 
### Field Walking

### by

### John Bishop

Published by John Bishop at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 John Bishop

Cover by Joleene Naylor

Cover photo by John Bishop

ISBN for DG ebook 978-0-9872983-1-7

Smashwords Edition License notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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### CONTENTS

Part One: Threats to Life

Part Two: House on the River

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PART ONE

THREATS TO LIFE

An Accidental Meeting

Tuesday 11th August 1992

Wednesday 12th August 1992

Judith heard the crash. Her first thought was that the south windmill had collapsed—a long expected event. Only last week, her farm manager, Tom, had given up the battle, declared the windmill un-repairable, and ordered a new one. Replaying the sound in her mind, however, she decided it had come from the direction of the main road.

She had parked the Holden utility at the steps to the verandah. Barney Two, a kelpie blue-heeler cross, was asleep on the tray, waiting for some action. He shook his head and adopted his travelling position, nose poked around the cabin behind the driver.

A truck and a car had met head on, just north of the gateway. Judith found the truckie on his knees, trying to pull the other driver through the window of the upturned sedan. There was an ominous smell of petrol. Together, they managed to slide the slightly-built body onto the grass verge, then onto a tarpaulin Judith took from the back of the ute. As gently as possible, they dragged the injured man clear of the vehicle. All this before either of them spoke—the danger of fire all too evident.

'He's alive,' said the truckie. 'Only just, by the looks of it. Oh shit, he's a mess. He came straight at me; I had nowhere to go.'

Judith unclipped the mobile telephone from her waistband.

The truckie shook his head. 'I've already called emergency. Nearest ambulance is on a job the other side of Calway. They put me through to the hospital. The only doctor is halfway to Bullermark on an urgent house call. Two hours at best.'

Judith brought up a number from her contact list, and pressed call. Nursing Sister Virginia Underwood picked up after a few rings. 'Hey, sweetie. Good to hear from you.'

'It's not good, Ginny. Bad smash at our front gate. I doubt whether this bloke has long.'

'On my way!' The line went dead.

Judith looked up at the truckie, a large man whose blue singlet was damp with sweat, despite the mild weather. 'You okay?' she asked.

'Yeah. I'm fine.'

Judith knelt on the verge to examine the other driver. The first aid training she'd been given by the education department was hardly relevant to these injuries. The man groaned.

The truckie got a bottle of water and a pillow from the cabin of his truck. 'Jesus mate, I couldn't get out of your way,' he said.

'My fault,' the injured man whispered.

Judith showed him the water bottle. He nodded slightly. She poured a little of the water into his mouth. It dribbled out, diluted blood staining his shirt. He coughed, and winced. Then he took a little more water, and swallowed.

'There's help coming,' Judith said.

'I'm not going to make it.' He was having trouble breathing; his voice was barely audible. Judith and the truckie leaned closer.

'Jesus, mate!' the truckie said.

'My fault. Trying to read the name on the mailbox.'

'Who were you looking for? I'll call them,' Judith said.

'Banabrook.'

'That's my place.'

'You Mrs Kingsley?'

'Yes.'

'I s'pose I owe you an apology.'

'What for?'

'I was on my way to kill your husband.'

'Max?'

'The Reverend Maxwell Kingsley?'

'Yes.'

'That's the name all right. There's a contract on him. I needed the money real bad. Guess I don't now, eh? So what the hell, I'm buggered anyway, the info's for free.' He attempted a smile. 'Just stay with me. Pretty face...better than a pain killer.'

'A contract to kill Max?'

'Lenny d'Aratzio wants him popped.'

'd'Aratzio?'

'I don't want to know about this,' said the truckie.

The man screwed up his face. 'Word is Lenny's dying. He's given out a few names he wants crossed off his list before he goes. Best you take care, love.' He peered at Judith intently. 'Can't see proper. Messed up inside I reckon.' He closed his eyes.

'If he's bleeding, it's internal,' Judith said.

'Should we try CPR?'

'No. He's breathing and there's a pulse. We'd most likely finish him.'

'Shit!'

'Not your fault mate. Not your fault.'

Those were the last words spoken by the man whose name, they discovered later, was Charles Magro—Mad Charlie as he was known around Kings Cross. He was still alive when Ginny arrived. She checked the colour of his gums. They were white. He died a few minutes later.

'I suppose I should be glad he didn't make it,' Judith said. 'But all I can think of is it's a year since you had to attend to me out in the south paddock, Ginny. A year, and we still don't have an ambulance service.'

'Even if an ambulance had been close by, this bloke didn't stand a chance,' Ginny put a hand on the truckie's shoulder and added, 'Okay, buster. Sit yourself on the verge there. I'd better check your vital stats.'

'Me?'

'No offence. But do what you're told. Anybody can end up with shock after the shake-up you've had.'

'The accommodation at the stables is booked until Saturday week.' Judith slid plump pink fillets of trout onto Max's plate. 'The rooms up here are fully booked for the holidays. The artist in residence has gone off on a field trip for a couple of days, so we're alone tonight.'

'We need to tell Emily and Tony,' Max poured wine. 'The big question is where will I be least danger to others? I don't want a hit man gunning for me at school. That's not the sort of educational experience we're trying for. Trudy will have to roster other staff to cover for me. I can do lesson plans and marking; but I should keep well away. At least I won't have to do yard duty.'

'Will the staff be told what's happened?'

'I hope so; but I'll consult with Justin first. When I rang him, he already knew about the demise of Mad Charlie. He's pulling officers off other jobs and there'll be a team headed our way early on Thursday. He says hired guns are usually completely focused on their target and there's not much danger for others unless they get in the way. Professional hit men know there's nothing in it for them but possible grief if they miss their mark. They don't get paid for knocking off a bystander, so it's not worth the risk. Taking out the target is everything. Which means the more exposed I am, the less likely someone else will get hurt. Perhaps I should pitch a tent at the main entrance and get Tom to paint a bull's-eye on it.'

'It's not a joke, Max.'

'I know. But that does give me an idea. Why don't I take a camp stretcher and set myself up in the vestry? Massive walls; massive doors; inaccessible windows; good mobile telephone reception; tea, coffee, cocoa. Above all, isolation from others and easy access if I call for help.'

'You're the vicar, Max. It's an obvious place to go looking for you.'

'You're missing the point. We want them to find me; otherwise this thing won't go away. We want them to find me; but in a place where I might have an advantage.'

'Will you be there alone?'

'Some would say I was in the company of the Almighty.'

'Yes, but the Almighty doesn't have much of a track record against the d'Aratzios of this world.'

'I'm sure Justin's intention is to have a minder close by.'

Judith sighed and sat opposite Max to start her dinner.

'Another good thing about being at the church is the silence,' Max said. 'Except when Mrs Whittle and the vestry committee are meeting, St Mark's after dark is wonderfully quiet. Not an easy place for the ungodly to creep up on a body; especially if the body is sleeping with one of Tom's shotguns. Is this from Andy's trout farm?'

'Yes. What do you think?'

'Well, even allowing for a cook who could make an old boot taste delicious, I think he's on a winner.'

'All a cook could do to it would be to spoil it by leaving it on too long. The flavour is all in the fish.'

'Then I withdraw the compliment.'

If he'd hoped for a smile in response, he was disappointed.

She sighed again, a sharp, angry little noise. 'I've always said we mustn't allow d'Aratzio to ruin our lives. Now the threat's come so close, I'm feeling a lot less brave. I hope the driver of the truck is all right. He had roo-bars on the front; the truck was hardly marked; but I tried to get him to stay and rest up. He said he was way behind schedule and couldn't risk losing work by missing delivery deadlines. Dominic took a statement and said he could go. At least Ginny checked him over.'

After a disturbed night, Judith woke early on Wednesday. Max was not beside her. She found him in the kitchen eating breakfast.

'Tea's not long made,' he said.

She poured herself a cup without speaking, then sat at the table and reached out to put her hand on his. He patted it and smiled before launching into the business of the day.

'I'll telephone Trudy shortly. I think she's an early riser. She's usually at school well before eight. I want to brief her, grab some books, and be away by the time the kids arrive. We don't know how long it will take Lenny to organize another hit man; but we have to assume something might happen any time. I've loaded up the old Ford. It's what I normally use to cart things for church events. I'll leave it in full view in the car park.'

'Max, is it really necessary to–'

'I'm not trying to be the noble martyr or anything. But I couldn't live with myself if someone else got hurt. And the sooner this is over the better.'

'For those who survive.'

'Justin's team should be here tomorrow morning. I'll call him later to find out what's happening and arrange a meeting place. It's only today I have to get through on my own.'

'What can I do?'

'I don't know yet. I don't want the staff here or at school brought in to it until Justin tells me how he wants to handle things. I trust him, Judith. I think we have to let him call the tune.'

'I have to be involved, Max. I'll go mad if I'm just another bystander.'

'You'll be involved. I promise. And, thanks to the wonders of modern technology, you can call me any time. I'll keep my mobile switched on. Which reminds me, I must take one of the chargers.'

He rose and went to the drawer where he kept electrical appliances. When he turned back, Judith was standing beside him, her expression miserable. He took her in his arms. Her head barely reached his shoulder and he had to bend his lanky frame to kiss her. For a moment they stood together.

'What about telling Emily and Tony?' Judith asked.

'There you go. You want to be involved. Why not pay them a visit?'

'Okay. That's a start.'

'I'd forgotten Ginny. If she's told anyone what Mad Charlie said, it will be hard to keep a lid on things.'

'She wasn't there when he mentioned d'Aratzio's name. But I'll ring her anyway.'

Operation Bravo

Wednesday 12th August 1992

'Listen in, people,' Detective Inspector Justin Brody called for attention. The room went quiet. Although physically an imposing figure, with a mop of dark hair now greying at the temples, it was his reputation as "the best of bosses" that drew respect and immediate compliance from his team. 'Even the newest of you have heard the name Leonard Stanley d'Aratzio, aka LSD. If you haven't, you'd better not admit it or I'll want to know why you haven't been through all the open case files. Lenny's name appears often enough. I want everybody to be the full bottle on this lot.' He tapped a stack of thick manila folders. 'Yes, Kenny?'

'I've put a matrix on the white board. They can tick the boxes as they finish the files.'

Several voices chorused, 'Good work Kenny!' and there was general laughter.

Probationary Constable Kenny Fetlow grinned and took a bow.

Brody continued. 'The Reverend Max Kingsley got himself embroiled with the dark side in the days of the old Anglican Youth Shelter at the Cross. He caught a dealer injecting kids to get them hooked. Beat crap out of the guy. The way he was going, he might have killed the bastard if one of our under-cover operatives hadn't pulled him off. Kingsley was charged with assault. When the details came out, we asked the prosecutor to drop the charges. Kingsley got into the act again when d'Aratzio was tried for trafficking. Kingsley's evidence linked Lenny to the dealer, which helped us put the rotten sod away. There were threats of pay back; and they weren't just hot air. I want you all to read the file on the murder of Detective Vince Harley. He was the officer under-cover at the shelter. It was his evidence nailed Lenny. The bloke Kingsley beat up didn't give evidence; but we think Lenny might have lost confidence in him, because he disappeared soon after. You'll find others like that in these files—mystery disappearances. Lenny has a method. If he falls out with someone, he makes it known he's added a new name to his wish list—people he wishes would be hit by a meteor. If something happens to anyone on the wish list, Lenny can produce a stack of witnesses to say everybody knew the list was a joke and there were lots of evil gents who would happily use it to frame him. We tested the position in court once. Got two fingers from the defence and a shrug from the judge for our trouble. Lenny's lawyers are real pros and highly creative. One of them owns the red E-Type Jaguar you see parked in William Street.

'I'm crossing to the dark side,' somebody said. 'That is a beautiful motor car.'

'It's also well known that if you can convince Lenny you were the one who made like a meteor, you get a brown paper bag. He keeps a box of brown paper bags in a room. Nothing illegal about a room full of brown paper bags. We believe there is always a bag containing a large sum in untraceable bank notes. Nothing illegal about that either, although the attorney-general keeps promising to make changes to the law. Recently we got the word Lenny had put out some specific contracts. When we went looking for an explanation of this departure from past practice, we discovered Lenny has a terminal illness and wants to settle a few old scores before he croaks. Unfortunately, we didn't know Max Kingsley was on the list so we couldn't warn him. Enter and exit Mad Charlie. Luck was with Kingsley, this time. Any questions?'

'There's sure to be, boss; but first I've got a comment to make.' Detective Sergeant Eamon Callanan strode to the front and stood beside Brody, facing the assembled group. They could have been mistaken for twins, and from another era, these two old style coppers, both nearing retirement. 'At the risk of a reprimand for not clearing it first, I'll tell you lot the bit the boss left out. He says this job is about providing the protection we promised Kingsley. But it wasn't just witnesses Lenny threatened when he went to the pokey. It was coppers as well. Vince Harley got whacked, and there's nobody higher on Lenny's hate list than our boss.' He pointed a finger at Justin. 'So we'll all be watching his back, right?' There were nods and murmurs of assent.

Brody looked at Callanan and shook his head as if disapproving. Then he said, 'Questions?'

Detective Constable Megan Schmitz was first. 'Are we moving Kingsley to a safe house?'

'I made the offer, Meg. He'd rather be the bait to precipitate some action than be holed up for God knows how long while Lenny's hopefuls sniff around. He's also worried that if he goes to ground the forces of evil might target his wife or turn up at the school. It's a good point. The word in the Cross is Lenny really is at death's door, so I'm not figuring on this being a drawn out affair. The news about Mad Charlie blowing the contract has already hit the streets. There's other low life out there who'd be glad to win one of Lenny's paper bags. We can't drop everything else, but I'll be sending three of you to Arajinna. I'll come back to that in a minute. Other questions?'

'Senator Caroline Blake?' somebody asked.

'Kingsley's wife, Judith, is Senator Blake's half-sister. As far as we know, Lenny has no special beef with the senator, although she has been vocal on the subject of drug legislation, and she's on a senate committee dealing with customs and excise, so you never know. Our chief has alerted the commonwealth police and they'll cover that base—at least for now.'

Megan Schmitz said, 'I've read the d'Aratzio case files but they don't say much about the bloke himself.'

'He's not easy to slot into a category, Meg. He's unusual and unpredictable. But he's also intelligent and well educated. There's a psychological profile somewhere. Suggestion is he was a reactionary to a demanding father and deliberately went off the rails to piss his old man off. According to rumour, one of his hits was a bloke from his old school who blackballed his application to join Tattersall's Club. Lenny's a smart operator. He gives a lot of his dirty work to older blokes with long records of success as crims. Kenny can find you the file. Yes, Norm?'

'Is there a nick at Arajinna?'

'There is. But only one young constable. There's a bigger station at Calway Junction. I'd guess Calway's close to an hour's drive from Arajinna these days. Perhaps this might be a good time for Eamon to give us a briefing on the terrain and the key personnel.'

The Detective Sergeant turned on a projector and brought up a series of maps and images as he spoke. 'Arajinna is the oldest town in the Shire of Kalawonta. Five hours drive from Sydney. The turn-off to Calway Junction is just north of Gundagai. Good roads all the way. The Blake property, Banabrook, dates back to the nineteenth century. After the death of Walter Blake in 1990, the descendants—Caroline and Judith Blake—turned it over to the shire to be developed as a tourist attraction. It still runs as a farm but has accommodation for families, and an art centre and a museum. There's a brochure here about the activities they offer. Yes Ziggy?'

'I'm guessing this means there are lots of legitimate first time visitors who nobody in Arajinna has ever seen before.'

'You're guessing right.'

'And three of us are going up there to watch for a hit man we mightn't recognise so we can stop him shooting Max Kingsley.'

'It might be a her, Ziggy. "Hit person" is the term in these days of equal opportunity. It's not as easy as looking for a him.'

'Sorry, Sarge. I didn't want to worry anybody.' There was subdued laughter.

Justin Brody said. 'As usual, Ziggy has gone straight to the heart of the problem. The folks in Arajinna see plenty of strange faces these days. Lenny might use someone we know, but, as I said, he's a smart operator and there are crims out there who haven't made it into our records yet. Whoever we pick for the security brief will have to live in Kingsley's pocket.'

'I'm up for it boss,' said Ziggy. 'If you're looking for volunteers.'

'Thanks Zig. You were top of my list.'

'Bugger me,' said Megan Schmitz, getting to her feet and pointing at Ziggy. 'I've had more security experience than this whipper-snapper!'

'I doubt whether Judith Kingsley would be happy for you to be living in her husband's pocket, Meg. But I was hoping you'd take the job as her bodyguard.'

'Yeah. Well. Okay. I'm in then, aren't I.' She glared at Ziggy, gave a thumbs-up, and sat down. There was more laughter.

Justin Brody nodded his approval. He'd worked years and pulled strings to build this team. If Operation Bravo failed, it would not be for want of commitment.

'Yeah, well I need some brownie points too,' said Norm. 'So I'll be number three.'

'Sorry Norm,' Justin said. 'I want you here on the communications desk. Eamon will be the third member and he'll be the team leader.'

'I knew I never should have studied IT. The others get all the fun.'

'You'll have plenty to keep you busy, Norm. If there's a crisis and I'm not around, you'll have to make the call to shift people off other jobs and tell them to head for the bush.'

'Now for the key personnel,' said Eamon. 'Max Kingsley and Judith live at Banabrook. He teaches at the High School, she retired from teaching to oversee the development of Banabrook as a tourist attraction. Senator Caroline Blake lives in Sydney with her husband Sean Leakey. There's a cousin, Tony Blake. He's a retired architect and he's refurbishing an old house on the river at Arajinna. He and Caroline's mother, Emily, are permanent residents at that house, and the senator visits from time to time. There's a cottage on Banabrook occupied by the farm manager, his assistant, and a cook. The other staff live in the town or on other farms. We've asked Mrs Kingsley to give us a staff list. The local constable at Arajinna is Dominic Gerado—sole occupant of a station originally designed for a staff of three. He lives on site. Nearest other police station is Calway Junction; one Sergeant—male, two constables—one of each. So, what have I missed Kenny?'

'I've put together a folder for each team member, Sarge.'

Again several voices chorused, 'Good work Kenny!'

'Okay, people. That's it, except for the team and Kenny. There are eight million stories in the city, this is only one of them.'

Team Meeting

Wednesday 12th August 1992

'Your age is showing boss!' Eamon sat himself at one end of the table.

'What do you mean?'

'Eight million stories in the city.'

'Yes, well we are ageing, mate.' They exchanged weary looks. 'So; you folks will be off at sparrow-fart tomorrow, but get some sleep tonight because you could be in for a rough few days. Leave Kenny a list of any cases you need us to cover. I think we know them all; but best to be sure. I want you totally focussed on this job. It's unusual for us to put a whole team under cover waiting for something to happen. You're going to need to be diplomats as well as coppers, and if the time comes to draw a gun or make an arrest, it will need to be strictly by the book. Among the things the three of you have in common is an ability to do it right under pressure. You know what I'm talking about!'

'I promise this time there'll be no call for a Royal Commission,' Ziggy said.

'I wasn't having a dig at anyone in particular, Zig.'

'With any luck, this time there won't be a dickhead of a mayor who needs to stick his opinions where the sun don't shine.'

Justin gave the merest hint of a smile before he said, 'This brief Kenny has put together isn't very long so let's browse it quickly now. You can ask questions as you go.'

'Max Kingsley?' Ziggy said. 'He's the Reverend Kingsley, right? But he teaches at a government high school.'

'Long story, Ziggy. Short version is the church synod got a bit grumpy after he beat up Lenny's henchman. Charity and forgiveness sometimes get forgotten by church administrators. Kingsley ended up resigning, retrained as a teacher, then took the teaching post at Arajinna to start a new life in the country. At that stage, St Mark's at Arajinna was without a vicar. Kingsley was still ordained so the locals petitioned the Bishop. You want politics, Ziggy? The church has them! I've come to know Kingsley quite well. I'd have to call him a reluctant vicar. But he's a good one; and he's a good bloke.'

Megan was examining a map in the briefing file. 'I see there's a railway. Is that a likely way for a crim to slip into town?'

'Only if he hops a freight train,' Kenny said. 'Calway Junction is the end of the line for passenger trains these days. There's a link with a bus service to Arajinna and Bullermark. Arajinna is about an hour from Calway, and Bullermark is about two hours. Calway is the biggest of the towns but, as you can see, it's only a little way into the shire.'

Justin nodded. 'History and politics lead to some odd arrangements. Calway has the main infrastructure, like the hospital and the flying doctor, but Arajinna is where the high school was established and it was the location of The Institute for Rural Studies until the government closed it some years back. The institute had been a major employer and its closure was what led the Blakes to look for ways to keep the town alive.'

'They seem a livewire family,' Eamon said.

'And rich, and influential.' Justin was nodding again. 'I suspect that's one of Lenny d'Aratzio's many niggles. I'm sure he was delighted the church gave Max a hard time after the events at Kings Cross. Lenny likes to see his enemies in the shit. But later he sees the man who helped put him in prison married to a rich, beautiful heiress and living in a magnificent rural homestead. Life's not fair, and Lenny is a bit too fond of playing God in an attempt to even things out.'

'You think envy is part of Lenny's motivation to whack Kingsley?'

'Who knows? At the police academy they're always on about getting into the mind of the criminal. I reckon we rarely do. They're all a mystery to me—all of 'em!'

'Is this an airfield?' Megan was still focussed on the map.

Kenny read from his brief: The shire maintains a grass airstrip at Arajinna. There are no navigational aids and no lighting. Hangar space is available for rent. There is no regular commercial service but flights can be chartered from the aero club at Calway Junction.

Eamon laughed. 'Got to hand it to you Kenny. This is bloody good research for such a quick job.'

'Other questions?' Justin asked.

'I got one,' Ziggy said. 'Do we have a list of the hit men—sorry, the hit people Lenny's used in the past?'

Justin shook his head. 'Not really. He has a reputation for finding the best, but Magro certainly wasn't the best any more, which might mean that top operators are in short supply right now and, if he's pressed for time to find a second assassin, he might not be too particular. I mentioned his liking for employing the old brigade and there are a few of those still around. Old school crims with old school effectiveness. The "sorry old chap but cop this" type.'

Eamon said. 'Keeping close to the targets is going to be our main hope.'

'Targets, plural?' Megan said.

'Yes, Meg. Given Lenny's history, Judith Blake is as much a target as Max. Lenny can be as charming as they come, but he'll still pop a lady if it furthers his ends. Don't for a minute think your role isn't as important as Ziggy's.'

