a large reception desk. The woman behind the desk was thirtyish, blondish and good-looking.
‘Mr Hardy,’ she said. ‘Please sit down. Mr Van Keppel is running a little late. He’ll see you in ten minutes. In the meantime, coffee?’
‘Thank you.’
I wanted to see if she made it herself. Thought not. She pressed a button and a few minutes later another woman appeared carrying a tray with a coffee pot and all the fixings. She put it on the low table in front of me,