'Anything else?' Justin asked. He waited a moment but nobody spoke. 'Okay, team. Good luck.'

All but Meg got to their feet.

'Problem Meg?'

'No, boss. No problem. But I think I'll stay and finish reading the attachments. I'll be pushed for time in the morning.'

Left alone, Meg rose, stretched her muscles, and strode around the room as she read. She was solidly build but carried no excess fat. A fit young officer, she had played water polo for the state until her work on the force made it hard to get to training regularly.

Among the attachments were two news clippings. She read them in full. By the time she'd finished, she was starting to get a feel for the family she would be trying to protect, and to understand how envy might contribute to Lenny d'Aratzio's attitude. Her own upbringing in a troubled industrial estate had none of the affluence she sensed about the owners of Banabrook.

Clipping from The Kalawonta News

9th February 1991

ARAJINNA TO BE TOURIST MECCA AND FABRIC HUB

By Tania Alba

Arajinna was in a festive mood on Thursday when The Minister for Local Government, The Honourable Nerida Quigley, announced details of an agreement between the Shire of Kalawonta and the Walter Blake Memorial Trust for the development and management of tourist facilities based at Banabrook Historic Homestead. The minister also announced the establishment of The Arajinna Fabrics Co-operative, which will set up and manage a factory to supply fabrics to the Caroline Blake Fashions chain of stores.

'We are standing together on the threshold of a new beginning for this fine shire,' Minister Quigley said. 'The last decade of the twentieth century will be remembered as the launching pad into the new millennium.'

At the invitation of Shire President, Grant Hughes, the minister cut the ceremonial ribbon to declare open the first feature of the development at Banabrook, a museum to house items commemorating the shire's impressive contribution in times of war. Guests were able to inspect the sad relics brought from Dachau by the district's only holocaust survivor, the late Mrs Rachel Polak-Blake.

Gunadal Manageera spoke of the plans for Aboriginal culture to be a feature of the new facilities and for his people to conduct visitors through selected areas of the forest and to tell some of the dreamtime stories.

The chairperson of the Walter Blake Memorial Trust, Mrs Emily Blake, outlined plans for local citizens to share in the profits of the fabrics co-operative. Mrs Blake is the mother of Senator Caroline Blake, founder of the Caroline Blake Fashions empire. Mrs Blake is well remembered by the local sporting fraternity as a past club champion at Arajinna Golf Club and, by her maiden name of Emily Johnson, as a leading netball player in the team that won a state title for Arajinna in 1936.

Senator Blake was unable to be at the ceremony but a message from her was read by her cousin Tony Blake AO, who was named an Officer of the Order of Australia, for his services to architecture, in the recent New Year's Honours.

Clipping from the Kalawonta News

13th April 1991

ARAJINNA TURNS OUT FOR INTER-FAITH WEDDING

By Tania Alba

The town witnessed a double wedding, although only one couple tied the knot, when Judith Blake married the Reverend Maxwell Kingsley in the garden beside Banabrook Homestead on Thursday. To start proceedings, Rabbi Levi performed a ceremony he told us included all the essential rituals of his faith. In preparation for the Jewish wedding, the bride and groom had fasted throughout the morning, so there was a break for refreshments before Bishop Smithers conducted the service set out in the Anglican Book of Common Prayer. Then, in a wonderful display of inter-faith harmony, both clerics read appropriate passages from the Old Testament, which is sacred to both faiths, and took part in a final joint blessing of the union.

But there was more to come when Gunadal Manageera, leader of the Aboriginal community, stepped forward to present the couple with a spirit stick carved and painted specially for the occasion. Gunadal spoke of the unusual relationship of his people with the white settlers of Arajinna dating back to the arrival of Alfred Blake, a relationship the succeeding Blakes and the indigenous inhabitants had built into a lasting bond.

This must surely be the first time an entire community has been extended an invitation to a wedding, and the grounds of Banabrook resembled a fairground. Tony Blake, who described himself as the oldest living descendent of the legendary Alfred, explained that the family had found it impossible to select a limited guest list and had decided on a general invitation to everybody, with a request there be no personal gifts.

To help the local economy, every food store in Arajinna, Calway Junction and Bullermark received orders to contribute to the catering. The Kalawonta Dairy supplied refrigerated containers. Members of the Country Women's Association organized and co-ordinated the serving of food.

Notable among the guests was Senator Caroline Blake and this reporter was granted an extended interview, which will appear in next week's edition of the Kalawonta News.

Alone in the Vestry

Wednesday 12th August 1992

'Old buildings talk.'

Max remembered the comment. It had been made to him in July 1977, when he was returning to his bed at three in the morning. His companion, an old caretaker, had spoken quietly in the darkness. Max was on a retreat, at a property in the country. He was to be ordained the next month. His mentor at the College of Theology had advised him to go on retreat to spend some time alone pondering the future and satisfying himself he was ready to take the last step. He and the caretaker were the only occupants of a large dormitory. Something had woken him in the early hours of the morning and he had gone to investigate.

'Old buildings talk,' the old man said. 'Somewhere up there, where strut meets beam, the temperature of the night air changes, the humidity reaches a critical level, there is the tiniest of movements, and the building talks.'

'I'd not thought about it,' Max replied.

'If I believed anything else, living here alone, I'd go mad. I'm sure most rumours of places being haunted have their origins in things quite easily explained. We don't have to tax our Lord with every little matter. Go back to sleep, my boy, you've an hour or two before sunrise.'

Now, lying alone in the vestry at Arajinna, Max listened to St Mark's. The outer doors of the building were locked. He'd thought about securing the vestry door as well, but decided to leave it open in the hope that he might hear if somebody was trying to gain access to the church. To improve his chances, he had dragged benches against all the doors that opened inwards and leant heavy objects against the ones opening outwards. It would be difficult for an intruder to arrive without making some noise.

Since his introduction to the sounds of old buildings, he'd experienced the phenomenon often, including at Banabrook where timber floors creaked intermittently in the hours before dawn when the air was at its coolest. Tonight, however, a bumping noise had disturbed him, a bumping that continued for some minutes and left him wondering and listening. It had been a long day and, despite a determination to remain alert, he went back to sleep.

He woke suddenly at first light, his heart thumping. The bumping had started again and he was no longer able to ignore it. He had slept in a tracksuit. His tennis shoes were by the stretcher. Quietly he put on his shoes and crept out into the church. He stood for a moment, listening. The bumping seemed to be coming from behind the organ where the pipe from the bellows room was connected. There was nothing there. The bumping continued. After a few minutes, reason returned. Bumping throughout the night was not the sound an intruder would make; but Max was now thoroughly curious and felt a need to investigate. He removed the bench he had placed across the door to the transept, turned the key gently, and opened the door. The bumping continued. He edged himself outside. The bellows room was a weatherboard enclosure constructed on a raised platform. Flattening himself with his back to the timber wall, he continued to edge sideways until he could peek around the corner.

'And just what do you think you're doing?' he asked. He ceased his stealthy progress and patted the rump of a young heifer whose head was thrust beneath the platform where the grass had been allowed to grow too long. She was grazing happily, her head intermittently bumping the flooring above her.

'I suppose there is a lesson in this,' Max said to himself. 'I'm not absolutely sure what it is. But I am sure the grass under there needs to be cut before summer.'

It was not the first time stock had strayed into the church grounds from a neighbouring property. With the aid of a small tree branch, Max coaxed the heifer from under the platform and herded her through the car park to the access road. As expected, the neighbour's gate was open by one heifer-width. The animal returned to her home paddock and Max secured the gate. As he walked back to the car park, he saw a vehicle progressing slowly along the main road. He recognized it as belonging to the shire's weed control contractor. He knew the operator by sight because the man had treated weeds in the car park recently. They exchanged waves before Max went back inside the church. As he did so, he heard the warble of his mobile telephone indicating a message had been received. The missed call was Judith—just checking.

Lenny's Visitor

Thursday 13th August 1992

As Lenny d'Aratzio's career in crime flourished, he had taken increasing pride in the one legal business he owned. He enjoyed the irony of being referred to in press reports as a leading pest controller, a description that often sparked humorous exchanges when he was with trusted friends behind closed doors. He also enjoyed another irony—the knowledge that his policy of honesty and fair dealing with clients of the pest control company had made him a success in an occupation reputed to have more than its share of shonky operators. It had done no harm to his standing in the community when he helped the makers of a television documentary to expose a rival who was releasing white ants under buildings and discovering them during a later inspection. Lenny's profile in the business of pest control became so good that he started offering franchises. Once again, fair dealing with franchisees led to growth and profit, and added to the list of potential witnesses to his good character, should he ever need them.

Lenny presided over his franchising empire from tastefully appointed offices in William Street, close enough to Kings Cross to keep an eye on his other business interests. His staff at William Street were all members of a carefully selected inner sanctum, their modest pay packets from the pest control company well supplemented by income they were paid for undefined other services—income they collected, in their own time, from another location. There were no outsiders at William Street to wonder why the boss received so many visits from detectives. Although few of his staff knew the detail of these visits, they understood the general nature of them. They often had to suppress their grins when a team of unhappy detectives emerged from Lenny's office after an interview. On such occasions, Lenny usually opened the bar in his office for a drink after hours. He made no explanations, but all would drink his favourite toast: 'To pest control!'

Although he insisted the financial activities of the pest control company must never be compromised by extraneous transactions, his offices and his trusted staff provided the ideal environment for him to meet, in private, with associates of a different kind. It was also a safe place for negotiations and, if necessary, for confrontations.

Lenny had other strict rules and his employees observed them without fail. Men wore jackets and ties. Lenny set the example for them, his short, nuggety body always clothed in a current season Armani suit. In a previous age, he would have been called "dapper". His ginger hair and neat moustache were trimmed every Monday morning by a barber who also served as a conduit for messages to and from some of Lenny's more colourful associates. Women on Lenny's staff dressed elegantly, with a proper regard for modesty. Although swearing was not banned, Lenny rarely swore and he had been known to admonish his offsiders if they used an expletive he thought unnecessarily vulgar. His word was law. The mystery disappearance of one young man, who had argued with him in public, was a story related to newcomers; although newcomers were rare and so heavily vetted by the boss that the cautionary tale was probably unnecessary.

After falling ill and being diagnosed with cancer, Lenny cut back the time he spent in his office, but he tried to be there for a few hours each weekday. It was late on Thursday, and he was getting ready to leave, when an unexpected visitor arrived at reception holding a folder of papers. The visitor would tell the receptionist only that he had heard Mr d'Aratzio was unwell, and thought he might be able to help. Leaving the visitor in the care of two clerks the size of basketballers, the receptionist consulted with her boss and returned to say Mr d'Aratzio was available for a short meeting. The visitor showed no surprise when the oversized clerks accompanied him into d'Aratzio's office. Without a word, he handed d'Aratzio the folder.

'An impressive record, Mr Froyland,' Lenny said after perusing the file. 'You seem to have been in the pokey half your life. Why should I be interested?'

Gavin glanced up at the two giant minders.

Lenny smiled. 'Feel free to talk in front of my friends.'

'I heard all about Mad Charlie Magro's bingle in the bush. I know a bit of your own background from blokes I spent time with at Government expense. I also know Max Kingsley. Two and two make four; thought I'd come and introduce myself.'

'Because?'

'Because I've been based in Arajinna for the past six months. I've become what you might call a fixture around the district. But I'm sick of bustin' me guts all day for bugger all return. I thought we might find our interests running on the same track, if you catch my drift.'

'What is this work you do for... little return?'

'Echium lycopsis.'

'Again.'

'Patterson's Curse. I got myself a contract cutting it out, and spraying road edges for various other noxious weeds.'

'A contract with the shire?'

'Yes.'

'And this didn't bother them?' Lenny tapped the folder.

'Well I didn't tell them did I? Besides, they think my name's William Smith.'

'Original'

'Useful. If any employer goes checking on a William Smith, they're inclined to give up pretty quick and tick all the boxes. Anyway, I think I might've been the only mug to put in a tender, so they wouldn't have been real keen to find anything wrong. It's a bugger of a job. Out along the roads in all weathers, boiler suit and mask even on hot days, dripping sweat in your gloves. It's been the longest six months of my life—and that includes those stints as Her Majesty's guest at Long Bay.'

Throughout the discussion, Lenny's minders had sat quietly at either end of the desk. Now Lenny smiled at each in turn. 'Chaps, I am feeling quite comfortable in the company of Mr... Smith. I don't think he is a threat. Not to me, anyway. Thank you for your patience.' The two men rose and left without a word.

As the door closed, Lenny smiled, 'You probably thought you were tall, Gavin. I like to surround myself with giants.'

'Those two are a touch intimidating, I'll give you that.'

'So, under the alias of Bill Smith, Gavin Froyland has become a fixture along the roads near Arajinna, eh?' Lenny sat back and clasped his hands under his chin.

'Being my own boss is also handy. I set my own schedule and submit a weekly report. Sometimes they read it and send a bloke to check what I've done; most of the time they don't bother. I've rented a place with a yard near the railway depot. Every now and then they drop off a list of spots they want me to have a go at, but mainly it's up to me to wander the district looking for early signs of weed growth. I take photos before and after. All hunky dory. And I didn't have to ask permission to spend a few days in Sydney. Placed an order for some chemicals as a cover. Picked them up this morning.'

'If you know anything about me, you'd be aware I try not to leave a trail.'

'I had heard.'

'But I really am dying. I'm not banking on seeing out next year. Frees up the thinking a bit. It also creates an urgency I used not to have. I now tend to consider options I might previously have rejected out of hand. Kingsley and Brody are itches I need to scratch.' Something occurred to Lenny and he lent forward. 'Do you know Brody? More to the point, does Brody know Gavin Froyland? There's no drugs record in here. This seems to be breaking and entering, armed robbery, smash and grab, a bit of GBH...'

'Each to his own, Mr d'Aratzio. I've always thought there was too much competition in the drug market. In my line, it's open slather. There are no limits. You create your own business, so to speak. I read the daily papers looking for overpaid executives with trophy wives. Know why?'

Lenny smiled and shrugged. 'Tell me.'

'Nobody feels sorry for them. Specially the coppers who have to wipe their feet on the gigantic bloody doormats and tiptoe around the mansions. So there's not the same passion to run a bloke like me to ground, not like I guess you experience in your line of work.'

Lenny laughed aloud for the first time in many months. It hurt and he moved uncomfortably in his chair before speaking again. 'It's a pity we've met so late in life, Gavin. I like your style, and I do think it might be possible to align our interests. Right now, though, I need to go home and put my feet up.' He pushed a button on his intercom. 'Jodie, am I free at 11am tomorrow?' He raised his eyebrows in a silent query to his visitor who nodded assent. 'Good. Mr Froyland will be coming back. He'll tell you how he likes his coffee on the way out now.'

Lenny handed back the file of papers and stood up. 'Where did you park?'

'Left the truck at the motel. Came by train.'

'I like your thinking. Ask Jodie to show you the back entrance. The second alley comes out near Kings Cross Station. Come back the same way tomorrow. I'll get one of the boys to let you in.'

'Got ya.'

The two men shook hands and looked each other in the eye. Both felt well satisfied with their meeting.

Team Bravo

Thursday 13th August 1992

Despite budget cuts in the department, Brody had provided Team Bravo with two unmarked vehicles. One was a Ford station wagon with a roof rack, the other a Holden utility. To comply with his standing instructions, neither vehicle had been washed for weeks. Eamon Callanan and Megan Schmitz were first to arrive at the rendezvous on Two View Hill. Megan pulled the station wagon into the empty rest area and parked in the shade of some trees.

When Ziggy Hoopman arrived in the utility, five minutes later, he found the others seated at a picnic table with Eamon's trademark giant thermos of coffee and Megan's tin of homemade Anzac biscuits.

Ziggy got out of the ute and stretched his wiry arms. He was an unusual build for a policeman and had barely met the height requirements for enlistment. But, as his sparring partners at the gym attested, it would be a mistake to mess with him. It was Brody's policy to have his under cover teams made up of physically unalike members, and Ziggy was not the type you'd immediately pick as being a police officer.

'Kingsley suggested this was a good place to orientate ourselves,' Eamon said. 'He wanted to meet us up here, but I reckoned on it being a bit risky for the prime target. It's where any other visitor might stop to take stock—including a visitor with evil intent. Let's take our coffee up to the lookout and see the lie of the land.'

The lookout had been painted recently. From the indicator boards, the team identified major landmarks and found them on the maps provided by Kenny. St Mark's Church was visible; Banabrook Historic Homestead wasn't, but the direction and distance to it were indicated. At the foot of the hill below the lookout, open parkland stretched to the fringes of the Arajinna township. They could see the entire length of the broad main street. It was early afternoon and about twenty vehicles were angle parked. There was a small amount of pedestrian activity. Eamon pointed to a marked police car towards the far end on the left hand side and said, 'I can't see a sign but that must be where our station is. The school is around the corner to the right, on the far side.'

'The Arajinna Odeon,' Ziggy remarked, pointing to a large building half way along the street. 'I wonder what's on.'

'Yeah, well keep wondering, you won't be seeing anything.'

'Oh, come on Sarge!'

'And stop calling me Sarge, even when there's nobody to hear.'

Megan leafed through a folder of papers. 'Kenny's notes suggest quite a bit of brass has been spent on refurbishing. You can see the Criterion has had a paint job. I love the wrought iron lace around the verandah.'

'I haven't got back to the brief yet,' Eamon admitted.

Ziggy, grinned. 'You'll find it's another case of "good work Kenny". Funny little feller, eh? Not your average young copper, that's for sure. Reckons he graduated from university, then decided he wanted to become a detective, so he started over as a police rookie.'

Eamon had telephoned ahead to book three rooms on the first floor of the Criterion, using a recently established cover as surveyors working for the State Lands Department. All of them were able to use a theodolite and a dumpy level, and the trappings of the trade strapped to the roof rack or poking from the tray of the ute, made it possible to park their vehicles almost anywhere without raising much interest. This was the third cover story Justin Brody had invented for his unit, two previous covers having been abandoned after being mentioned in news reports of high-profile drug busts. Only a few senior police officers and the head of the lands department knew the current set-up. If anybody had reason to check, the equipment and stationery the team carried bore authentic departmental markings including a reference number that brought them up on the lands department records with the notation: _Special Projects Team. Refer Chief Surveyor_.

Like real surveyors, they carried the most expensive equipment into the hotel to reduce the probability of theft. This also served to announce them and their occupation to desk staff and casual observers.

'Meet down here in half an hour,' Eamon said. 'We need to go survey some stuff.'

An hour later, they parked the station wagon beside St Mark's. Ziggy took a tripod from the roof. Eamon took a wooden case from the back, extracted the theodolite and screwed it onto the tripod. With the instrument in full view in the car park, the team wandered around the grounds, talking and pointing. Then, leaving Megan to make a show of reading plans and hunting for marker pegs, Eamon and Ziggy went into the church where Max was waiting for them.

After inspecting the church, Eamon and Ziggy conferred before telling Max they thought Ziggy should sleep on a stretcher in the transept on the side opposite the vestry. This would, in Ziggy's terms, "spread their ears across the width of the church"—increasing the probability of early detection of an intruder.

Max said, 'There's a toilet and wash facilities off the vestry. The only shower is in the main toilet block in the corner of the car park.'

'We'll manage,' Ziggy said.

'I think your idea of holing up here is good,' Eamon said. 'Even at this time of day it's quiet. The bird noises are intermittent. It would be hard to cross the gravel without being heard. Being a city boy I notice how far sound travels out here. If you stand still you can hear each individual car on the highway.'

'Lucky it's not cicada season,' Max said. 'Although, even they go quiet at night. Of course the building talks and the livestock bumps.'

'What?'

'Long story. I'll brief Ziggy later.'

'I've checked the locks,' Ziggy said. 'Impressive! I'll be careful not to drop one of those keys on my foot. The only bigger ones I've seen are at the Synagogue. And we're really into security there. We'll take these out of the keyholes, after locking up, so no bastard can manipulate them from outside. You can do the same inside the vestry. But put the key close to the door; and remember where it is—you don't want to be searching for it if there's a fire.'

'I hadn't thought of that,' Max said.

'Some of the bastards we might be dealing with wouldn't be above torching a church for a quick buck.'

'You fill me with confidence.'

'Best to be prepared, mate. Believe me.'

Max paused and looked around the church. 'So what do we do if we hear something suspicious?'

Eamon said, 'We've brought two-way radio for you and Ziggy. It's faster than using mobiles to make short-range contact, and you two have to be on the same page. We've brought unused pre-paid mobiles as back up. They're pre-programmed with numbers for me and Megan. You carrying a mobile?'

Max nodded.

'Keep it on, and use it for any personal calls. If a hit man comes looking, we want him to find you; that's already been agreed. I see you have a vehicle parked out the front. Good idea. I'm happy for your presence to be advertised. But it's best if people don't know we're here. Ziggy will keep out of the way when any legitimate visitors come to see you. He'll take you through the communications drill and work with you on how you should respond to various possibilities when you're the only two here. The main thing though is, unless there really is a fire, you stay locked in the vestry at night no matter what happens out in the church.'

'What if I think Ziggy's in danger.'

'It's covered by the salary, mate,' Ziggy grinned. 'Better one of us alive than both dead.'

'Great!'

'Fact!'

'I thought working in pairs was standard practice.'

'So it is, mate, so it is! We'll be working as a pair, but on either side of a locked door.'

'Okay', Eamon said. 'What else do we need to talk about?' He looked around the nave. 'If Ziggy's stretcher and things are out here, they'll have to be put away during the day in case you have visitors. And he'll need a place to hide if it's someone who hasn't been told what's going on.'

Max thought for a moment. 'I'll show you a place I think will be ideal.' He led them outside. Against one wall of the church, there was a flat-roofed brick structure. With a key from a ring attached to his belt, he unlocked the padlock and opened the door to reveal a nearly empty tool shed. 'This was originally the gravediggers' shed. We hire a contractor with a small backhoe if we need a grave dug these days, so this space is rarely used except for storage. We can dust off the bench as a place to sit. I'll give Ziggy the key and he can use it whenever he needs to.'

'Perfect,' Ziggy said.

As they wandered back into the church, Eamon said, 'Who knows you're here, and who else is likely to turn up?'

'Justin asked us to adopt a need to know approach, but he agreed to a couple of exceptions. Trudy, the school principal, and Celestine—the teacher who's covering for me—are the only ones we've told everything. Celestine will come and go with work for me to mark. Ginny, the nurse who was there when Magro died, is secure as they come. She wasn't a witness to what he said but we thought she should be briefed. Emily and Tony Blake were told early on. I think Justin was disappointed we'd done that, but I wasn't going to keep this a secret from family. Apart from a service at 11am on Sunday, the only regular visitors are the members of the vestry committee. The committee usually meets on Tuesday at 5pm. We rescheduled this week because of Magro's accident. We met here yesterday—before I unpacked my gear.'

'What have you told them about being here so much?'

'There are some old registers in the safe. Births, Deaths, Marriages, Christenings, Confirmations. They've been used as source documents for a history of the district. I've been saying for ages I must find time to do a final systematic search. It provided a legitimate reason for my allocating a swag of time to attack the project now. I told the committee I'd do the job here to avoid carting the old books home and risking damage. It's the same story we've told staff at the school and at Banabrook. Compiling the history is a school project, so it all sounded good.'

'So what you've told them is a nearly truthful lie.' Ziggy said. 'Good move. The fewer big porkies we have to remember, the better.'

'Okay,' Eamon said. 'Now we need to get supplies for you two out of the wagon. It's probably wise not to be observed doing that. The door opening onto the graveyard looks the least likely to be in view if there's anyone watching. I'm going to use the theodolite to have a gander at things a bit further afield. Megan can hold some markers for me. Ziggy will bring the wagon around the back. Good luck mate.' He shook Max's hand.

'Thanks.'

'I'll give you twenty minutes Zig. Then Megan and I will fetch the wagon and go brief Constable Gerado.'

'He's a good young lad,' Max said. 'Try not to expose him too much.'

Max and Ziggy locked the external doors of the main building at sunset. As darkness enveloped the church, they prepared a simple meal in the tiny kitchen area at the end of the vestry and sat down to devise their plans to respond to a range of imagined intrusions. Max told Ziggy about the events of the previous evening, including the activities of the heifer. Ziggy liked the idea of dragging benches across the doorways. At ten, Max locked himself in the vestry. For the first few hours, he slept soundly; but at three in the morning, he was awake. He thought about Judith, alone in their bedroom at Banabrook, or would she and Megan have decided to set up a second bed in the same room for Megan to be close by?

A Job for Bill Smith

Saturday 15th August 1992

Gavin Froyland, alias Bill Smith, had plenty to occupy his mind on the drive back to Arajinna. His decision to call on Lenny d'Aratzio had been a long shot. He had expected his criminal record to make him of interest to the great man, and thought his knowledge of Arajinna might lead to his being put on Lenny's payroll in some capacity. His hope was for a job that would lead to a career as a member, in good standing, of the Sydney underworld. He was tired of being a one-man operation. He'd never had any clout with the fences who dealt with stolen goods, and had often had to accept "take it or leave it" offers he felt fell short of adequate recompense for the risks he ran. His attempt to build a legitimate business as a contractor had led to a life of tedium away from the places of the night he would like to frequent as a regular who could bypass the queue and get a welcoming "evening Gav" from the bouncer.

On returning to Lenny's office the morning after his first visit, he was interrogated from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon, with brief breaks for coffee and a lunch of sandwiches brought in by Jodie. He suspected his interview would have been no more rigorous if Lenny had been a recruiting sergeant considering him for active service. This was a comparison Gavin could make because he had spent a few years as a member of the army reserve until a prolonged stint in gaol had disqualified him.

'So, the army taught you to shoot,' Lenny said.

'They wasted no expense.'

'How did they rate you?'

'Real good with a rifle.'

'Side arms?'

'Only officers are issued with handguns, so the army wasn't any help to me there. I joined a gun club. Did pretty well. The instructor said I was a natural.'

'Armed robbery and GBH. That's the upper end of your experience, right?'

'Yeah.'

'Ever use a weapon on a job, or did you just wave it about?'

'Came close one time, but I managed to avoid any shooting. Saves getting caught through ballistics tests.'

'Good thinking. Ever shot anything except on a range?—I mean something alive?'

'Roos and camels.'

'Camels?'

'There's hundreds of 'em roaming around in central Western Australia. Got a job with a culling party.'

'Why?'

'Thought it'd be fun.'

'Was it?'

'Too right!'

'Well, that's a plus. Have you any idea what Charlie Magro did in his time?'

'The odd rumour.'

'Charlie was top of the heap in his day, but he'd gone a bit soft. Went to water if a bit of skirt entered the picture, and a bit careless sometimes—lacked concentration. I wouldn't normally bag a deceased associate to a comparative stranger, Gavin; but when I'm looking for a result, I try to start by employing the best. Are you the best?'

'It was me being in Arajinna I thought might be a help.'

'And it might, it might.'

'I wasn't actually thinking of doing a hit.'

'Would you? If the price was right?'

'Maybe. If I thought I could get away with it.'

'And why wouldn't you get away with it?'

'Not easy to make a getaway from a country town. Hard to make a run for it. If the local weed controller suddenly pissed off without a word, he'd be a prime suspect. It's not like slipping down a back alley at the Cross.'

'I agree. You're a thinker; that's another plus. We do have to think these things through. What if we found you an untraceable weapon you could leave at the scene? You'd have to get Kingsley somewhere on his Pat Malone. Possibility?'

'Might work. Hard to tell without sussing out his movements.'

Lenny rose gingerly from his chair and took a few slow paces back and forth. Eventually, he said. 'Forget my last suggestion. I've a better one. The guts of it is this. You're going back to Arajinna tomorrow, right?'

'Yeah.'

Lenny pushed a pad across the desk. 'Do me a sketch of how to get to your place. You said near the railway yards. Quiet at night, is it?'

'Graveyard, most of the time.'

'In a day or two, a vehicle will pass through town after dark and drop off a visitor for you. I know just the man. Goes by the name of Tom Jones at present. He'll be scruffy and wearing overalls. You got a room where he can lie low?'

'Yeah.'

'Moves like a shadow, does Tom. If you hear a quiet tap on a back window, that'll be him. He's one of these coves who can materialize out of nowhere. Scared the living daylights out of me one day. Anyway, your job in all this will be to track Kingsley and work out a spot for the hit. Tom will have to agree on the choice of location, so you'll need to give him a good idea of the lie of the land. If you have to draw him a map, burn it before he heads out.'

'I've got a lot of stuff we might find useful. The shire gave me army grid-maps of the whole district. And I've got a copy of a book with plans and sketches of some of the older buildings—Banabrook and St Mark's included.'

'Sounds good. If Tom is running true to form, the only time he'll want to leave your place is when you drop him off for the job. That's the last you'll see of him. Best you don't know any more about his movements—he's good though. If you manage to avoid being seen with him, so much the better. If not, your story is he came looking for work and you agreed to try him out as an assistant. Depending on what time you drop him off, and where, you might need to add an explanation about where you were going before he asked you to stop and let him out. He'll help you decide what story to use. With Kingsley dead, the cops will guess it was someone working for me, and I'm sure to get a visit real quick. Won't be the first time. Unfortunately, these days I can't say "and it won't be the last". You stick to your story whatever happens. The less of your own routine you change in these situations, the less likely it is you'll come under suspicion. Even if they find you've got a record, they won't have any evidence you've been an accessory to anything. Now, before I forget, you should remember the name John Sutton?'

'John Sutton. Okay. John Sutton lost a button. John Sutton lost a button. Got it.'

'You come with built in hidden talents Gavin.'

'Maybe I missed me calling.'

'John Sutton is a solicitor. I'll fill him in. If the cops give you a hard time, don't contact me. Ring John Sutton who lost the button and say your name's Bill Smith from Arajinna and you're being harassed by the police. If it all goes to plan and you get no grief, ring him a week after the big event, and he'll tell you where to collect your reward. Since you're not doing the shooting, I reckon twenty G. Okay?'

'Twenty G will be just fine.'

'It goes without saying—but I'll say it anyway—if things don't go to plan and you end up back in the pokey, my associates will make sure you're protected inside and you'll be well compensated in the long run. Do we have a deal?'

'Signed and sealed,' Gavin extended his hand and they shook on it.

'Do you think Kingsley knows the background to Mad Charlie's accident?'

'It's hard to say. The locals know some bloke passing through was killed in a road smash. It was news for a day or two. The difference for me was I knew the name Charles Magro. Got me wondering what had brought him to town. I mean, I knew his record. So, I rang an old mate of mine, Ozzie Jackman.'

'Yes, I know Oracle Ozzie. Always up with the bar-room gossip. Don't talk to him again.'

'I'm sorry if–'

'Okay this time. You were looking for information. Gossip works both ways though. Can't be too careful.'

'Okay.'

'So, Ozzie had heard something had he?'

'When he said Max Kingsley was on your priority list, it all added up. Which is why I came down to introduce myself. I don't think the reason for Charlie's visit is general knowledge in Arajinna, or people wouldn't be talking about anything else.'

'But you'd have to reckon Brody will have made the connection—same way you did. Blokes like Charlie Magro don't simply go to a place like Arajinna and drive past Banabrook. And my guess is Brody will have tipped off Kingsley immediately. So we should assume Kingsley is on the alert.'

'I guess so.'

'It won't worry Tom Jones. And it shouldn't worry you either. Is there a cop shop in town?'

'One young copper. The station is in the main street.'

'Got an excuse to call on him?'

'I could find a set of keys or something, and hand them in. I've got a couple of old keys in the truck. They were for padlocks I threw away ages ago.'

'You really do have hidden talent, Mr Smith.'

'I try.'

'What I have in mind is, you drop by and see if he seems his usual self. It's surprising how people change their manner if something special is happening. The lost set of keys is a good idea. If his mind's on something else, he'll make a note and get rid of you real quick. If not, he'll want all the details of where you found them... which was...?'

'Out along the main road. Near the big patch of lantana I dug out tomorrow. Could 'ave dropped from a passing car. No clues at all.'

'You're quick. Sounds good. Any other things we need to talk about?'

'I can't think of any. The scary bit is it all sounds so easy.'

'It rarely is.'

'Well I'm up for it.'

'Good man. Now, I'll get you to repeat back to me in your own words what's going to happen. I need to be sure we're completely clear. Then, I'm afraid it's been a long day for me and I need to get home. But it's been a good day. I'm sorry we've met so late in my life. Welcome aboard...Bill.'

Leaving the William Street building by the back entrance, Gavin was tempted to hang around the Cross for a while and celebrate. But he was already elated enough and not about to take any unnecessary risks. Best to keep a low profile. A few quiet beers in the privacy of his motel room would satisfy him for now.

Gavin relived the interview several times on the drive back to Arajinna. He pulled up in the drive of his rented property near the rail yards and turned off the engine. He hadn't started with any wild dreams of what might come out of his approach to Lenny d'Aratzio. If he had: twenty grand, a promise of protection if things went wrong, and being somebody in good standing with Lenny's mob, would have been up with the wildest. 'Welcome aboard, Bill', he murmured.

He opened the front door and picked up the mail the postman had pushed through the slot. No letters from the shire office. No scrawled messages asking him to call in for new instructions. It had been a good couple of days and he was ready for bed.

Morning Prayer

Sunday 16th August 1992

Friday and Saturday brought little action to St Mark's. Ziggy was a veteran at stakeouts and surveillance work. He always packed two or three thick novels. 'It helps to be a reader if you're a sailor or a cop,' he said. 'My dad was in the navy. Name any book and it's a fair bet he's read it—remembers all the plots too.'

Max had found the light in the vestry too gloomy for protracted reading and had set himself up inside the main door at the table from which hymn books and prayer books were handed out before services. Its polished oak surface was large enough for him to open the massive old bound registers, and still leave sufficient space for his notebooks.

At Banabrook, Megan was finding it hard to maintain her cover as a surveyor while keeping track of the highly mobile Judith. It was Judith's idea to give Megan a stack of old files from the Banabrook archives and set her up at the kitchen table, supposedly looking for a survey plan used at the original land auctions held in the nineteenth century. This provided Megan with a base at the centre of Banabrook activities.

When Sunday came, Ziggy and Max carted the camp stretchers, and the other evidence of living at St Mark's, to the tool shed. 'We have a small community of committed Anglicans,' Max said. 'But because the nearest other churches are at Bullermark and Calway Junction, our congregation includes members of other denominations who find our services acceptable. I try to make the liturgy as inclusive as possible, and I structure my sermons to deal with matters of faith common to all.'

'How many do you get?'

'Sometimes fewer than ten, sometimes more than fifty. Depends on the weather and the seasons. Shearing and harvesting can keep folk away or bring in extras. One year we had an entire crew of shearers turn up for three weeks in a row. Unusual, but it happens. If the boss of the gang is religious he often recruits like-minded offsiders.'

'Well you won't be getting the whole crew of surveyors. I've had a talk to Eamon. He thinks it best I don't show myself today. He'll attend the service and sit towards the back. He's had a chat to your missus. She's decided not to come because people might start to wonder why she has this shadow called Megan. They're finding it a bit of a problem at Banabrook already. Eamon has also talked to the farm manager—Tom is it?'

'Yes.'

Tom's been briefed on the operation, partly because Megan being around all the time was beginning to look a bit odd, and partly because he's agreed to hang about near the church door before the service and tell Eamon if any strangers turn up. We assume you don't get many blow-ins.'

'No. And we usually know where they've come from anyway—a hotel guest, or a traveller stopping in Arajinna for lunch and deciding to include spiritual nourishment in the package.'

Ziggy laughed.

'It's hard for strangers to go unnoticed in a place this small,' Max added. 'I find that aspect of country life comforting right now.'

It was late in the day when they retrieved Ziggy's gear from the tool shed. Afterwards they stood in the doorway of the church, looking out.

'If it wasn't for the circumstances, I could really get to enjoy this place,' Ziggy said. 'The aromas of the country are amazing.'

'I noticed some early freesias,' Max pointed towards the graveyard. 'Oh, stuff this, Ziggy! Let's go for a stroll.'

'As your bodyguard, I'm compelled to advise you—'

'No, mate. As my bodyguard, you're compelled to join me. Life's too damned short, and it might be about to get shorter.' He headed into the graveyard.

'You're giving me grief, Max,' Ziggy said tersely, as he followed. 'Shit, man. I've got a job to do!'

'Relax,' Max said. 'I'm the one at risk.'

'You're the one who might draw fire you mean. I'm putting my life at risk for you because it's my job, not because it's fun. And I don't appreciate you ignoring advice that might keep both of us alive.'

'I hadn't thought of it that way. I apologise. But it's done now. If we've been seen, we've been seen. Let's just enjoy the evening for a minute. One minute, okay.'

'Okay. One minute.'

'Bugger it, Ziggy. I'm as taut as a bloody violin string.'

'I know mate. I know.'

'It shows?'

'You're doing better than most in the circumstances. You're only a minister, Max. You're not God!'

The freesias had come up between stones around the Blake plot. As they breathed the scent, Ziggy said, 'Those are Hebrew symbols. So's the inscription. It's the same verse as on my Mum's grave.'

'Judith's mother,' Max said

'In an Anglican graveyard?'

'Long story. I'll tell you over dinner. Let's go back inside.'

Echium Lycopsis

Sunday 16th August 1992

Monday 17th August 1992

The man sometimes known as Tom Jones opened the screen door and tapped on one of the glass panels of the sleep-out. Gavin opened the back door without turning on the external light. It struck him this could be a dangerous thing to do on a Sunday night when the neighbouring industrial properties were in darkness; but there was little crime in Arajinna, and he was expecting a clandestine arrival.

'Tom Jones?' Gavin asked.

'If you say so, sunshine.'

In the dim light from the hallway, Gavin saw the man grin. He stood aside to let him pass, then closed and locked the door. 'This way, mate.' He led Jones to a door at the side of the sleep-out, opened it, and switched on the overhead light to reveal what had probably been a storage room when the house was built. It now contained a single bed, a dilapidated wardrobe, a bedside table and a chair. 'Will this do?'

'Show me around first.' Jones was wearing a small haversack, which he did not take off.

Gavin led him across the sleep-out to another door, a mirror image of the first. 'Shower, shit, and shoe-shine, in there.'

Jones looked and nodded. Gavin took him through another door into a narrow hallway running the length of the house. The bottom half of the front door was timber. There were two narrow opaque leadlight glass panels at the top. The house was constructed symmetrically about the central hallway, with rooms opening off on either side. There was a kitchen and a sitting room on one side, and two bedrooms on the other. One of the bedrooms had been set up as an office for Gavin's alter ego, Bill Smith. 'There's a laundry in an outbuilding at the back.'

'I hope I won't be here long enough to use it.' Jones stopped at the front door. 'I've seen the front yard and the verandah. There was enough light from the rail yards as I came in.' He returned along the hall, taking a second look into each room. Arriving back at the room off the sleep-out, he entered and took off the haversack. 'Genius, sunshine. Just what the doctor ordered. Designed for the job.'

Gavin felt unexpectedly pleased. 'How would a beer go down?'

'Cup 'a tea, for me. Not a wowser, mind you. Never drink on a job though. Don't let me stop you.'

'I'll have tea too.'

'That's real sociable, sunshine. Tea for two, and we'll sit down and nut out this little job for Uncle Len. He said you had maps and things?'

'They're in the office. I'll get them while the kettle's boiling.'

The next morning, Gavin was out on the roads before five. It was earlier than he usually started, except at the height of summer; but he had a couple of small weed-infestations to attend to, and it would be good for the shire officers to see evidence of work if they chose today to check up on him. Then he'd take a slow run out past Banabrook and call on Adrian at Land's End. Good bloke, Adrian. He had a solid knowledge of local botany and was a good spotter of noxious outbreaks. He was also good for a cup of tea and a yarn at nine-thirty. Hard to find at other times; worked Olive Sampson's old property single-handed most of the year. Get him started on Olive and Land's End Farm and he had stories to last a lifetime. Olive had gone long before Gavin came to the area, but she was the stuff of legend. This might be a good day for Adrian to be able to remember talking to Bill Smith, if somebody was to ask him later on. By ten, Adrian would be ready to jump on his tractor again. That would be a good time for Gavin to check out the Banabrook driveway. He must remember to mention his intention to Adrian; it would be an easy subject to introduce casually into their conversation. The Banabrook driveway had been included in his contract because of the vehicles carting visitors to and fro, which made it a likely spot for seeds to be deposited. He would call at the homestead and speak to the staff, to establish he'd been there. This being a weekday, Kingsley was unlikely to be around. Looking for Kingsley at school was going to be a problem. Trudy, the Principal, had asked Bill Smith to do any jobs in the vicinity outside school hours, in case spraying was required. Nice lady, Trudy; but not a person to cross. He'd have to give some thought to how he might check Kingsley's movements. Meanwhile, he could take a drive out to St Mark's. He'd seen Kingsley there on a weekday last week. It had been early in the morning. Perhaps Kingsley made a practice of calling in to attend to parish business before going to school. It was only a few months ago there'd been a patch of weeds to treat in the car park, so Bill Smith had good reason to inspect the grounds of the church.

Eamon arrived at St Mark's shortly after ten that morning. He'd made a point of visiting the shire offices first, to let the staff know the Anglican Diocese had asked for its boundaries to be checked after a dispute over church property elsewhere. This provided the opportunity for surveyor Ziggy to work in full view and to keep an eye on comings and goings along the road. It also gave Max something to explain Ziggy's presence to the vestry committee. Eamon liked surveying as a cover, it allowed his team to be alert and move around the area they were watching. Megan was already well set up at Banabrook, looking through old files or wandering around outside locating markers on survey plans Judith had produced.

Gavin was well along the access road to the church when he saw the man with the theodolite. It wasn't what he had expected, but the worst thing he could do would be to stop and go back. He pulled to the side of the access road, got out of the truck, and took a mattock from the tray. He was close enough to the car park to observe what was going on, but too far away for the surveyor to think of starting a conversation. He dug out a clump of innocuous weed and threw it into the truck with a pile of genuine noxious plants he'd worked on earlier in the day. He made a show of walking back and forth looking at the ground, then got back into his truck and drove into the car park. As he got out of the cabin he called to the surveyor. 'Will this be in your way, mate?'

'You're fine there,' Ziggy replied. 'I'm done for now anyway. I was about to phone the boss to come and pick me up.'

'Bill Smith,' said Gavin.

'Ryan Marsh,' Ziggy said extending his hand.

'I better not shake hands. Done a bit of spraying earlier on. I wear gloves but I don't touch anyone until I've washed up.'

'That's considerate. What brings you here?'

'I need to check a patch I worked on over there. Make sure I got all the roots out. If you turn your back, this stuff pops its head up again in no time. What's the survey for?'

'Validation of boundaries, according to the work sheet. The boss says it's something to do with the diocese getting into an argument over a property they own somewhere else.'

'Well, I'd better keep moving. I see the Reverend Kingsley's truck is here. I'll duck in and give him a report before I leave. Don't often see him out here this time on a weekday. It'll save me giving him a bell later.'

'Yeah. Right. See ya.'

Ziggy took a few more readings before taking out his mobile telephone and making a show of calling. He knew the smallest detail could make or blow a cover. He punched in his own number and had a loud one-sided conversation with the engaged signal. When Bill Smith drove off twenty minutes later, Ziggy was sitting on a bench apparently waiting to be picked up.

Dark Clouds

Tuesday 18th August 1992

Shortly after nine on Tuesday morning Gavin took another drive along the highway near St Mark's. Dark clouds were building over the ranges to the east; there would be rain before the day was out. A kilometre or so past the church access road, Gavin turned his vehicle in the crossover to a neighbouring property. He drove slowly back along the highway. He had not told Tom Jones his intentions lest his suspicions prove unfounded. Jones was an experienced operator whose praise for Bill Smith's contribution to a successful exercise in the field would enhance Gavin's standing in the underworld.

From the top of a small rise, he could see the church car park. As he had suspected, Kingsley's vehicle was there. Without stopping, he continued his slow run back into town. A farmer on a tractor in a paddock gave him a friendly wave, acknowledging another Arajinna resident going about the work of the community. As soon as he was well clear, he abandoned his pretence of inspecting the verges and headed home, keen to report his findings.

'I'll bet me shirt on it, mate; Kingsley's living in the church,' he told Tom. 'I thought as much when I went in for a chat with him yesterday, so I went back for another look. His truck hasn't budged. I think he's hiding out there.'

'Not hiding, sunshine. Waiting. Otherwise why would he leave the truck for us to see?'

'You think it's a trap?'

'Possibly. He's a bit of a rum cove, I'm told. He went the biff with one of Lenny's boys some years ago, messed him up real bad. So we know the reverend gentleman is not above a bit of a stoush. Living on a farm, he'd have access to guns wouldn't he?'

'I'd expect Banabrook would have quite a collection.'

'If we're reckoning Brody worked out what Mad Charlie was doing up here, it wouldn't be too long a shot to suppose Kingsley might set himself up to attract attention. He might even be planning a self-defence shooting to show Lenny he's not to be messed with. Do you think the other locals know anything?'

'I doubt it. Like I told Lenny, the whole district would be buzzing with a story like that. I haven't heard anyone mention Charlie's accident on my rounds. Adrian who works Land's End is always up with the gossip, and he hasn't said anything.'

'If Brody is aware what Lenny's up to, we have to wonder where the fuzz is. There's a long history between those two.'

'I haven't seen any strangers, except for the surveyor.'

'Reckon he's legit?'

'Looked all right to me.'

'I'd reckon there are two possibilities. One is, the fuzz isn't taking much interest—no funds, other priorities, too far away from home, admin SNAFU, whatever. The other possibility is they are active, and we don't know how.'

'So what do we do now?'

'I'm going in.'

'When?'

'Today.'

'Just like that?'

'In my experience, sunshine, whatever risks we face are likely to get worse every day. The best time to act is usually now, while everyone else is still thinking. It's already a week since Charlie bought it, so Kingsley's had plenty of time to clear out if he was planning to. Us sitting around wondering what they're up to won't pay the bills. And I'm on a bonus from Lenny if I get the job done quick. When you were at the church yesterday, Kingsley was there and you saw the surveyor; nobody else, right?'

'I made an excuse to go in and see Kingsley. He was working at a table near the main door. I didn't see anyone else.'

'Was the surveyor taking more than a passing interest in you?'

'Didn't appear to be. When I left, he was sitting out the front waiting to be picked up. Gave me a wave. No sign of him this morning.'

'Well if he did turn out to be a minder, that's only two blokes to handle. I've dealt with worse. I've had a good look at the maps and stuff. There's a sketch of the church somewhere. Let's see what we can work out.'

'I managed to persuade the secretary of the vestry committee there isn't any business that can't wait until next week.' Max switched on the kettle and handed Ziggy the biscuit jar. It was shortly after four. 'I think the storm clouds helped.'

'Well it sure looks like we're in for a ripper of a storm. We may as well get my gear in and shut the place early. I'm getting to the gritty part of my book.'

'What's this one?'

'I'd never read _The Godfather_ and somebody said I was missing something. He was right. There's a lot more to it than they got into the movie.'

Tom Jones looked out at the gathering clouds. 'I don't know what local knowledge tells you, but it looks to me like it's going to piss down pretty soon.'

'You're not wrong. Does that change your plans?'

'Au contraire, sunshine, au contraire. The worse the conditions, the better. I'm happy to get soaked for what Lenny's paying me. A good storm covers other noises, and it keeps people indoors with their heads down. Besides, if I end up on the run tomorrow, wet ground dampens the enthusiasm of your average volunteer searcher. Ever heard of orienteering?'

'Like a compass march but you run like buggery, right?'

'That's about the size of it, and I was good. I was unbackable in the wet; so it can rain all it likes tonight. The problem right now is I'd like you to get me there while there's still a bit of daylight. So I figure we better leave early.'

'Say the word.'

'Let's do it.' Jones opened his haversack. He took out a plastic golf jacket and a gun.

Gavin recognised the semi-automatic Beretta 92. 'Bruce Willis, Die Hard,' he said.

'Well spotted, sunshine. But I hit the target more'n Willis does.' Jones grinned. He checked the pistol and put it into a shoulder holster. 'I'll have to wear the jacket in the truck so I can get out and away quickly. I hate these plastic things, but they save space if you're travelling light.' He stood up, put on the jacket, and picked up the haversack. Suddenly he turned, moved quickly to his right, crouched slightly and drew the gun from its holster. He took several quick steps forward, dropped to one knee and aimed at an imaginary target. After several other mimed encounters, all of which he achieved effortlessly and with almost no sound, he looked at Gavin and grinned. 'Warm ups!'

By the time they were half way to the St Mark's turnoff, visibility was poor and worsening.

'I'll have to put the lights on,' Gavin said. 'Too dangerous on the highway otherwise.'

'No worries. Makes it less likely the truck will be recognized anyway.'

They sat in silence while Gavin drove along the highway past the access road, turned at the same crossover he had used in the morning, and headed slowly back. Before reaching the top of the rise he turned off the main lights, leaving the parking lights on, and pulled to the side. They could just see the car park and the outline of the church.

'Graveyard's at this end, right?'

'You can see the picket fence.'

'So the thing marked as a lych-gate is along there. And the shed is right opposite the lych-gate. Okay, sunshine, I got it.' Without further warning, Tom Jones, opened the door, closed it gently, crossed the verge, slid through the fence-wire, and headed across the paddock. As agreed, Gavin moved off immediately. His work done, or so he thought.

There were no warning drops; the rain arrived in a sudden downpour. Tom Jones had got as far as the lych-gate and was able to take stock in the shelter of its tiled roof. The timing could not have been better. The plastic jacket would become a humidity trap soon; for now, he had the opportunity he needed to climb the ivy onto the flat roof of the tool shed. He rated at zero the likelihood of being heard, and nobody would be expecting him to gain access from there. It had never been his intention to check whether any of the main doors were open. If Kingsley was on alert, that's where he'd be watching. Tom's objective was a leadlight window, which had been evident on a sketch of the church. He had little doubt it would be frail enough to yield to his pulling on the lead beading with pliers, a technique he'd been taught by a glazier before undertaking a job a few years ago. The pliers were not part of his usual kit but he'd got a pair from Bill Smith and had wiped his host's fingerprints off as a precaution. It only needed one piece of lead to come loose and he would be able to take out the glass, piece by piece. In this weather, he hoped the additional breeze inside a draughty old church wouldn't be noticed. But he would be ready if Kingsley came to investigate. A person approaching the window from inside would be looking up at him—a sitting duck. If he could dispose of Kingsley without entering the building, so much the better.

Gavin's experience with the rain had not been as favourable. With the wipers at maximum speed, visibility was so poor that, had he not been committed to getting away from the area, he would have pulled to the side and waited. He was barely a kilometre past the access road when the lights of a vehicle coming in the other direction blinded him. The other driver had his lights on high beam and was well into the middle of the carriageway. Gavin flashed his own lights as a warning and pulled as far to the side as he dared—too far, he felt the wheels lose traction and the truck slid sideways into the storm water channel beside the road. Luck was not with him. He had left the road just before a crossover leading into the driveway of a farm. The truck came to rest abruptly, its radiator crumpled against the concrete retaining wall protecting the pipe designed to carry water under the crossover. He knew, at once, the truck would remain there until it could be dragged out by an emergency vehicle or a tractor. It was little consolation that he was unharmed. He put his head on the steering wheel and uttered a single word. 'Fuck!'

Tom Jones's luck was holding. The leadlight window was in poor condition. What parish has the funds to maintain every part of a church? Wind and weather had loosened the panels, not enough for them to fall out, but enough for him to remove them with reasonable ease. Heavy rain continued; but he was sheltered by the substantial overhang of the main roof, and what wind there was placed him on the lee side of the building. The top panels of the window were out of reach. He thought about climbing down to look for something he could stand on, but, having had to use considerable force to remove the lower panels, he was confident those he was unable to reach were firm enough to stay put. The sill of the window was a few centimetres above his waist height. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the church he could see, a metre below him, a platform, probably the roof of a small room. Had this been a catholic church he would have guessed he was looking down on the top of a confessional. Good news and bad news, he thought. The bad news is I can't see the floor of the church at this end. The good news is I can use the platform as a staging point.

Max was in the vestry when his mobile telephone warbled. It was Celestine.

'I'm outside in the car,' she said. 'I'm parked beside the transept, but I'll get drenched while I'm getting in. Can you open the door for me?'

'Of course. Give me a minute. You would have found it locked, anyway. I'll get the key.'

'Lovely. When you've opened it, stand clear while I make a dash. I wouldn't want to knock you over.'

'It's Celestine,' Max called to Ziggy as he made for the door.

'Be that as it may, I'll let her in. You keep well back.'

'It's only Celestine.'

'Scared out of her wits and held at gunpoint by a thug?'

'Oh come on!'

'Only joking. But only just joking, Max. Nothing surprises me these days. So do as I say, okay?'

'Okay. Keep your hair on. I'm standing back.'

As soon as Celestine was inside, Ziggy closed and locked the door again.

'I didn't think you were coming today,' Max said.

'Change of plans.' Celestine hung her dripping raincoat and beret on the rack in the transept. 'I was meant to be taking hockey practice, but Trudy decided to cancel sport and send the Bullermark kids home before the storm. The bus driver was Old Mike Misery.'

'Enough said. Though he has a point. They're re-surfacing a stretch of the road and this rain will make it a real mess.'

'Anyway, it gave me a chance to drop off the Year 11 essays. I've got a full day tomorrow and I wasn't sure when I'd get here.'

Tom Jones was easing himself onto the platform below the windowsill when he heard Max call out to Ziggy. He completed the manoeuvre as quickly as he dared and lay flat on his back. As he listened to the voices below him, he became aware the platform was constructed of single sheets of plaster on a framework of wooden slats. It had obviously been designed solely to provide a ceiling to the enclosure below, not to take the weight of a man. He felt it give slightly. It would hold him lying flat but he dare not sit up. When the time came to move, he would have to roll carefully to the edge, trying to keep his weight evenly distributed. Meanwhile, he could hear snatches of conversation. There were two male voices and one woman; they had moved away, possibly into another room. In line with his philosophy that risks usually get worse with time rather than better, he would not delay his next move; he must get off this flimsy structure now. It was a while since he'd taken out three targets at once but he knew he could manage the job if he could surprise all three in one place.

As the rain continued to fall, Max and Celestine sat at the table in the vestry discussing lesson plans for the next week. Ziggy was occasionally brought into the conversation.

The rain was beating heavily against windows high on the vestry wall, and there was a lot of noise from the corrugated metal roof of the tool shed outside. Then came a new sound so loud that all of them heard it. Gun drawn, Ziggy was first to react, racing to the vestry door and out into the church. Max followed but stopped in the doorway and motioned urgently to Celestine to stay put. From an umbrella stand he took the heavy cane he had previously identified as his weapon if needed. As he edged around the door jam, he heard Ziggy's voice above the noise of the storm.

'Armed police, don't move! Don't move!'

There was a pause during which the raging of the storm seemed to build to a dramatic crescendo. Max could see Ziggy crouched with arms extended in front of him. For what seemed an age, but was probably only seconds, there was no movement. Then Ziggy straightened, put his gun away, and shrugged. 'Is there a doctor in the house?'

Tom Jones's luck had run out when he rolled to the front of the platform. Despite his attempt to rest his weight on his forearms, the sweaty inside of the plastic jacket caused him to slip. His elbow broke through the plaster, and the entire ceiling collapsed.

A draft chapter on St Mark's, for the history of Kalawonta, already included the story of the church acquiring a confessional at the turn of the century when the diocese had been under the control of its most conservative Bishop. The ornate enclosure had rarely been used for its intended purpose, confession being provided for but not widely practised in the Church of England. It was now a store for miscellaneous items, including some old carved wooden chairs sometimes put near the font to accommodate elderly and infirm attendees at christenings. Whilst the ceiling had been flimsy, the chairs were robust. I was onto these that Tom Jones had fallen, breaking several bones and rendering him temporarily unconscious.

Breaking the News

Wednesday 19th August 1992

The first Lenny knew about the latest hitch in his plans was when Detective Inspector Justin Brody and another detective arrived at his office on Thursday morning. Their arrival, only fifteen minutes after Lenny had entered the building, was not a coincidence. Probationary Constable Kenny Fetlow, wearing his street kid gear, had spent the previous two hours with his head in a dog-eared Playboy magazine, sitting on a bench near the lane leading to Lenny's parking space. Being new to the team, Kenny was unknown to most of Lenny's staff. He alerted Brody as soon as Lenny's BMW turned into the lane.

As he was ushered into Lenny's office by Jodie, Brody said to her 'You can stay for a minute, Miss. Your boss might want an observer present.' He sat in a visitor's chair without waiting for an invitation.

Lenny said, 'It's all right, Jodie. I'll buzz you if I need anybody.'

Jodie turned to go, but Brody said. 'A minute, Miss. Your boss will need his signature witnessed.' He thrust a pre-prepared waiver document across the desk.

Lenny glanced at the waiver, signed, and held out his pen to Jodie. 'It's all right, Jodie. He's in his heavy mood. Tell the staff I might open the bar when he slinks away. That's what usually happens doesn't it Brody?'

As soon as Jodie had gone, Brody crossed his forearms on the desk and smiled.

'You're stuffed this time, Lenny boy. Totally stuffed.'

Lenny looked at Brody's silent colleague and said, 'Hey. We really are in the heavy mood aren't we?' Looking back to Brody he said, 'So "Brody boy" tell me how I'm stuffed.'

Looking directly at Lenny, Justin said, 'A man calling himself Tom Jones, who appears in our files under a variety of other names, is currently in the operating theatre of the hospital at Calway Junction.'

Only an interviewer with Justin's long experienced would have detected the slight change in Lenny's eyes. Still staring directly at Lenny, he continued. 'The poor chap has a number of bones to be set, and the doctors want to keep him a few days for observation—possible spinal injuries. I am not sure precisely what he will be charged with, but we've an impressive list of offences to choose from. There are credible witnesses to events he will have great difficulty explaining—even if a friend with amazingly successful lawyers offers him assistance. Given the evidence available, and the likely sentence for a man with such a record, you will forgive me for believing a deal might be struck. If you'll excuse a silly joke, I would not be surprised to hear Tom Jones sing. That would be a bonus, the circumstances and the witnesses are more than we need.'

Justin paused, hoping Lenny might respond in some way. But he was dealing with a skilled negotiator. All Lenny said was, 'Go on.'

'Now, Mr d'Aratzio, you know that we know things about people other than Tom Jones—things we have had difficulty proving in court. But the tide seems to be running with us for a change, a tide so high it might well swamp some folk who have, in the past, managed to scramble to higher ground. I always think twice before disclosing the existence of witnesses, because there have been times, in the past, when witnesses have not answered when the Clerk of the Court calls their name. Sometimes, however, the list of angry, enthusiastic, incorruptible witnesses grows and grows until the prospect of eliminating them is not a feasible option, even for a Mr Big. Consider, also, that two well known criminals have visited Arajinna in the past week or so, scored zero for their side, and been transferred to their team's injured list. Unfortunately for a chap called Charlie Magro, his transfer was permanent. Charlie will not be called to give evidence, not in this life anyway. But he did tell two witnesses why he had come to Arajinna, and, with his dying breath, named names—correction, one name.' He paused, then repeated, 'One name.'

'Hearsay is the term, I believe,' Lenny said.

'That is surely what the named person's expensive lawyers will suggest. Fortunately, there is ample precedent for admission of such evidence in circumstances such as those existing in this case.'

'I'm getting bored Brody. Why are you telling me this?'

'I'm telling you because I am feeling charitable. I am telling you because you can bank on the story being eagerly related, before the end of today, in every pub, club and back alley of the city. I'd heard your health has not been good, so I thought it a kindness to protect you from unexpected shock by telling you in advance what all of Sydney will soon be hearing. My long experience of the types who undertake contract killings has taught me that most of them are very shrewd. Mad Charlie Magro was not really mad, neither is our singer friend; few successful hit men are. And when the fall of those two top guns becomes the talk of the town this evening, whoever it is who sent them on their abortive missions will be hard pressed to find a third—even a truly mad one. I also wanted to put to you the following hypothetical scenario. Armed with evidence beyond his wildest dreams, a prosecutor who has not always won convictions finds himself in a position to get an old enemy into the dock for a long drawn out trial on a string of charges. Suppose the person facing those charges produces medical evidence in an attempt to avoid appearing. What if the evidence fails to convince the court? And even if he obtains a temporary stay of proceedings, how much of his remaining life will have to be devoted to defending himself in one way or another? Such questions will be discussed at length by those who think they can guess who it is who has been gunning for the Reverend Max Kingsley. I'm sure the hypothetical person of whom I speak would also give some thought to who, out there, might be raising a glass to his downfall—who might see profit for themselves in speeding the process.'

Suddenly, Brody stood up so he was looking down on Lenny. 'Well, I'm sure we've overstayed our welcome. Have a good day!' He turned and led his colleague out of the office.

For once, Lenny d'Aratzio said nothing. He had already forgotten the name of the other detective who had sat solemnly though Brody's speech. The detectives departed, nodding politely to Jodie and to the two giants who were hovering around the foyer.

As he pulled the car into the William Street traffic, Norm glanced at Brody and said, 'So what next boss? Do we wind down?'

'Not yet, Norm. Lenny might take the warning; but Operation Bravo stays on full alert and the team stays in Arajinna.'

Lenny sat for several minutes. Had his time not been running out, he would have grudgingly acknowledged Brody held cards that came close to an open misère. Lenny had never been one to take silly risks. In other circumstances he would have put the elimination of Max Kingsley on the deferred list, and turned his attention to other projects. How often he had counselled younger associates with his mentor's favourite saying: softly, softly, catchee monkey. But these were not other circumstances. Brody was right to assume Lenny would not want to spend what little remained of his life in the courts or in consultation with expensive lawyers. But there was an element the detectives had not understood. Lenny had already settled a number of old scores. Kingsley and Brody were the people he most wanted now. Both had been on his wish list; but he had been warned against trying to hit Brody. Other influential men around town weren't keen to deal with the consequences flowing from the assassination of a senior detective. Lenny knew it was a warning he must heed. His family would be vulnerable after his death if he ignored the wishes of the majority—there were unwritten rules about such things. But Kingsley was a different matter. Kingsley was a cancer that had outgrown its early niggling. Kingsley's death would not ruffle the underworld. Most irritating to Lenny now was that everybody would come to know he had failed twice to make the kill, and that his failure had taken two good operators out of the game. This was not how he wanted to be remembered. Another of his mentor's sayings insinuated its way into his thinking: If you want it done right, do it yourself!

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Jodie entered. 'Mr Froyland is on line two.'

Regrouping

Wednesday 19th August 1992

Not long after his accident the previous evening, Gavin had pulled himself together and thought through the problem. Most important was to act as he would have acted had he been returning from work as a weed controller. Although his truck was out of action, the accident had been at low speed and would have made little noise, so nobody would come running from the farm. He might be seen from some other vehicle, but he was far enough off the apron of the road to make that unlikely. What a stranded motorist would do in such circumstances was either stay put or walk up the driveway to the homestead. He decided the latter was the preferable course of action. Bill Smith would tell the occupants of the homestead his sad story, and have witnesses to a whereabouts other than St Mark's if he needed an alibi for the time of Kingsley's death.

With the typical good nature of country folk, the farmer and his wife received their sopping visitor, found him some dry overalls, and boiled the kettle for a hot drink. They discussed the weed problem, and Bill mentioned the site he'd been inspecting when the rain hit. More than an hour later, when the rain had eased a bit, the farmer insisted on driving Bill home. As they came into Arajinna, an ambulance with its lights flashing went by in the other direction.

'Wonder where he's going?' the farmer said. 'That's the new rig from Calway.'

'Maybe I wasn't the only one to have an accident. Bloody dangerous on the roads on a night like this.'

Early on Thursday, Bill Smith called the operator of the local tow truck and rode back with him to the scene of the accident. The tow truck driver was full of a story about an ambulance coming from Calway Junction in the storm because some idiot had fallen from a window at St Mark's. They returned to town and took Bill's vehicle to the repair yard. A preliminary inspection established it would only take a day to make the truck drivable; but a new radiator grill and bumper bar would have to be ordered, and new front tyres fitted. He was told the police could issue a temporary permit for him to drive the vehicle in a damaged condition.

A visit to the police station gave Bill the opportunity to add to the people who knew about his accident and where he had been the previous night. He mentioned seeing the ambulance.

'Tell me about it!' said Constable Gerado. 'I was called out too. Intruder at St Mark's. Stupid bastard was lucky he didn't kill himself.'

'What was he doing?'

'Sorry, mate. Can't discuss the detail.'

'No. Of course not.'

As soon as he left the station, Gavin went to the bus depot and checked the timetables for the Bullermark route. He was in luck, there was a bus leaving in twenty minutes. His plan might not be fully secure, but it seemed to him unlikely that a call to Lenny from a public telephone box in Bullermark, made by a Mr Froyland, would be traced back to Bill Smith of Arajinna.

'Thanks for calling!' Lenny came on the line speaking rapidly so Gavin did not have to respond immediately. 'Had an extraordinary visit from a detective this morning. Thought I'd be interested in some bloke who injured himself at a church somewhere. Why I'd be interested, God only knows. Anyway, the reason I asked you to ring me is we're able to offer you a franchise. Are you still in the market?'

'Too right, mate.'

'And nothing has happened since our last chat to make you unable to undertake such onerous work.'

'Not a thing. Keen as ever.'

'Great. I'll send someone to brief you and work out the detail. Can't say exactly when. It will have to be after hours because he's working most days. Business is booming.'

'I'm expecting to be home for the next few nights.'

'That's good. You're keeping well?'

'Yeah, mate. Fit as ever.'

'Ciao then. We'll be in touch.'

Gavin hung up in a bit of a daze. Lenny's quick thinking had made the call appear innocuous if it had been overheard. He'd sounded unfazed by the latest setback and was obviously working on a new plan. The meaning of the cryptic conversation was clear enough; some evening soon there would be another knock on the sleepout window. Gavin was still Lenny's man in Arajinna.

Knock on the Window

Saturday 22nd August 1992

Sunday 23rd August 1992

It was early Saturday evening when the knock came. Gavin opened the door of the sleepout. His surprise must have been obvious.

'Well, are you going to invite me in?' Lenny said.

Regaining his composure, Gavin stepped aside.

As soon as the door was closed and locked, Lenny said, 'I'm too whacked to explain things now. I need to take a handful of pills and go to bed.'

'I'd been expecting someone else; the room I have isn't much.'

'If it was okay for Tom, it will do me.'

Gavin led him to the room off the sleepout and turned on the light.

'It's fine,' Lenny assured him, dumping his overnight bag on the floor.

'Bathroom is opposite. Do you want a cuppa or something to eat?'

'Just a big glass of water. I'm on a high dose of oxycontin, so wake me if there's a fire. Hillbilly heroin the yanks call it. I wouldn't survive without it, but preserving my liver is no longer a priority. We'll talk in the morning.'

Gavin slept poorly. On Sunday morning he rose early and made himself breakfast as quietly as possible so as not to wake his visitor. It was after nine when Lenny emerged. In one hand he carried his overnight bag, in the other he held a brown paper bag which he put on the table. Gavin offered breakfast. Lenny opted for a soft-boiled egg.

'There's not a lot my system can still process. At home I've been having mushy vegetables for dinner. Can you manage that for me? I don't eat lunch.'

'No problem.'

While Gavin boiled the egg, Lenny made amiable small talk, mainly about the increasing problem caused by his illness, and the pills he had to take. Eventually, Lenny pushed aside his plate and looked across the table at his host. 'I've had to re-write the rules of the game,' he said. 'What I'm going to propose isn't what you signed up for. I brought you a bonus for the extra risk.' He pushed the brown paper bag across the table. 'Don't bother to count it. There's ten grand, and it's in addition to anything else I promised. We'll talk about where you might stash it later on. Best not here in case something prompts the police to take the place apart.'

'I see. What's the plan then?'

'Is it worth my breath telling you?'

'I've come this far. I'm not going to back down now.'

'I had you picked as a good'n.'

'I only hope I can deliver.'

'Here's how it goes. In the last twenty-four hours, I've had someone researching the schedule of events at Banabrook. Luckily, there's a large group of visitors moving out today, and the next party won't arrive until next Friday. Unless the odd passing tourist rolls in, it's likely the place will be quiet for the next few days. I've also had someone researching NSW Government procedures for managing chemical risks. Tomorrow, any guests left at Banabrook will be evacuated from the premises because of a spill of a toxic flammable liquid. The chemical and the risk will be real. A vehicle, which will be untraceable, will arrive at Banabrook. The driver, a chap who is very good at being dim, will discover he's come to the wrong location. His load will be badly secured and he'll lose most of it while turning the truck around beside the homestead. By a stroke of luck, you will be in the vicinity at the time. You will see the truck turn into the Banabrook drive and, as the weed control expert in the district, you will wonder what the devil is going on. Your knowledge of government procedures is encyclopaedic—I've brought you a dog-eared manual to make sure. You are never without it. You were a boy scout after all!' Lenny took a manual from his bag and placed it on the table. Gavin picked it up.

'Yes sir. This manual was one of the first things I bought when I went into business.'

'You've got the idea. Now, when you get up the Banabrook driveway and see what the driver has done, you will take control, calmly and with confidence. You'll instruct the police and the staff at Banabrook what they must do with the utmost urgency. This will include sending everybody away from the property except Mrs Kingsley. You will allow her to stay to keep an eye on things provided she does no cooking and keeps away from the driveway side of the homestead. You will order some bags of a neutralizing powder. Regrettably, it will have to come from a supplier the other side of Calway Junction. Am I right?'

'You most certainly are.'

'You will tell the police it would be a help it they went to escort the load to get it here quickly. The driver of the untraceable vehicle will be useless and frantic; at some stage he will disappear, also without a trace. The truck in question has a double cabin to carry road crew. I'll be concealed in the specially modified back section. It's how I got here yesterday. The tricky bit for you might be picking the time for me to slip into the homestead, undetected.'

'Crikey, you've got it planned to the last detail.'

'Not quite. There are always things you can't plan completely. People turn up when you don't expect them. Someone blocks the drive. Mrs Kingsley might not be there at the time. In my experience, there's always something has to be played by ear, but I'm good at that, and I can usually engineer the result I want. It's a bit like the old war movies you see—the night before the battle the general knows how he wants things to pan out, but the result is never certain. If all else fails, I'll do a Custer and make a memorable last stand. Getting here has been a real effort. If I don't come out in one piece, I won't come out at all. And if that happens you'll really have a story to tell. Are you still with me, Mr Froyland?'

'I'm with you Mr d'Aratzio. Win lose or draw. For the first time in my life, I feel like I'm someone important. I'm not about to let you down.'

'Good man. Any queries or comments?'

'Yes, there is one comment. Banabrook is on a hill. The driveway slopes up from the roadway. If the load isn't secure, you might lose it before you're ready.'

'Good thought. We should be okay, though. The driver has to get the load here to start with. It was secured under canvas when we came up yesterday. He was planning to rope it and tie it off with a knot he can release from inside the cabin. When they inspect the truck later on, they'll already know it was on a sabotage mission so it won't matter what they suspect. If we lose the load early we'll all have to improvise.'

'I'm learning all the time. I can't tell you how sorry I am you're so crook Lenny. Otherwise, I'd enjoy this. I think I'd apply to be your apprentice.'

Lenny started to laugh but winced and stopped. 'Punch-line to an old music hall joke: It only hurts when I laugh! The truck will arrive at Banabrook soon after nine tomorrow morning. I'll be spending most of today, resting up. You do whatever you'd normally do.'

'Okay, I'll go and have lunch at the Garden of Roses Café. I'm a regular on a Sunday. It's the weekly outing for some locals, and there's a few families come into town to go to church and treat themselves to lunch afterwards. Sometimes they tell me they've spotted an outbreak of lantana or something. They're keen as mustard to help out. It won't do any harm for me to be seen around.'

Morning Prayer at St Mark's was unusually well attended. News of the break-in had spread, and the ranks of the faithful were augmented by the ranks of the curious. The old confessional, roped off as elegantly as possible, had been inspected by each new arrival. The Blake family pew at the front of the church was full. Despite Max being the vicar, members of the family were not regular churchgoers and took it in turns to be there to support him. For Tony, going to the services was no imposition because he loved to sing and was a great admirer of Max's beautiful tenor voice. Today, they had all felt a compulsion to attend. Judith, Emily and Tony were joined by Tom, the farm manager, and by Ginny, who had been considered family since her time as carer to Judith's father. The visiting survey team from the lands department must also have been religious, for all three arrived in their two grubby vehicles and sat at the end of a pew at the back.

There was a ripple of laughter when Max mounted the pulpit and, with a glance at the damaged confessional, announced the text for his sermon — Proverbs Chapter 16 Verse 18: "Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall." He informed the congregation that the injured man was making good progress at Calway Junction Hospital.

There being no organist available, as was usual these days, one of the teachers from the school accompanied the hymns on the sturdy old upright piano. Max stood beside her to turn the pages and lead the singing.

As the congregation drifted from the church, Tony took Judith aside and said, 'Judith, my angel, you must wait while I get my overnight bag from the car. You have an uninvited guest for the next few days.'

'You know you're always welcome; but why?'

'If I am reliably informed, you and your surveyor friend will be the only residents in the homestead for most of the week. I won't be much use if it comes to fisticuffs or a duel or some such. But Emily and I thought another pair of ears in the night might be worthwhile. If necessary, your minder and I can take turns watching over you. Don't bother to argue, I'm pulling rank. As elder statesman of the Blake family I'm moving in.'

'How could I refuse such gallantry?' Judith kissed his cheek.

Murphy's Law

Monday 24th August 1992

It was still dark on Monday morning when a dilapidated truck pulled up near the railway yards and its lights were extinguished. Soon afterwards, Lenny emerged from the gloom, opened the passenger door and climbed into the back of the cabin.

'I have a water bottle to keep me hydrated and an empty one to keep me drained,' he told the driver. 'We've got quite a wait.'

'Time for a nap. I'll set my alarm for eight thirty, okay?'

'I'd rather you stayed awake.'

'A bit edgy are we?'

'Don't forget who's paying the bills.'

'Okay, boss. I'll stay awake.'

Lenny slid himself into a long toolbox, padded with a sleeping bag. 'I feel like I'm prematurely in my coffin,' he said. 'But it got me here. And it will get me where I need to go...if the bloody driver stays awake!'

Judith and Megan were making breakfast when Tony entered the kitchen shortly after six.

'I make good toast,' Megan said. 'But it doesn't seem much of an achievement after such a scrumptious dinner.'

'You are too kind,' Tony said.

'I mean it. You two should open a restaurant somewhere.'

'Judith and I have long been a great culinary partnership. I say so without any false modesty. Working with her is great fun. Now, my angel, tell me what activities are planned for today.'

'Nothing, if possible,' Judith said. 'I might read for a change. I've given the staff the day off. It's the first break any of us have had for a while. I've switched the telephone to the shire offices. Cookie Cate is going into town to do some shopping.' She paused, and waved through the kitchen window as a tractor left the manager's cottage. There was a piercing whistle in response. 'Tom and Fred are dismantling the old windmill. He wants the new one in place for summer.'

'Where's our artist in residence?' Tony asked.

'He's off on a field trip until tomorrow.'

'I must say I like his work,' Tony said. 'I had a peek into the studio; there's a piece there I might buy for my place.'

Judith smiled. 'He's a delightful young man; we've had lots of good comments and several sales. It would have been unfortunate if the first resident's work was not well regarded, though that isn't the be-all and end-all of a project like this.'

Turning to Megan, Tony said, 'Do you know, in my entire experience of Banabrook, I cannot recall another time when there were only three people in residence. The place has always been buzzing with energy.'

Judith laughed. 'I'm sorry we have so little to entertain you.'

'No matter. I will begin my day by taking a longish walk in the forest to keep faith with my doctor. He's a bully, but I obey him without demur—coward that I am.' Tony patted his substantial waistline and rolled his eyes. 'Later I will select a book from Banabrook's impressive collection and put my feet up somewhere—inside, I suspect; it's a bit too breezy to sit on the verandah.'

'Well I'm looking forward to a day not pretending to be a surveyor,' Megan said. 'I really have to concentrate sometimes to be sure I'm playing the role.' She looked at Judith. 'Keep me posted on where you are. I know it's tedious. But it's when you let your guard down things go wrong.'

'Okay, I'll do as I'm told. Although I must say I think the protection for me is a waste. I appreciate what you're doing, but I'd rather Brody assigned you to help Ziggy look after Max. He's the target.'

'Understood. But we have our orders, and we follow them.'

At eight thirty, Gavin got into his truck and started inspecting verges. He drove slowly on a route that would eventually take him past Banabrook.

At eight forty-five, Eamon called Megan's mobile to get her morning report. Soon afterwards he called Ziggy. Both assured him they were remaining vigilant despite the boredom of waiting for something to happen.

Soon after nine, an old truck passed Gavin. It appeared to be loaded with drums of chemicals. 'What the blazes is he doing here?' Gavin murmured to himself, grinning at his own joke. He followed at a distance and saw the truck turn into the Banabrook driveway.

Judith heard the tooting of a horn outside. As she went to investigate, Megan arrived and said, 'Let me take a squiz through the window first.' Having done so she said, 'Were you expecting a delivery?'

'It might be something Tom's ordered.'

'Check it out, but with care.'

Judith went out onto the verandah. The truck driver had climbed down from the cabin and was peering at papers on a clipboard. When he saw her he said, 'There's meant to be a big shed.'

'What are you delivering?'

The driver peered at his clipboard again. One drum of...toluene di-iso...something or other. Adderley Farm.'

'Adderley Farm is further up the road.'

'Oh. Must 'ave misread the map. My mistake, lady.'

He climbed back into the truck and started to turn in the driveway. It was obvious he would not make it in one go. After backing up a short way, he started forward again. He was backing a second time when Megan came running around the corner of the homestead shouting, 'Hey! Hey! That load isn't safe. You're going to lose the whole bloody–'

She did not get to finish. The truck lurched forward and two drums fell off. The lid of one of the drums burst off and liquid spurted out, drenching Megan's shoes and slacks. 'Shit!' she yelled. 'Oh shit. It burns like hell.'

'There's a hose around the back,' Judith yelled.

Both of them ran into the house garden. Judith started the hose running while Megan stripped off her shoes, socks and slacks. Her eyes were screwed up and she was obviously in pain. Barney Two had arrived with his ears up, but responded instantly to a command to sit.

Gavin reached the top of the sloping driveway in time to see the drums fall. He jumped from his truck and ran to the driver's side of the other vehicle. 'What is that stuff?' he yelled up to the driver. The man grabbed his clipboard and handed it down. 'Bugger me!' Gavin said. 'Get yourself down here. If anyone comes, keep 'em away from the spill.' He ran in the direction Judith and Megan had disappeared, arriving to find Megan sitting on a garden bench examining her feet. They were an ugly shade of red and had started to blister.

'Are you part of this disaster too?' Judith snapped.

'No, Mrs Kingsley. I was passing when the truck pulled off the road. I saw the hazardous chemicals plate. Beats me how he made it up the driveway without losing his load. This lady has to be taken to hospital quick smart. You've done the right thing washing it off but they'll need to treat her with something to keep those blisters from getting worse.' He frowned and peered at Megan's feet. 'Since you're already down to your knickers, I'd stay that way if I were you, maybe put something over your legs, but leave them damp.'

'I'll get the ute,' Judith said.

'Is there anyone else who could look after her? I'd rather you stayed. I might need your authority if we have to get urgent approvals to deal with the spill. We don't want to risk any delays.'

Before Judith had a chance to suggest calling Tom, Megan had taken her mobile from her belt and was talking to Eamon. 'He's on his way,' she said as she rang off.

'We should evacuate the place,' Gavin said. 'You don't want to put any visitors at risk.'

'Fortunately that's not a problem,' Judith said. 'For once, we're the only ones here.'

'Really?' Gavin nearly grinned. Instead he contrived a furrowed brow and said, 'Right then. I'll go and check the manual. There's government regulations and procedures to follow. I'll have to find where we can get the neutralizing agent. Probably Calway Junction, I'd guess. I'll call the local cop and get him to be on standby.' He squatted down and peered at Megan's legs and ankles again. 'Sorry about this', he said. 'No time for modesty.' After a moment, he turned to Judith. 'I'd run the hose over her again,' he said. 'When the bloke arrives to pick her up, wrap her legs in a wet towel. And you better tie up your dog. You don't want him sniffing at the stuff.'

'Okay. Thanks. And I'm sorry I spoke rudely.'

'No worries.'

When he was satisfied Judith was following his instructions, Gavin hurried back to the driveway. He had never felt more confident or in control. The truck driver was making a show of walking to and fro muttering and looking worried. Gavin said to him, 'Get Lenny inside now. Tell him there's nobody in there, and Mrs Kingsley will be the only one left at home when we get the other bird off to hospital. If I were you, I'd take the opportunity to get away now. How were you planning to travel?'

'I've got a swag to carry and I'll wander on down this road to take me away from any traffic coming out of town. I've checked the maps. I'll be on back roads in half an hour. I'll be fine.'

'Do it before the car comes to pick up the lady. But get Lenny inside first. I've got to handle the spill.'

Lenny could hardly believe his luck, but he was not going to be complacent. He was alone inside Banabrook homestead, but cautious nevertheless. He found the kitchen and, opening off it, an enclosed pantry. It was the ideal place to wait. There was every chance Mrs Kingsley would want to make herself some tea after all the fuss. If not, Lenny had no doubt he would find her easily enough. There was no chair in the pantry. As he was taking one from the kitchen he passed a door leading into a large room. He froze. Through a picture window on the far side he could see into a garden. Sitting on a bench was a woman he knew. He could not remember her name but she was one of Brody's offsiders. He moved slowly out of view and retreated to the pantry.

Eamon made good time from the hotel. At the top of the sloping driveway into Banabrook he found his way blocked by a vehicle he recognized as belonging to the local pest controller, Bill Smith, who was using iridescent tape to mark off the area of the spill.

'You the driver for the injured lady?' Gavin asked.

'Yes.'

'She's around the back, mate. She should be okay, but this stuff is bad news so don't hang about. The quicker they get the right ointment on her legs the better her chances of not having permanent scars.'

'That bad?'

'I didn't tell her the full story.'

'Bloody hell!'

'You can't drive through here or you'll end up with your tyres falling apart. Go up the stairs and along the verandah. I'll come and help you carry her.'

'Don't bother, I'll be better on my own. Why is this muck here anyway?'

'It was meant for a neighbouring farm. The driver stuffed up. Pure luck I was passing by when he arrived.'

'So where's the driver now?"

'I think he's done a runner. My guess is he'd been on the booze last night and he needs to be in better shape before someone like you gets to see him.'

'Christ Almighty!'

'Mate, forget the bugger for now. You need to look after the lady!'

'Yeah. Okay.'

Eamon found Judith wrapping wet towels around Megan's legs. 'Bloody hell, Meg. You okay?'

'It hurt like blazes to start with, but the cool water helps.'

Eamon looked at Judith. 'What do you use these crappy chemicals for anyway?'

'Don't ask me! There's a new manager at Adderley Farm. I've no bloody idea what they're spraying for. This isn't my fault, Eamon.'

'Yeah, I suppose not.'

'Apology accepted!' Judith glared at him.

'Okay, I apologise.'

'I should think so! Now let's get on with what we have to do.'

Eamon turned back to Meg. 'Let's have you. Fireman's lift, okay?' She stood unsteadily while he grabbed her wrist and put her arm behind his neck, then she let herself flop over his shoulder.

'Light as a feather,' Eamon said. He looked at Judith. 'You're coming with us. We can't leave you here on your own.'

'Mr Smith might need me. He seems to have the spill under control but we can't leave him to do everything himself. I bit his head off when he arrived so I owe him some courtesy. Get Megan to Calway and you'll be back here in a couple of hours.'

'You're not meant to be left alone.'

'It's low risk, Eamon. You'll be gone three hours at most. Mr Smith is here, and I'm not the target anyway.'

'Protecting you and Max is our job. It's why we came.'

'It's a low risk and I'm the one taking it. Ziggy is looking after Max. Your priority now is an officer injured in the course of duty.'

'I suppose you think it's no risk for us to go against the orders of a superior. It could be worth our jobs.'

'You have no choice. I'm not co-operating.'

'Christ Almighty!' Eamon thought for a moment. 'I'm not happy Mrs Blake!'

'Well, I'm sorry Sergeant!'

There was a pause before Eamon spoke again. 'Okay, I guess it is a minimal risk, and I do have to get this lump to hospital before she breaks my back.'

'I thought you said light as a feather,' Megan muttered.

'In your dreams Meg. In your dreams.'

At Bill Smith's request, Judith found a notice board and marker pens so he could make a sign to warn people about the spill.

'I need to duck back into town and pick up a distributor to spread the neutralising powder,' he said.

'We use distributors for fertiliser. Will one of those do?'

'I'd be happier using a machine I know. I'll pick up some big rubber boots at the same time. You get real cautious when you work with chemicals.'

'I can imagine.'

'This'll be okay for now. I've cordoned it off. Meets the requirements listed in the manual. If anybody ignores the sign, that's their problem. Best you go inside so you're not breathing any fumes. Fortunately the breeze is carrying them away from the homestead. You can boil an electric kettle but no gas or flame. I went in and checked you don't have the stove fired up. I'll be back before they get the stuff here from Calway.'

Confrontation at Banabrook

Monday 24th August 1992

In the vestry at St Mark's, Max looked at the screen of his mobile for the source of an incoming call. 'Yes darling?'

A man's voice said, 'I didn't know you cared! Now listen carefully. Getting this call from darling's mobile must tell you something. If there's anyone with you, don't let on who really rang—it was darling, okay? I've already seen one of Brody's crew. Good-looking bird but I'm afraid she's on her way to hospital. In case you've forgotten the voice, the name's Lenny d'Aratzio. Mrs Kingsley and I are currently the sole occupants of Banabrook. It's a long story—evacuation because of toxic spill will do for now. This is a once only offer to swap her life for yours. If I can't get you, I'll have to be content to know you came home to find darling with a hole in her head. We are in a large room with a big picture window. The doors are closed. When you get here—and you'd better be alone if you want to see her alive—knock and identify yourself. I have a gun and I can take her out before anyone gets to me. Lose whoever's guarding you and come straight here. If I think it's taking you too long, be prepared for darling to be dead. I have an impressive record, so don't try anything. End of story.' The call terminated.

Ziggy came out of the washroom at the end of the vestry and put his book down on the bench. Max should have been in the vestry with the door closed. This was the agreed procedure. But Max had become less cautious since Tom Jones had been disabled. Ziggy went to the door of the vestry. Finding the church empty, he moved to the main entrance, ready to retreat if Max was talking to a legitimate visitor. All was quiet. He stood in the doorway, listening; he must have done so a dozen times since arriving at St Mark's. Always he assumed there might be something wrong. Moving warily he emerged into the car park. There was nothing there. Max's truck was gone.

'Shit,' he murmured. 'What's the bugger doing now?'

He unclipped the two-way radio from his belt, held down the speak button and yelled, 'Max, are you there? Over.' He listened for a few seconds. Not even interference. He took out his mobile telephone and hit the speed dial for Max. There was no response, not even a message bank. With growing anger and frustration, he hit the speed dial for Eamon. After several rings, he was about to end the call when Megan came on the line. 'Hi Ziggy.'

'You with Eamon?'

'Yes he's taking me to hospital.'

'I'll ask why later. Max has disappeared.'

Eamon came on the line. They briefed each other quickly. Eamon told Ziggy to stay put in case Max came back, and to call people who knew enough about what was going on to help look for Max or his truck.

'Forget Gerado, for now. He's on his way to Calway. Long story. Ring Judith in case something has taken Max there.'

Out on the highway, Max tried to order his thoughts. Lenny's offer to swap his life for Judith's might be a lie, but there was no choice other than to present himself at Banabrook. On the other hand, he trusted his police minders and he should alert them if possible. The two-way radio was clipped to his belt, but he might already be out of range of Ziggy. Conscious of the risk while driving at speed, he took out his mobile telephone and scrolled through the numbers. Eamon was the first to come up. He pressed call and waited. The signal was engaged. He scrolled further and tried Meg. After a few rings he got her message bank. By that time he was negotiating the road system around the outskirts of the town. He put the mobile on the passenger seat. As he took a right-hand bend faster than usual, the telephone slid off the seat and onto the floor. It stayed there.

When Max arrived at Banabrook he found the driveway beside the homestead enclosed in plastic tape. A notice board from the reception area had been propped against the verandah. It carried the briefest of messages. DANGER. TOXIC SPILL. Skirting the taped area, he got to the verandah stairs, entered the homestead by the main door, and made his way to the family room. The doors, which were usually folded back, had been closed. He knocked and identified himself. A male voice called, 'Enter. Slowly!' He did so.

'Reverend Kingsley. We meet again, how nice; but don't come any closer. You can start by shutting the door. Make sure it's fully closed. I know it doesn't lock, because I checked, but it has a rattly old handle to forewarn us of any new arrival. When you've done that turn to face me. No sudden movements or I might get trigger happy.'

Max did as he was told. The smiling Lenny d'Aratzio, armed with a handgun, was seated in an easy chair in a corner; he had an uninterrupted view of the room.

'Are you all right?' Max asked Judith, who was secured by handcuffs to a chair in the middle of the room. She nodded, unable to speak because of a gag.

'If you've hurt her–'

'If I've hurt her, you'll what?' said d'Aratzio, his smile broadening. 'Cry maybe? You certainly won't be doing anything to me. I can use this you know.' He waved the handgun. 'I prefer to have someone else do the unsavoury jobs. But I've kept my hand in, so don't try me, I'm a very good shot!' He paused to let his message register. 'This is what I want you to do. When I say move, and not before, you may approach your wife, slowly, from the far side, and remove her gag. I do enjoy good conversation. It is one of the few pleasures left to me. But I didn't want her interrupting while I got you here. You will remove the gag, back away, and sit over there. Clear enough? Okay, move!'

Max did as instructed. As soon as he removed the gag, Judith licked her lips and blew some fibres from her mouth. Max reached out and wiped her chin with the gag.

'Thanks. I'm okay,' she said softly.

'Enough!' Lenny interjected sharply. 'Do as I told you!'

The chair Max had been directed to had been pulled away from its usual position near the door. He assumed Lenny had chosen the spot for a reason, perhaps it provided a comfortable angle for him to fire a shot.

'That's a good distance,' Lenny said. 'I recognize you from there, despite our both being older. It's about how far you were from the dock when you told the court some damaging things about me. I can admit, now, most of those things were substantially true; but the personal commentary you added at the time was unnecessary and hurtful, as well as being inadmissible, as the judge duly informed you. As a holy man, you should be above gratuitous insults. Still, you had your moment of fame.'

There was a long pause. Neither Max nor Judith said anything.

After a while, Lenny said, 'Admirable. Both of you. I'm impressed. Usually the trapped victims talk loads. How you love each other. How it will be all right. How on earth did this man get in here with the property under evacuation? Now that's a story. It was helpful of you to leave all the doors unlocked. It is the country way, I suppose. It's catching, too. As you can see, I've left the verandah door open. But don't get your hopes up. Anyone fool enough to approach from that direction would be easy pickings.'

Max and Judith remained silent. A mobile telephone on the table next to Lenny started to warble. He picked it up and looked at the screen.

'Whoever this Zig character is, he's now got two missed call messages. Was he your glimmer of hope, I wonder? If so, it's far too late I'm afraid.' He waved the gun again. 'Where were we? Ah yes, for the record, Reverendness, I resent the suggestion I might have hurt the lovely Mrs Kingsley. I'm sure she will attest... well maybe she won't, but she _could_ attest to my having been quite gentle—and gentlemanly too. Handcuffs are a wonderful invention. In my experience they remain the best way to get one's captives to secure themselves, while keeping at a safe distance. Ropes or gaffer tape are a real nuisance when you're trying to hold someone at gunpoint. An added advantage is that when the captive has a delicate bone structure, like your lovely wife, you can safely direct them to use handcuffs to secure their ankles to a chair—as you see. The wrists I had to secure myself, but I did so with much sensitivity. Lenny d'Aratzio has never hurt a lady—well not directly; I have had to have one or two put down, but I've always insisted on a quick and painless end... for a lady. Anyway, she knows where I've put the keys and someone will find her and set her free after we've gone.'

'After we've gone where?' Max asked.

'To hell, probably. Me certainly. You, I expect to see in the queue down there. I'm sure we'll be close enough to wave. Priests, lawyers, and politicians, you'll all be in the mix with chaps like me. Boozy old Ma Quigley from the back bar of the Sail and Anchor will be in the arms of St Peter, while you and I are lining up to be toasted.'

'Are you saying you expect to die—I mean, here and now?' Judith asked.

'Here and soon would be more accurate. It wasn't my original plan, but the last twenty-four hours has taken a toll. I'm weary. I don't have anything to look forward to other than disposing of His Reverendness. A year ago I would have backed myself to get away afterwards, but I doubt if I'm up to it now. I'd rather end it all in the proverbial hail of bullets than return to Sydney in a paddy wagon to be paraded before the beak. Bad thing, loss of face. I'd rather go like Butch Cassidy and Sundance. That's why I'm hoping somebody might try to rescue you. With any luck I might take a copper or two with me. Perhaps next time this Zig person calls, I'll answer.' A frown crossed Lenny's face and he shifted uncomfortably. 'I had to give up the idea of eliminating your friend Brody. The committee doesn't think it's a good time to go that far. Which is why it would be nice to clean up some of his team. It would make him sad I'm sure.'

'You're a monster,' Judith said.

'Please, no clichés, Mrs K. And you're wrong anyway. If you open your eyes to the realities of life you'll see I'm no monster. I'm a fairly typical human being; a human being "with attitude" as one of my young colleagues says. Darwin's theory is correct; but wrongly stated. It is not the fittest who survive, it is the most determined.'

'The most ruthless, you mean.'

'I won't deny ruthlessness helps. I'm so glad we ungagged you. Aren't you, Reverendness? She enlivens the debate no end.'

Max said nothing. Lenny continued speaking to Judith. 'Often, what determines who survives and who doesn't _is_ a question of the degree of ruthlessness. Take your husband, for instance. Some years ago, he came close to killing an associate of mine. With his bare hands. Now there's a ruthless act, wouldn't you say? The name of the fellow your husband attacked was Estoban. I liked Estoban. Later, Estoban disappeared from the scene and Brody as good as accused me of killing him to keep him quiet. Accused me of killing a man I had helped when others had abandoned him. There is no end to the bias some of us have to endure. The Reverend Max Kingsley was the person who came close to killing Estoban. It was a sad story. You see, Estoban was not an Australian citizen. He was a deckhand whose ship had left port without him. I gave him a job until he could join another ship to take him back to his homeland. Your husband bashed him unmercifully for injecting young people with heroin. Injecting kids is not the way I operate. I don't try to create addicts, I simply cater for a demand. But Estoban came from a country where things are done differently. It's a story I've not been able to tell anyone before; but the prospect of imminent death frees a man from constraints. I believe Charlie Magro discovered the same thing when he crashed out there on the highway. I believe he told someone what mission had brought him to these parts. A good catholic, Charlie—well, not a really good one; he probably hoped he'd get a better spot in purgatory by telling all. We're very big on confessing. Though, in his case, you might call it a Clayton's confession.'

Lenny paused and contemplated the thought before continuing. 'You know, if I decided _not_ to end my life in the lovely surroundings of Banabrook, I could, after shooting the Reverend Max, go running to my parish priest, make a deathbed confession, swear I truly repent my sins, and get absolution. And do you know what? The stupid idiot would bury me in consecrated ground and tell the assembled company I am in God's care. It's all nonsense of course. Even the most pious know it, deep down. But it helps sometimes if you can get a priest to tell the court you are a regular at Sunday Mass. And I've never thought going to church a waste of time. I like to sing. Hymns delivered with gusto are great fun.' Lenny took a sharp breath and again shifted in the chair. 'But I think I will have to finish it here, because I'd be kidding myself if I thought I could go running anywhere. In fact, Your Reverendness, I suspect I've got you here with just enough time for the happy ending.' He paused and smiled. 'I do like a happy ending! Odd the way things happen. I put out a generous enough contract; but it's hard to find good help these days, so here I am in person.' He frowned and changed his position again.

'What illness do you have?' Judith asked.

'I have cancer of the pancreas. I'm forty-two and I have advanced cancer of the pancreas. The doctors say my condition is unusual for my age; so I'm a bit pissed off.'

'Will killing Max give you much relief?'

'Not relief. Relief would be nice, but it's not why I'm here. It's satisfaction I'm after. Laugh if you want to, but ego is a funny thing. I like to imagine my colleagues in bars around Sydney saying: "You have to hand it to Lenny, he was a man of his word to the very end." But it's even better to imagine my enemies saying those things. And there's a practical side, Mrs Kingsley. I've spread the word that Lenny d'Aratzio would never die leaving his family vulnerable. Nobody knows exactly what I mean, but they will know it's no idle boast. They'll think twice before they try a move on any of my family. I've told my wife she should go to church in black and weep like those widows in Mafia movies. Then she should sell her story to Woman's Day. I suspect she has other ideas. I tried to talk her out of doing anything silly. We said our goodbyes and I love yous. I will give you time to do likewise. Quite soon I'm afraid.'

During Lenny's dissertation, Judith had heard a sound in the hallway. Now she yelled: 'Tony, don't come in here. It's Lenny d'Aratzio. He's armed. Keep away.'

'Nice touch, Mrs Kingsley,' Lenny said. 'I'm not buying it. But it wouldn't matter anyway. Even the army bursting through the door wouldn't stop me getting a shot away. I only need the one. And if there _is_ anyone out there... well it will save you waiting ages to be freed. Someone has to find us, some time. I never claimed to work miracles.'

'But at least he won't get Tony,' said Max. 'Well done darling.'

'Who's Tony, anyway?' asked Lenny.

Max and Judith looked at each other and said nothing.

'Well I don't really need to know. If he is there, I hope he has a strong stomach. You won't look pretty, Your Reverendness.' Lenny again adjusted the way he was sitting. Max thought he looked to be in considerable discomfort. If so, he might not want to wait long. If Tony or anybody else was in earshot when Judith yelled, they would probably be using their mobile telephone to call for help. But Lenny was a professional and Max didn't doubt he could fire several shots even if an army did burst through the door. It occurred to him, however, that any additional time they could buy gave cause for hope.

Max said, 'If I am about to die, you might satisfy my curiosity about something.'

'What?'

'The way you've set yourself up gives you a clear view of the room and the verandah and no threat from behind.'

'You noticed. Clever, don't you think?'

'I was wondering how a person like you acquires strategic skills.'

'Tactical,' Judith said.

Max shook his head. 'No, darling. Sorry to disagree but, as I understand it, strategy is anything you do to dictate the conditions for engaging with the enemy. Tactics is what you do after the engagement has started. Mr d'Aratzio chose to come to Banabrook rather than to engage me elsewhere, and he chose that corner as the position from which he would operate. Those are strategic decisions.'

'Does he always go on like this?' Lenny asked.

'What I was curious about,' Max continued, 'is how a small time crook comes by those skills. Were you ever in the army?'

'Small time crook? I'll have you know, young man, the Sydney press refers to me as one of the Mr Bigs. And that shows gross ignorance too. I'm not _a_ Mr Big I am _the_ Mr Big.' Lenny waved his gun.

'I'll retract "small time crook" if you answer the question.'

'How very big of you!' Lenny sat up in his chair. The effort obviously pained him.

Max continued. 'I'm assuming there isn't a training course for this sort of thing, but from the moment I entered the room I could see you knew what you were doing.'

'I am not lacking in intelligence, Your Reverendness.'

'Nor education,' Judith said. 'Not if your accent is any indication.'

'I'm a Joey's boy.'

'St Joseph's!' Max interpreted for Judith. 'Upmarket private school in Sydney. Run by the Marist Brothers.'

'Not bad, some of them, for men of the cloth,' Lenny said. 'Though you're all bloody hypocrites. At least the Marists were better than the pretend priests.'

'Pretend priests?' Judith asked.

'My first school was a Christian Brothers College.'

Judith frowned and said, 'I don't understand.'

'The Christian Brothers is a lay order. Any bugger who wanted to dress up in a frock could get himself a job as a Christian Brother if he put his mind to it. That's where I started to learn strategy Reverendness. They taught me a lot, those Christian Brothers; and not much of it divinity. I learned what it is to feel powerless. But I also learned to value being in control. As I am now.'

Max shifted in his seat. Lenny raised the gun. Max could see it was steady and aimed directly at him. 'As I am now,' Lenny repeated.

There was a prolonged pause during which nobody spoke. Lenny smiled and lowered the gun before continuing. 'My real education came later. Finding a good mentor, can give a lad a start in life. Mine wasn't a hypocrite priest. I found my mentor in the back alleys of Woolloomooloo. Direct, no nonsense stuff is what I learnt there. And there are other ways to learn survival skills. My mentor taught me to listen and to think. You listen to stories about how things went down when a job's been successful. You listen specially hard when blokes talk about the things that go wrong. These days, the TV is worth watching. You know, backing around door-jams muttering "clear" "clear". If you are intelligent you see bits the director gets wrong. You think: there's an idiot who'd be stone dead in real life.'

Judith said, 'I don't believe you've come to kill Max because he beat up an itinerant seaman. There has to be something else.'

'I knew you were intelligent.'

'It's obvious you don't like priests, and you don't like teachers much either. Max is both. Is that how he got under your skin?'

'Does it matter?'

'I'd like to understand.'

'Your husband gave evidence against me. I went to gaol.'

Max nodded. 'Where you were probably treated as royalty.'

'You are a perceptive pair, aren't you?' There was the hint of a self-satisfied smile. 'It's true. Inside, I was respected by screws and colleagues alike. But I do not like having a timetable imposed on me. I do not like taking orders, however politely expressed by some screw who doesn't want to find himself on Lenny's famous list. And I had a lot of time to ponder who it was who put me there.'

'So is that the reason?' Judith said.

'Jesus wept!' Lenny said sharply. 'You are becoming a bore, Mrs Kingsley, a damned bore! I did not come here to be cross examined by some jumped up rich bitch and I do not intend to justify, to you or anyone else, my intention to kill His Reverendness! Is that clear enough?'

Seeing the change in Lenny's mood, Max tried to think of something to say which might reduce the tension. He was still grasping for an idea when events took a new turn.

No army burst through the door, but the explosive shattering of the window at Lenny's shoulder caused all of them to react. Max was surprised to find himself on his feet, lunging across the room—an action he later realized was entirely reflex.

Tony came lumbering up the verandah steps carrying a garden fork as though on a bayonet charge. Panting from exertion, he stopped and took in the scene.

Lenny had twisted quickly towards the window but turned back immediately. As Max bore down on him Lenny lifted the pistol, his face distorted with pain. He pulled the trigger but the effort was too much; the shot went wide, the gun dropped to the floor, and he clutched his stomach. Max picked the weapon up. Lenny closed his eyes and started gasping quietly.

Catching his breath, Tony said, 'I think the young folk say "thanks for the heads-up." Are you both all right?'

'I think we might be in better shape than you are Tony,' Judith said. 'You should sit down.'

'Yes. Yes of course. Getting old. Sit down.' After puffing a while longer he said. 'I called Eamon, but when I peeped through the window I decided it might be wise not to wait for the cavalry. They're on their way. Pity about the window. A diversionary tactic seemed to be required. Found a stray brick out there. Surprised at my own strength. That's adrenaline for you. Makes the old ticker pound a bit though. All right, sitting down, sitting down.'

Satisfied that Lenny was no longer a threat, Max crossed to Judith. 'The keys are in the roll-top desk,' she said. He retrieved them and freed her. After hugging him, Judith crossed the room and stood over Lenny. 'Well, Mr Big. I don't like to see people in pain; but, for you, I'll make an exception. It's all I can do to stop myself poking my finger into your rotting guts.'

Tony said, 'Should we tie him up or something?'

'He looks harmless enough to me,' she said. 'If he makes a move, we'll get to find out how good Max is with a hand gun. I'll call Tom to join us and to bring a shotgun, just in case. Then I'm going to make some tea so I'll have something to offer the police when they arrive. That's right isn't it Mr d'Aratzio? Those detective shows you watch on TV. It's what the rich bitches being questioned always do. Offer the police a cup of tea.'

Tony opened his mouth to speak, but decided not to. After Judith had left, he said. 'My goodness, Max, normally she's such a gentle person. I'm afraid Mr d'Aratzio has raised her ire, somewhat.' He peered at Lenny whose face was a pale grey. 'Do you think we should call for an ambulance?'

'You'd be lucky to get one. Arajinna has been waiting for an ambulance service to be established for years. The police are his best chance of getting to a doctor. It's the way in the country, though. Lenny understands these things.'

A File Remains Open

Monday 24th August 1992

Tuesday 25th August 1992

It was not essential for Justin Brody to make the trip to Arajinna. It was something he wanted to do. He left Sydney less than an hour after Eamon called him. Shortly before 4pm, he stopped at the hospital in Calway Junction. His first call was to see Meg. He found her in a bed with a cage supporting a tent over her legs and feet.

'Sorry boss,' she said. 'Things went pear-shaped this morning. I guess this means brownie demerits.'

'Not the way Eamon tells it.'

'He won't be in trouble, will he? For leaving Judith?'

'Having an officer down changes priorities Meg. He knew it was his call. I've already told him I'd have done the same.'

'That's good.'

Justin tapped the cage protecting her legs. 'So how bad is it?'

'The doctor thinks I should make a full recovery. He reckons if Judith hadn't hosed me down so quickly I'd probably be looking at skin grafts. I've been greased with something that looks like molasses and smells like rotten eggs. If the inflammation isn't too bad when they wipe the muck off in the morning, I'll be discharged with a supply of some other ointment. I've been promised it will be less pungent.'

'I've heard most of the story. The truck was obviously a diversion to cover Lenny's arrival. We've posted an APB for the driver. Judith got a good look at him so we'll be able to put out an identikit sketch. She's offered to go to Sydney to work with our artist.'

'You'll have to get me a desk job for a few weeks. I won't be able to put on shoes until the skin grows back. I'll get myself a wheel-chair.'

'Hell, woman. You've been injured in the course of duty. You can put your feet up and watch TV for a week or two.'

She pointed to a television set in the corner. 'There's nothing to watch but soapies and cop shows, and they're mainly re-runs. I'd rather be doing some real police work.'

'We'll talk about it when there's a clearer prognosis for you. I'll pick your gear up from the Criterion and be back to collect you tomorrow afternoon. Meanwhile, I'm going to check on Lenny and his battered henchman.'

'It's a pity I won't get to thank Judith.'

'I'll make sure you see her when she comes to Sydney'.

'Thanks. That's one gutsy lady, boss.'

'So I'm told. And so are you Meg.'

As he rose to leave, she said, 'Are you planning on closing the file?'

'Not until Lenny's finally dead and buried!'

'I was thinking about the file on Max Kingsley.'

Justin shrugged slightly. 'The best we can hope is for it to remain inactive. But I don't think we should send it to the archives, Meg. Not yet.'

Lenny d'Aratzio had been put in a private room. Although it was obvious there was no flight risk, a constable was sitting on a chair in the corridor. As Justin entered the room, a nurse was leaving the bedside. When Justin identified himself she said, 'I believe he's been a naughty boy. Right now he's a naughty boy in a lot of pain. I've just given him a shot of morphine.'

'I'd like you to stay in the room while I speak to him. It won't take long.'

'Okay.' The nurse sat on a visitor's chair.

Justin stood at the end of the bed. 'So Lenny, things went pear shaped for you too.'

'It's Sir or Mr d'Aratzio to you, copper. I thought the fuzz was schooled in the art of sarcastic politeness.' Lenny's expression was probably intended to be contemptuous, but his speech was laboured.

'I've got to hand it to you,' Justin said. 'I thought my visit to your office last week might put you off looking for another hit man. I didn't expect you to have a go yourself.'

'Last throw of the dice.'

'Is that a promise?'

'It's the reality now. No point fooling myself. The consolation is you'll never get me to court. My lawyer will be so upset. He was hoping to get the chance to piss on you one last time. Of course that was before today. He might have found the latest evidence a bit of a challenge. But poor old Tom Jones can sing all he wants to now. I don't give a rat's arse. The prosecutor will never get to present any of it. What a pity Brody. What a pity.'

'He'll get to use some of it when we catch up with your helpers.'

'If Brody, if. You don't know I had any.'

'There's the truck driver for starters.'

'If I thought I'd be around to collect, I'd lay you good odds you'll never track him down.'

'Time will tell, won't it? Even if you aren't around, time will tell. At the very least we'll get to see Tom Jones in the dock, by some name or other.' Brody turned to leave.

Lenny raised his voice slightly and called after him. 'By the way. I didn't get to top His Reverendness, but I was able to tell his wife about his violent tendencies. I reckon he would have been really shat off by what I said. You should ask her.' Lenny shifted uncomfortably, closed his eyes, and waved Brody away.

Justin thanked the nurse and went into the corridor. 'Where's the man who calls himself Tom Jones?' he asked the constable.

'In a ward up the end there. The Sarge told me not to bother watching out for him. You'll see why.'

Brody entered the ward. He nodded to the occupants of a couple of beds. A label identified Jones as the heavily bandaged patient lying in traction surrounded by a system of ropes and pulleys. It would be days before an interview would be possible.

Brody left Calway Junction and headed for Arajinna. He'd expected to feel exultant visiting the defeated Lenny. Instead he had a sense of anti-climax. Lenny's illness would rob Justin's team of a win in court. He had to admit it was a win he'd been looking forward to. And Lenny might have rolled the dice for the last time, but there was no knowing what attitude his family might take.

It was shortly after six when Justin Brody pulled up at Banabrook. Max and Eamon came out to greet him. The truck and the site of the spill were now enclosed in official crime scene tape. 'What's the latest?' Justin asked.

Eamon said, 'The shire's weed control contractor has worked on the spill and reckons it's safe. Seems a good operator. He took delivery of a whole lot of bags of powder and spread it over the entire area. He's made a report to whatever government department handles chemical hazards and they're sending an inspector to give the all clear in the morning. I've taped up the cabin of the truck. You'll have to decide whether forensics should inspect it. It looks as though Lenny was hidden in there and slipped into the homestead while Meg was being hosed off. He was really lucky with his timing.'

'And then his luck ran out,' Brody said.

'Yes,' said Max. 'Cousin Tony was the unexpected factor. Come in and meet the family.'

There were seven of them for dinner—a celebratory feast cooked by Tony and Judith and served in the main dining room. Max, Judith, Tony, Eamon and Ziggy took turns to recount the events of the morning from their individual perspectives. There was an edge to Ziggy's contribution as he told how Max had given him the slip and left him out of the excitement.

'I really am sorry, Ziggy,' Max said. 'I didn't even find your missed call on my mobile until after Lenny had been carted away.'

'Marvellous. Bloody marvellous,' Ziggy glared at him. 'And you were the one who thought it important to work in pairs as I recall.'

'The point is well made. Guilty as charged!'

Justin changed the subject to tell of his visit to see the injured parties at Calway Junction.

Emily had no story to tell and expressed the opinion that at her age it was probably just as well she hadn't been in the action.

With beds to spare at Banabrook, Judith had insisted all of them should stay overnight so they could unwind and enjoy dinner. The surveyors of Team Bravo had booked out of the Criterion ready to head back to Sydney in the morning. Judith had gone into town to pack Meg's gear to avoid possible embarrassment for males dealing with women's business.

Max served the wines Tony had selected to complement each course. These included Banabrook's last bottle of a rare dessert wine made from grapes with the legendary noble rot. After dinner, Max ground and percolated fresh coffee. Usually this would have been served in the family room, but the broken window, although boarded up, somewhat spoiled the ambiance. Port and Brandy were offered, but Tony was the only taker. Uncorking a fine old cognac, he said, 'I'll stay the extra day to sleep it off and, as usual, vow never again!' At eleven, the party broke up and went to bed.

Each temporary resident of Banabrook emerging into the daylight on Tuesday found Judith in the kitchen offering hot drinks, toast (with Vegemite or her celebrated cumquat marmalade), eggs and bacon, filtered tank water, and Alka Seltza. They took their selection out onto the verandah. Tom, Fred and Cookie Cate, who had already eaten breakfast in the farm manager's cottage, arrived to consult with Judith about getting Banabrook back into shape before the next influx of tourists. In response to a request from Justin Brody, Tom undertook to arrange for the abandoned truck to be put into the care of an authorized cartage firm to be transported to Sydney for forensic examination. He would have to wait for the inspector to declare the spill site safe.

Max was first to leave, keen to get to school and resume direct contact with his students. He took Ziggy aside and apologised for causing problems for him. They parted on good terms.

The others insisted on pitching in to do the washing up. Then Justin left to spend time with Dominic Gerado before heading off to collect Meg. By eleven, Eamon and Ziggy had departed in the Operation Bravo vehicles. Soon afterwards, Emily drove Tony back to the house on the river.

Having given the staff an extra day off, Judith found herself alone with her thoughts. The family had lived with the knowledge of d'Aratzio's threats for two years. It was a subject never discussed, even between her and Max, but she was sure all of them had thought about it from time to time. Since Charlie Magro came looking for Max two weeks ago, the threat had been constant and emotionally draining. Perhaps now it was all behind them. Justin had told her Lenny's comment about rolling the dice for the last time. Justin had also expressed the view that Lenny's family would probably see no profit in continuing what had been a very personal vendetta. Pressed on the subject, however, he admitted to having some misgivings. When Judith asked what he knew about Lenny's family, he had frowned before replying.

'There's really only the wife, Miranda, and her relatives. Lenny was an only child and he fell out with his parents years ago. There are two daughters, both married and living overseas. I've had little to do with Miranda. She's never appeared on our radar. She doesn't frequent any of the nightspots we keep an eye on. It's quite common to find the wives of underworld villains to be gentle and harmless. My guess is she's one of those.'

It would be some weeks before Justin felt the need to telephone Judith from Sydney and tell her he had reassessed his assumptions about Miranda d'Aratzio. For now, however, calm had settled over Banabrook.

Entry in a Diary

Sunday 30th August 1992

By the Sunday after the confrontation with Lenny, the family room window had been repaired, and Banabrook had settled a new intake of guests into rooms in the old stables. When Max left to go to St Mark's to conduct the 11am service, Judith sat down at the roll-top desk and made an entry in her diary.

30 August 1992

My first entry for nearly a month leaves a gap representing some of the most significant happenings of my life. Too bad! I don't have the inclination to relive those experiences by writing about them, and the local papers are record enough.

I have barely kept track of other happenings around town. I know Caroline was concerned about strange goings on at Arajinna Fabrics but she has confidence in the temporary manager brought in from Sydney and the output from the factory is very high quality.

Emily has a certificate confirming the change of her name back to Blake is official. This will save us having to explain how she came by the name Henderson, which usually leads to questions about her three decades away from Arajinna, a story too complex to explain easily even if it was anybody else's business. She is slowly losing the American accent that was so noticeable when I first met her two years ago. She obviously had a soft spot for the late Ivan Henderson, but they had never married, and there's no doubting Daddy was her real love. How strange to think I would never have been born if she had not left her home and her husband.

It is hard to believe Emily is in her seventies. She has started playing golf again and won a mixed-foursomes competition recently, partnered by young Fred who is half her age. She is quite a legend in the local sporting clubs, and the older citizens of the town still talk about her dominance as a golfer and netballer in her youth.

Things have changed so much for me these past two years. I have lost Daddy and Mama, but rediscovered a half-sister who left Banabrook when I was a baby. I've met Emily (whose relationship to me I don't know how to name—new friend will do!) I have also become attached to my effervescent cousin Tony, and to Sean, who I assume must be my brother-in-law. (Half-brother in law sounds too silly). Sean is the tallest man I have ever met; he is a giant and photos of him with me cause much mirth.

RIP LSD

Tuesday 15th September 1992

Neither Gavin Froyland alias Bill Smith nor Manny Cornelius alias Tom Jones was in the substantial crowd at the Northern Suburbs Cemetery for the interment of Leonard Stanley d'Aratzio. Justin Brody was there, although he remained outside the gates and at a distance from the action in the hope of avoiding confrontation with mourners who held him in less than high regard. He believed those attending the funerals of big time criminals could be divided into four categories—those genuinely bereaved (usually limited to family and a few friends), those whose lives had prospered from their association with the deceased (in Lenny's case his inner sanctum and employees of his pest control business), those who wanted to throw dirt on the coffin for other than religious ritual purposes, and those, like Justin himself, who were there to observe. Manny Cornelius was absent because he had been taken into a witness protection program when rumours surfaced in the underworld of his striking a deal with prosecutors to plead guilty and disclose names in return for lesser charges than his crimes warranted. Gavin Froyland had decided that, although now assured of a role in the d'Aratzio organization, it would be unwise for him to be seen at such an event by the likes of Justin Brody. So Gavin had stayed in Arajinna, continuing his work for the shire and waiting for his opportunity to withdraw from the pest control contract and take his well-earned position in the underworld.

Rodney Durkin, well-known actor and Lenny's brother-in-law, had taken a break from rehearsals for a revival of _Death of a Salesman_ to deliver the eulogy. At the graveside, he stood beside his sister, looking elegantly sad. He was confident nobody would take him for a dim-witted truck driver—a role in which he'd revelled. Had he seen the identikit image produced by the police artist from Judith's description, he would have been amazed how closely it resembled the character he had created. Stage make-up was one of his special talents.

To amuse himself as he strolled back with other members of the funeral cortège, Durkin approached Megan Schmitz, whom he recognized despite having seen her only in a rear vision mirror.

'I think we've met,' he said. 'Did you come backstage for an autograph after _The Crucible_?'

'It must have been somebody else,' Meg said.

'What a pity,' he murmured. 'I was hoping for a repeat of... Oh well. You do look lovely in black.'

On the television news that night, Gavin recognized the two giant minders who had been present at his first meeting with Lenny. They were never far from the side of Lenny's wife, Miranda, a petite woman who had slipped seamlessly into the role of gang boss. He wondered if any of the other men he saw was John Sutton, the lawyer he knew only by voice and who had advised him to lie low for the time being.

'I can't get over Miranda,' Justin said at a debriefing later that day. 'I had her picked as one of those underworld wives who isn't really part of the action. I'd never met her until we visited the d'Aratzio mansion to tell Lenny the prosecutor had agreed to defer charging him. She turned out to be a tough angry lady. Accused me of going there to gloat and to make sure Lenny really was close to death. And today I copped one hell of a malicious stare when she saw me hanging around.'

Eamon shook his head. 'I'm still uneasy about our visit to see Lenny. It was my first encounter with Miranda too. Now he's croaked, I'm not convinced she won't have another go at Kingsley and maybe at others who've crossed her. The word on the street is she knows Lenny was warned by other underworld heavies not to target you or any other members of the force. The mob isn't ready to start a shooting war with us. But the person she's thoroughly crapped off about is Tony Blake. She blames him for denying Lenny his moment of revenge and causing him a lot of physical pain. Lenny had obviously given her a blow-by-blow description of how things went down in Arajinna. If Manny Cornelius helps us put some of Miranda's other associates away... well, mate, I think we have to stay on high alert.'

Megan sat back and emitted a long sigh. 'If we have to tell the Blakes to keep watching their backs, where will it ever end?'

Justin said, 'I'd like to call Eamon a worry-wart, but I've been having similar thoughts. When I talked to Lenny before he tried the hit, he wasn't fussed about who Manny might name. It's not hard to see why. Manny wasn't part of Lenny's gang. He was freelance, and he won't survive long in the pokey if he gives up anyone with clout. I suspect he's going to give us names from Lenny's own wish list, petty crims who've crossed the big boys. And the other gang bosses will get the joke and Manny will be given protection inside.'

Eamon nodded. 'And they'll all laugh about how we did a deal to reduce the charges.'

'So do we warn Max and Tony?' Megan asked.

There was a pause while Justin thought. Eventually, he said, 'I'll call Max. I'll repeat what I told him a long time back—to get on with their lives and let us do the worrying. The Blake's have adapted well to that philosophy in the past. If Miranda is a threat, I think she'll be very careful what she does. Her lawyers will advise her that any hit on Max or Tony will revive a stack of other good circumstantial evidence. Even if we couldn't find a link to the hit, they'd be in for some real heat on their activities while we poked around. We've seen in the past how other gangs manoeuvre for territory if we concentrate our attention on one operation. Self-interest is always bigger than honour among thieves.'

Megan managed a half-smile. 'I find that a comforting thought, boss. I sure hope you're right.'

Forensics

Friday 25th September 1992

The head of forensic enquiries, Dr Gunter Karp, had told Justin he had more pressing work than to examine the damaged truck brought from Arajinna nearly a month ago. Justin agreed it was a low priority job. Examining the truck might, at best, help identify one or more of Lenny's lowlife accomplices in the failed mission at Banabrook.

What changed Gunter's mind was that the truck occupied much of the area allocated to the forensics department in the secure basement. On the morning of Friday 25th September, the arrival of a van filled with boxes of items from other investigations caused a crisis. Tempers flared at the loading dock of the secure facility and Gunter was called to make peace. The truck would have to be dealt with. Putting aside his other work, he conducted a preliminary examination of the driver's cabin. He found nothing of immediate interest. The department's sophisticated equipment did little other than to locate some substances that might be worth testing. He gave an enthusiastic young assistant instructions to take scrapings, and specified the procedures required. It would give the young woman...what was her name again? Bryony? Yes, it would give bright young Bryony Somebody Ph.D useful experience in tests she hadn't previously had the opportunity to try. By Friday evening Bryony had collected the scrapings and set out an array of test tubes on a bench in the laboratory. Had the strange coincidence of a new high priority job not required Gunter to visit Arajinna on the Monday, Bryony would probably have consulted him about one of the samples. Instead, acting on her own initiative, she looked up a number in the telephone directory and made a call.

PART TWO

HOUSE ON THE RIVER

Tony's Orchard

Sunday 27th September 1992

Until Tony purchased his house on the river, in September 1990, none of the Blake family had ever been on the property. All of them had seen the house from the sandstone bridge on Old River Road, the aspect that had attracted Tony's attention. It was a two-storey timber structure on a small promontory 100ms downstream from the bridge. The river turned sharply right along the promontory then curved back in a large semi-circular arc, so the late nineteenth century architecture of the building on the point was seen in striking outline against the wheat paddocks on the other side of the river—paddocks stretching across the flat plains to a mountain range at the far edge of the fertile valley. There was a broad verandah on the upper level of the house. Emily, who had often ridden her bicycle across the bridge in her youth, remembered having sometimes seen a man leaning on the railing, fishing from the upper deck. It could truly be described as an idyllic image and nobody in the family had been surprised when Tony, having seen an estate agent's "For Sale" sign, determined to buy the property, even before inspecting it.

Access to the property was by an unmade side road off Old River Road. From a gate nearly obscured by long grass, a gravel driveway wound through trees and native bush to the main entrance. The area around the house had been cleared of most of the original vegetation to reduce the fire hazard. Grassed areas sloped away to the river on three sides. The remainder of the property appeared largely untouched. It was not until Tony was handed the plans of the site that he realised there had once been a citrus orchard. The layout was now barely discernible in the long grass and overgrown bushes on one side of the driveway. 'There's enough to do to refurbish the house without tackling the orchard at this stage,' he had informed the family after his first visit. 'Sometime in the future we will consider what to do with that area.'

He decided the time had come to turn his attention to the orchard when structural alterations to the house were finished and interior decorating well advanced. He had named the property Arramulta. He and Emily were now permanent residents. Like Alfred's naming of Banabrook, Arramulta was the nearest rendering they could get to the Aboriginal name for the valley, which a local elder told Tony meant a place where trees overhang the river.

An orchardist was brought in from beyond Bullermark to examine the citrus trees. He emerged from the undergrowth to give his opinion that, after heavy cutting back followed by lighter pruning over a couple of years, most of the trees could be expected to produce good crops. He had also discovered that the orchard had been watered by a pumping system drawing water from the river into irrigation trenches cut along the slope. 'You'd need to put in a modern pump. I found bits of the old one. Good museum pieces but no other use now. The owners were smart to install a pumping system. You couldn't rely on the rainfall we get out here—not for citrus trees. But you musn't over water citrus neither, so pumping is a good way to go.'

'So, what should I do next?' Tony asked.

'There's a lot of clearing to do at ground level. A small calf-dozer is what we want. I know a bloke who'll do that real easy. Then you need careful cultivation between the rows so as not to damage the root system. There's an orchardist near Calway has a narrow tractor and furrower. I've used him before. Mention my name and he'll give you a good price. Get him to call me and I'll give him a run-down on what to do. And I'll see if I can find a good tree surgeon for you. I don't have the time to tackle the job myself. But get the clearing done first so he can get a good look at what needs doing. It's getting a bit late in the season for pruning, but I reckon it's worth doing the first cut this year provided you're prepared to get the pumping system going again before summer.'

With work in short supply around the district, contracts to clear and furrow were arranged within a week. On the last Sunday in September, Judith and Max visited Arramulta after the morning service to have lunch on the upper deck and inspect the grove of overgrown trees.

'Lunch first,' Tony insisted. 'While you have been at work with the Almighty, Emily and I have been communing at the altar of haut cuisine.'

'What he means, honey, is I cut up the vegetables under his eagle eye.'

'Un sous-chef sans pareil. Was I not clever to put the kitchen on this level? As if cooking were not already a delight, to do so with such a view is indescribable. If I am able lure Judith, my angel and partner in such ventures, to join me in preparing a feast for our friends, perhaps even Caroline and Sean would visit when word of such an event filtered back to Canberra or Sydney or other places where the devil does his work—apologies padre!'

'You really are wound up today,' Max laughed.

'Too many nips of cooking sherry! There, I have confessed.'

'Well I've finished with the devil for today. I've removed my collar and Judith is driving so I'm allowed a drink!'

'Max, honey, I've never seen you so relaxed,' Emily said. 'The demise of that bastard d'Aratzio has done wonders for you. Tony's got a red open but if you feel like a white, this Pinot Grigio is yummy, and it's local—first pickings from the vines Grant Hughes put in.'

It was a happy party that made its way into the orchard after lunching on canard aux cerises and a dessert of Cuban bananas. They walked the freshly furrowed lanes between trees that, in their overgrown condition, had a chunky grandeur about them. The ancient broken pump was now in full view, as was part of the original irrigation system. The land sloped gently down to the stretch of river not seen from the bridge. They stood for some minutes on the sandy bank before starting back, each taking a different lane but in sight of each other.

'Hang on!' The call came from Max who had stopped and was examining the ground. 'Tony I think you'd better have a look at this.'

The small party gathered around an area in the lane Max had taken. For a while nobody spoke. Then Tony said, 'Alas poor Yorick.'

In addition to what was unmistakably a human skull, there were two or three bones partly uncovered, one of which appeared to be the end of a tibia, one of the few bones a non-medical person might recognize.

'Suddenly, I am sober,' Tony said. 'We must not touch anything.'

'Could this be an Aboriginal burial ground?' Emily asked.

'I would hope it was nothing more sinister,' Tony said. 'But these objects are so close to the surface, you have to wonder.'

Field Walking

Monday 28th September 1992

Tuesday 29th September 1992

The day after the strange discovery at Arramulta, Tony called on Constable Dominic Gerado and made a report. Dominic telephoned the station at Calway Junction. The sergeant at Calway quickly decided this was a matter for his superiors in Sydney and promised to call back as soon as he had instructions. After an hour of waiting, Dominic told Tony to go home. Pending orders from police headquarters, all he could think to suggest was that nobody go near the site.

It was early afternoon when Tony received a call from Justin Brody.

'It's really not my department, Tony, but the commissioner knew I was familiar with Arajinna so he's handballed the problem to me. It was referred to him because nobody further down the line could decide what to do. If these remains were found on a property in Sydney, the forensic department would have made an inspection immediately and we'd have an idea what we're dealing with. Unexplained human remains are usually treated as a potential crime scene until forensics has had a look, but the commissioner doesn't want Dominic sitting out there with the area taped off, and he's sensitive about the possibility of disturbing old burial grounds. We were blasted in the press over an incident out west last year. So we're asking you to sit tight and not tell anyone else what you've found. I've got Meg back in full harness and I'm lending her to the head of forensics who will be up to see you tomorrow. Name's Gunter Karp. Meg and Dominic will assist under his direction. Gunter's short staffed like everybody. We've chartered a flight out of Bankstown and the word is your strip is usable. Dominic will pick them up in the morning. They should be at your place by ten.'

'Okay then, Roger Wilco, or whatever they say.'

'I think it's "ten four" these days. Depends on what re-runs you watch.' Justin laughed and rang off.

The next day, Megan Schmitz was welcomed as an old friend. 'There's something about Arajinna?' she said, 'I can't keep away from the place.' She introduced forensic examiner Gunter Karp who was built like a front row forward but had soft hands and a gentle manner. Emily offered refreshments, but Gunter said he'd rather start the inspection so he could determine how long the job might take. Tony took them to the area where the find had been made. In quick time Gunter had given instructions to Dominic and Megan and was taking preliminary photographs.

'I'll leave you to it,' Tony said. 'Give me a time and we'll have something prepared for lunch.'

Gunter looked at his watch. 'Noon would be a good time to review things. We'll take a break then. And thanks. Lunch is often a luxury on jobs like this.'

Soon after noon, the forensic team arrived at the house, washed, and gathered around the kitchen table where Tony and Emily served them a range of homemade pies with salad. As they ate, Gunter reported progress. 'There's a limit to what I'm meant to say about an examination, but I can tell you it is definitely not a burial ground and they are not Aboriginal remains. The furrower was set to cultivate only a few centimetres deep, so the bones it disturbed were close to the surface. There's a full skeleton. We've found boots and bits of clothing. Whoever it was must have been in the shallowest of graves, possibly covered by branches or leaves or the like.'

'Foul play?' Tony asked.

'It is not my job to speculate.'

'But we must consider a body in a shallow grave somewhat suspicious.'

Gunter twisted his mouth, searching for an appropriate comment. 'The circumstances suggest unanswered questions. All I can do is present what I find to the state coroner.'

'So what happens next?'

'I gave Justin a call on my mobile while I was out there. Frankly, for a case like this the police simply don't have the resources to do all the things we might think appropriate. Unless there is clear evidence of a crime, there's a limit to what we can do without a court order anyway. I'm satisfied we've recovered all we can reasonably expect to find in that plot. It's a bit like an archaeological dig. You can tell when you've reached the limit of the area disturbed at the time of the burial. Everything's been photographed and bagged and tagged. We've prevailed upon the sergeant at Calway to send a van to pick the stuff up and cart it to Sydney. Justin wants us to take a walk around the entire freshly cultivated area so I can say in my report that there was no obvious sign of anything else unusual.'

'Field walking,' Tony said.

'Field walking?'

'You mentioned archaeology. In those programs you see on TV—you know Time Team and the like—sometimes instead of digging they just walk the fields picking up anything they think might be a clue to past occupancy. What they find has usually been dragged up during ploughing.'

'And they call it field walking?'

'I believe so.'

'Your permission will be necessary,' Megan said. 'But you can join the party, if you like.'

'Then let the walking begin,' Tony said.

Emily said, 'I'm happy to give it a miss. I'll do the washing up.'

Two hours later, Gunter was satisfied he could report that the site of the discovery appeared to be an isolated grave.

'How disappointing for the viewers,' Tony said. 'No coins. No evidence of a roundhouse. Just one mystery grave.'

Gunter laughed. 'It's not exactly Roman Britain or wherever your TV programs are made. Even allowing for my not being permitted to speculate, I can happily put this death at more recent than 200 years. So no roundhouse.'

Megan said. 'Dominic has no records of reports of missing persons in the district. His files go back seven years. We'll do a search of the archives, but Gunter's examination of the bones and the other bits and pieces is probably all we'll have to go on.'

When they returned to the house Emily was making tea for the driver of the police van from Calway. Soon afterwards the van and the forensic team left.

A Nose for Evidence

Wednesday 30th September 1992

Thursday 1st October 1992

Gunter Karp never closed the door of his office, so Bryony Patton Ph.D, having been brought up in a polite family, knocked on the door jam and waited to be asked to enter. Gunter was a good boss. Despite being chronically overworked, he rarely became ruffled and always had time for his subordinates. Besides, Bryony was an engaging young woman who reminded him of his daughter, with her blond curls and ready smile. He waved her to a chair. As she crossed to his desk, she said, 'I hope your trip to Arajinna was pleasant.'

'It was, despite the strangeness of the case. The Blakes are very friendly and the food they serve is worth the trip. Now, what have you got there?'

'Notes on the tests of the scrapings from the truck. I think I've gone as far as I can.'

'Okay. Talk to me.'

'Apart from the contents of one of the tubes, everything was easy enough to identify using the standard procedures. It's not for me to say, but I doubt whether those tests threw up anything to help the investigation—nothing you wouldn't expect to find in the cabin of a truck, and nothing to identify a specific person.'

'Apart from one item?'

Bryony felt her heart jump. She hoped her boss would be pleased with her initiative and her discovery. 'I think the substance in the tube labelled C5 is greasepaint.'

'Grease...paint.'

'Yes.'

'Not grease. Greasepaint.'

'It used to be the main component of stage make-up. These days most actors use more modern substances, but the contents of C5 seems to be genuine old fashioned greasepaint.'

'And how did you reach that conclusion?'

'When I opened the tube, I caught this strange aroma. It reminded me of my granddad's garage so...I hope you won't be angry...I asked granddad to come in and smell it for me. He has no doubt what it is. He used to be a theatre stage manager and he has a collection of memorabilia stored in his garage. The aroma I remembered was from an old make-up box given to him by a famous actor.'

Gunter leant back in his chair. 'My sainted aunt!' he said. 'We put you in a laboratory with some of the most sophisticated equipment available to forensic scientists, and you use your granddad's nose in lieu thereof!' He looked at Bryony and shook his head, then erupted in laughter. For a moment she remained serious, but his laugh was irresistible and she joined in.

When they recovered, Bryony said, 'I'm glad you're not angry.'

'Laughter is a great relief for stress. You've made my day. And if what you have surmised turns out to be significant, this will be a story we can dine out on. Item C5 eh? Whence came this strange substance?'

'It was on the fabric at the top of the driver's seat. It occurred to me it might be where the chin of the driver would touch the seat if he was looking over his left shoulder into the rear section of the cabin.'

'Leichner Number 9 and Number 5 eh?'

'I beg your pardon.'

'I did a bit of acting in my youth. Just amateur productions. Leichner was the leading manufacturer of greasepaint, and the sticks numbered 5 and 9 were the most common base. What a find!'

'Should I look for a more definitive test?'

'Good question. Immediate answer, no. Not yet, anyway. If the substance ended up as an exhibit at a trial we'd want to have something other than your grandad's nose—although properly presented by an expert witness a substance could be accepted as evidence on the basis of its smell alone. For now, I'll give you my notes on the truck and you can write up a report for Brody. I can't wait to know what he makes of your discovery. But, Bryony—don't be disappointed if it amounts to nothing. I'm afraid our business doesn't have the success-rate portrayed in crime fiction. Occasionally we find something unexpected that becomes pivotal to an investigation; much of the time we don't. But well done you, whatever the outcome.'

The next morning, armed with the report signed by Gunter, Bryony arrived unannounced at the offices of the Criminal Investigations Branch. The young man working at a desk near the door jumped to his feet and gave her a broad smile. 'We haven't met, but you're from forensics aren't you? I'm Kenny, Kenny Fetlow.' He held out his hand.

'Bryony Patton,' she returned his smile.

Kenny turned abruptly and peered at a list pinned to the notice board beside his desk. 'M.Sc. Ph.D. So it's Doctor Patton, eh. Now that's cool. Did you just happen to be coming this way, Doctor P, or was there a reason to by-pass the internal mail system?'

Bryony felt a brief flush and hoped it didn't show. 'I think the report might contain something of interest, and it's been some weeks coming. We're so busy.'

'Welcome to the fast lane.'

'I had hoped I might get to meet Detective Inspector Brody. He wasn't here when they brought me on my orientation tour. Neither were you.'

'And that was our loss, I assure you. Tell you what! I'll enter this in the register right now and we'll see if he's got a moment.'

'Stage makeup! I wonder.' Justin Brody picked up his telephone and dialled. 'Stage makeup,' he mused again while he waited for an answer. 'Gunter! I have your Doctor Patton with me. She tells me you expressed an interest in what I make of this report. Well, mate, I've only read the executive summary, but I'll tell you what I make of it if you let me give Doctor Patton instructions on a follow-up job... Do you want to listen in?... Gunter, have I ever failed to follow up with a form 29J?... Okay. What you probably don't know is that Lenny d'Aratzio's brother-in-law is Rodney Durkin... he's a leading stage actor, mate, where have you been? Doctor Patton is nodding so she knows... Okay, now this is what I want Doctor Patton to do for me. I'm giving her a copy of the identikit sketch of the driver of the truck. I want her to look for a suitable picture of Rodney Durkin to see if there are facial similarities. He's a media tart so it shouldn't be too hard to find a pic with him looking straight at the camera. She'll have to adjust for the narcissistic grin but I'm sure there'll be something. When she's found the best image for comparison, we'll show it to Meg who got a brief look at the driver, and I'll fax a copy to Arajinna for Judith Kingsley to look at. I'm hoping we'll find there's a likeness. If not, you guys will have done all you can.' Justin listened, then added, 'Thanks mate,' and hung up. He smiled at Bryony and said. 'Some days, Doctor Patton, we actually have fun. Some days, we have success. Let's hope today we have both! If we think we've identified Durkin, we'll also need to ask why an actor who is still in the business would be using old make-up. I'll come out with you and get Kenny to copy the identikit picture.'

When Bryony left the Criminal Investigations Branch she had an identikit picture and a date to have lunch in the canteen with the bubbly Kenny Fetlow. For her it was already a day of both success and fun.

Comparing Images

Monday 5th October 1992

Megan was the first potential witness to examine the pictures laid out by Bryony on Justin's desk on Monday morning. She took time over each of the images before shaking her head. 'I'm sorry boss; I didn't get much of a look—not a full mug-shot view anyway.'

'What view did you get?'

'When I looked out of the kitchen window, I saw the driver fairly close up, in profile. He was peering into his rear vision mirror; he had his head up and he was silhouetted against the open window. The image is fixed in my mind because I realised later that he was probably looking at the drums he was planning to cut loose. When it became obvious he was going to back down the slope, I ran around to the driveway to yell a warning. You know the result. Judith would have seen him face-on when she went out to ask what he was doing there in the first place.'

'We faxed the pics to Dominic half an hour ago. He's on his way to see Judith now.'

Bryony said, 'I think there are some profile shots in the publicity photos. I was concentrating on finding something to match the identikit image. Will I go and have another look?'

'Please do,' Justin said. 'It's a basic rule of sleuthing. Follow every trail, not just the one you start along. Which profile Meg, left or right?'

'Left.'

Shortly after 10am, Justin excused himself from a meeting to take a call from Judith.

'Dominic is with me now, Justin. I had a good look at the photos of Rodney Durkin before I took another look at the identikit picture.'

'And?'

'If Durkin was the truck driver, he should be nominated for an Oscar. The face I remember was nothing like this handsome chap.'

'What about things like the shape of the jaw or the high forehead?'

'The face I saw was unshaven and I don't think I saw the forehead because one thing I do recall was greasy hair sticking out from under a grubby hat.'

'Okay, Judith. Thanks for looking.'

'What did Meg think?'

'She says didn't really get a good look at him, but we're trying to get a profile to show her. That's the angle she saw.'

'I'll look at a profile, if you like. But I don't think I'm going to be much help.'

It was three in the afternoon when Bryony returned to Justin's office. 'It wasn't as easy as I thought,' she said. 'But I found a helpful man at the State Library. They have a collection of theatre programmes in the ephemera section. This is Rodney Durkin as King Lear. Left profile and obviously heavily made up because he must have been quite young for the part. Five minutes later, Meg was looking at the new image. Having been called from the women's toilet by Bryony, at Justin's behest, Meg was a bit tetchy. She gazed at the image for a full minute without speaking. Then she said, 'You drag me out of the loo for this! This! Bloody King Lear! Holy hell Justin, it's him!'

'You're sure?'

'I'm sure!'

Justin leapt to his feet and stabbed his finger on the desk. 'So, Constable Schmitz. You say you were looking through a kitchen window, is that correct?'

'Yes.'

'And the man you saw was in the cabin of a truck.'

'Yes.'

'Close to the window nearest you?'

'No. The truck had been proceeding towards my left. He was in the driver's seat.'

'On the right hand side of the truck.'

'Yes.'

'The far side of the cabin from you.'

'Yes.'

'And this was in the morning.'

'Yes.'

Justin picked up a blank sheet of paper and laid it on the desk. 'I am showing the witness a plan of the Banabrook Homestead. Do you recognise this layout?'

'Yes.'

'Would you indicate where the truck had stopped?'

Meg looked at the blank sheet and pointed. 'There. Near the kitchen window.'

'So the truck was facing in which direction?'

'Roughly south.'

'And this was morning, so the sun would have been where?'

'A bit north of east.'

'Putting the cabin of the truck in the shade and these fields in the background in bright October sunlight.'

'That would be correct.'

'And you say you recognise the face of a man seen through two windows, sitting in shade on the far side of an enclosed truck cabin.'

'I didn't say I saw his face. But I saw his profile clearly.'

'I see. Your witness.'

Justin sat in his chair, mimed shuffling papers, and stood again.

'Constable Schmitz, would you describe to the court what you saw that led you to testify that the man in the cabin was Rodney Durkin.'

'I saw the head of the driver in silhouette against a clear sky. If you look at the picture already presented in evidence you will see a slightly curved nose, a shapely mouth and a strong, protruding, jaw. To me the combination is quite distinctive. When I saw the publicity photograph of Rodney Durkin, in a similar profile to what I had seen at Banabrook, I had no doubt he was the man in the truck.'

Justin slumped in his chair, frowning. Meg continued to look at him. Bryony could scarcely refrain from asking the questions in her mind. After some time, Justin stood and started pacing around the room.

'It's good evidence,' he said. 'I'm convinced by it and I think there's every chance a jury would be. On its own, however, identifying Durkin as the driver wouldn't support a case for anything much. Accessory to something, perhaps, but not a lot else. He turned to Bryony who had deflated noticeably. 'Don't despair Bryony, I can't tell you how valuable you work has been. Pure gold, I assure you.'

'But...' Bryony started.

'But nothing. What you've done is to provide major input to the development of our hypothesis. Long before a prosecutor tries to build a chain of evidence to present to a court, we have to work out what we think really happened and what criminal activity might have taken place. I am now certain, Rodney Durkin has been active in the d'Aratzio organisation. I believe he is far more than an actor who happens to be Mrs d'Aratzio's brother. It opens up an entire new area for investigation. Later today, I will appoint a task force to investigate everything there is to know about the man. It could lead us anywhere. For now, you've done your bit, so back to the grind in forensics and welcome to the team.'

'Do you want me to research that question about why he'd still use old style make-up?'

'Good thought. But don't mention Durkin's name.'

When Bryony had departed, Megan said, 'Given this turn of events, there's something I should mention to you.' She went on to relate the story of Durkin approaching her after Lenny's funeral.

'Significance?' Justin asked.

'At the time, I thought he must have seen me arrive at the funeral with other members of the force and he was simply being a smartarse trying to embarrass a female copper. I'm now wondering if he knew my connection with the case and was brazen enough to play games.'

'Let's hope the latter, Meg. Arrogant smartarses often end up tripping on their own egos.'

Gavin's Reward

Wednesday 7th October 1992

Shortly after 10pm on Wednesday 7th October, Gavin Froyland's viewing of a re-run of Miami Vice was interrupted by a knock at the front door. When he opened it, he recognised his visitor—a stocky man wearing a haversack. They had met on the second occasion Gavin visited the William Street offices of Lenny d'Aratzio's pest-control business. Noticing Gavin's quick look into the dimly lit street, the man said, 'I'm on me Pat Malone, Bill. I don't think I was followed, but we better go inside.'

'Of course.' He stood aside to let the man enter. 'I'm sorry; I remember meeting you but not your name.'

'It's Saverio,' he shook Gavin's hand. 'They call me Savvy 'cause I'm always in the know.' He grinned. Gavin led him down the passage. 'Sorry if I interrupted your program.'

'No worries,' he switched off the television. 'Would you like a beer or something?'

'Most civil of you, Bill. Don't mind if I do.'

'Then let's go sit in the kitchen.'

Gavin took beers from the refrigerator and they settled themselves at the kitchen table.

'How did you get here?' Gavin asked.

'Dropped off by a bloke who was on the way through. Arrival in the dead of night. We call it the d'Aratzio method. No car to hide. No bus driver to yap to the fuzz. Friend with a spare bed...I 'ope.'

'Of course.'

'There you go then.'

'So what brings you to Arajinna?'

'I knew you was wondering that,' Savvy grinned again. 'I'm here on instructions from the new boss lady. I was called into a meeting she had with a lawman name of John Sutton. He's sitting on a few grand what's owed to you for services rendered, and he's told her he advised you to lie low for a while. Turned out she was already the full bottle on the man known as William Smith. She and Lenny never had no secrets from each other. And one thing you can say for the d'Aratzios is they look after their own and they never welsh on a deal, even when it's not writ down, which is most of the time as you'd know. Seems you told Sutton you were locked into a contract with Kalawonta Shire and you didn't want to break it sudden and raise suspicions about your involvement with certain...events around the town here.'

'That's right.'

'Mrs d'Aratzio appreciates your caution. Says she likes a man who thinks about things. She knows you approached Lenny because you're keen to find a more...shall we say... "interesting" occupation than the spraying of weeds. So I'm here, my friend, with a plan to get you on the move. How do you feel about industrial dermatitis?'

'Come again?'

'Industrial dermatitis is the term the doctors use for a skin condition blokes in the pest control business often get if they come into contact with nasty chemicals.' Savvy picked up his haversack and opened it while he continued talking. 'I've brought you a list of the most common causes of industrial dermo. Lenny became the full bottle on the subject when he caught a bloke bringing it on deliberately to get compo. After that the poor bugger really did need compo. Know what I mean? I'm told this skin condition can be a bit uncomfortable, but there are good treatments, and it goes away quick. The thing is, we have a doctor who will give you a certificate recommending you look for work that doesn't involve the risk of future exposure. Are you getting the drift of this plan, Bill?'

'I am.' Gavin looked at the list of chemicals Savvy had placed on the table. 'There's a couple of sprays here I use sometimes.'

'Okay. So if you're prepared to put up with a bit of a rash for a week, you rub some of the stuff on your arms. I'm told you should dilute it so it doesn't burn. With any luck, in a day or two you should have flaky marks on your skin. Naturally, you'll show it around and grumble about it. It won't surprise anybody when you say you've heard of this condition, 'cause it's a hazard of the business you're in—now isn't it; but you never expected to get it yourself. You've also heard there's a doctor in Sydney, specialises in this sort of problem. Blow me if you don't arrive back in town with a doctor's certificate. You're gloomy as hell too because you've built a good business. On the plus side but, the doctor has put you in touch with a leading firm of pest and weed controllers in Sydney and they've offered to give you a desk job as an adviser to folk who ring their pest hotline. Abracadbra!—as the magician says. You join us at the offices in William Street with a job what's completely legit and takes all of two calls in a busy a week.'

'That's brilliant. Savvy.'

'We have our moments. Now, when does your contract run out?'

'It's on a year to year basis. I'm meant to give three months notice if I'm not aiming to renew. That would have been the beginning of this month.'

'But a man with a medical condition and a doctor's certificate...?'

'Such a man would be forgiven and maybe even given a send off.'

'Specially if such a man knew a bloke who was prepared to quote for the contract.'

'And I know such a man, do I?'

'Not yet. But one of the franchise holders is sure to see an opportunity to branch out.'

'Better and better.'

'Have I won meself a second beer?'

'My frig is yours Savvy.'

'Always took you for a gent, Bill.'

'So what happens next? For you I mean.'

'Well, you being so grateful for this favour, you're going to do me one in return.'

'Name it.'

'Tomorrow, I want you to drive me past a place called Arramulta.'

'Tony Blake's place?'

'I need to have a bit of a look. I'm sure you'll be asked for your advice when you get to Sydney, but the boss lady wanted me to get a feel for the place.'

'No problem. I often check for weeds at both ends of the old bridge. I'll park in the middle and you can have a good look-see while I'm going about my business.'

'Perfect. Then tomorrow night, around this time, a bloke passing through is going to see if I'm waiting at the spot he dropped me off. And I will be.'

The Unexpected

Friday 16th October 1992

Saturday 17th October 1992

Tony and Emily were woken early on a Friday by the noisy arrival of Riccardo, the tree surgeon, who had left his home near Bullermark at 3am and picked up his assistant on the way. As the truck pulling a cherry picker came to a halt in front of the house, Tony emerged tying his dressing-gown.

'Sorry to wake yer, mate. This here is Alphonse, me offsider. We thought if we got stuck into the job at crack'a dawn we might be done and dusted by sunset and avoid 'aving to come back.'

'Splendid. If there's anything you need, just ask.'

'Thanks, but we're sweet, mate. Wife packs a mean esky. Is the truck all right here? It won't fit through the gap to the orchard.'

'It's fine.'

By the time Tony went back inside, Alphonse had unloaded a small tractor and was hooking it up to the cherry picker.

Throughout the morning, the rasp of chain saws grated across the normally peaceful countryside. Before lunch, Tony took a walk into the orchard to check progress. Riccardo was in the cherry picker selectively removing branches and dropping them to the ground. Alphonse was cutting and stacking the discarded branches. They had finished nearly half of the rows and the pruned trees looked well shaped. It was obvious Riccardo knew his job.

After lunch, Emily left to go into Arajinna township.

Tony had not noticed the noise from the machines had stopped until he heard knocking at the front door. He found Alphonse on the verandah. 'Riccardo says you should come and take a look, mate.'

At the end of the last row, one tree remained to be pruned. Riccardo was in the bucket of the cherry picker at ground level. As they approached he said, 'My dad always told me to expect the unexpected; but this takes the cake. How do ya feel about a ride in the cherry picker?'

'Will it take my weight?'

'No worries.'

'And you think it necessary.'

'I do, mate. I really do!'

Riccardo helped him into the bucket and manoeuvred them up between the branches on the side nearest the river. Although the ride started fairly smoothly, Tony found himself clutching the edge of the bucket in a fierce grip.

'Watch ya head mate,' Riccardo said as he edged them into the canopy of the overgrown tree. Tony ducked under a branch and risked a glance down at the receding ground. Riccardo brought their journey to a halt and they bounced gently. When Tony looked up again what he saw made him forget the swaying bucket. This was certainly "the unexpected". In front of him, almost close enough for him to reach out and touch it, there was a human skeleton. Its was tied to the tree trunk by the wrists, ankles, and neck, with the arms stretched along branches to the sides. Having originally been used to secure a complete body, the ropes were now loose and the skeleton had slipped to a bizarre angle. There were no clothes.

Tony gazed at the skeleton before saying, 'I am rarely at a loss for words; but what does one say?'

'Well I said: bugger me!' Riccardo confessed. 'And I won't tell you what Alphonse said. Rude bastard! I assume I'd better leave this bloke as he is—if it is a bloke, might be a sheila for all I can tell.'

Tony looked over his shoulder. 'Whoever this was seems to have been tied facing out towards the ranges. Presumably that's why this tree was chosen—end of the row, top of the slope.'

'Luck's a fortune—for Alphonse and me I mean. I'd of been real ticked off if we found it back there and had to pack up with the job half done. Leavin' one tree isn't a big deal. I can do it sometime later. I guess you'll have to call the cops. I'd love to be a fly on the wall when they hear about this.'

The previous discovery of a skeleton in a shallow grave had been kept from public knowledge because nobody who knew about it had talked. The story of the skeleton in the tree was out within ten minutes of the opening of the Bullermark Arms next day. Alphonse was a regular in the public bar on Saturdays—drinking, talking, and listening to the races and the football, from opening time until late. On 17th October, he had a tale to beat all other gossip from the previous week, and he told it many times. There was an abundance of imaginative theories about the skeleton. Had they been communicated to the detectives appointed to investigate the mystery, none of these theories would have come close to the eventual explanation.

The Valley People

Monday 26th October 1992

For the first time in a decade, the editor of The Kalawonta News held the presses on Monday 19th October and delayed publication so she could devote the entire front page to the return of Dr Gunter Karp, with his assistant Dr Bryony Patton, to examine the latest find. City papers picked up the story on the Tuesday. An archival photograph of Tony, used by a Sydney tabloid, showed him with mutton-chop whiskers, which he had grown for a laugh in the seventies and not worn for two decades. When the forensic team left, Tony called Riccardo and asked him to prune the last tree when it was convenient. The job was done two days later. Life at Arramulta returned to some degree of normalcy as the weekend approached.

On the afternoon of Monday 26th October, a man arrived, unannounced. He looked to be in his forties and was driving an old 3-litre Rover in remarkably good condition. When Tony answered the knock at the door, the man introduced himself as Edwin Nattrass.

'Apologies for turning up without warning. I'm on my way to visit relatives in Albury. When I saw the finger-post pointing to Arajinna, I found myself taking the turn. You'll think I'm a real nutter, which won't help my cause when you begin to suspect it's nutters whose activities bring me here. I'm a researcher, specialising in cults. I've been reading about your discovery of a skeleton. Big article in yesterday's Telegraph. Sunday papers do so love a skeleton, and yours was in a tree.'

'Cults?'

'Satanic and otherwise. I would really like to see where the skeleton was found.'

'Well, the forensic investigators have been and gone so I can't see any harm in showing you.'

As they walked into the orchard, Edwin Nattrass told Tony something of his background. 'My work on cults began because of my young brother, Frank. A sad case. Frank caught a fever when he was a baby and suffered brain damage. It made him a bit slow. He was an amiable and harmless chap, but suggestible and easily led. In his twenties, he fell under the influence of an oddball group. It was a secretive organization and we were unable to ascertain exactly what they did or believed. Franky's death from a seizure might have been totally unrelated to his involvement with them but, at his funeral, when we got to the part where the casket is lowered into the grave and the mourners sprinkle dirt onto it, I saw a man throw in what looked like a cigarette packet. I waited until everyone had moved away from the graveside, and asked one of the cemetery chaps to investigate. It wasn't a cigarette packet, but a box that had originally contained an ordinary pack of playing cards. Inside there were three handmade cards with strange little pictures on them. I would have confronted the man who had thrown them onto the coffin; but he'd already left. The next day, when we were cleaning out Franky's room, we found a Bible on his bookshelf. It had been marked and annotated in various places—mainly passages appearing to deal with things satanic. It all led to me joining an organisation set up to help families who lose members to these secretive groups. I've become a sort of de facto librarian and archivist.'

At this point in the story, Tony and Edwin arrived at the freshly pruned tree. Tony described the discovery.

'I don't suppose you have a photograph?'

'No. But the police took some.'

'The skeleton was stretched out, you say?'

'We found it collapsed into a strange posture. It must originally have had its arms extended on either side.'

'Facing across the river and through the valley towards the hills.'

'Yes.'

Edwin turned and looked out across the river. 'They probably meant to cut it down after sixty-six days. Something must have gone wrong.'

'You mean you know what it was about?'

'There was a body found in Queensland a number of years ago. When news reports emerged about a distinctive tattoo on the wrist of the dead man, a woman came forward and showed police investigators a similar tattoo on her own wrist—a small, stylized V, elaborately decorated, like you might see in an old illuminated Bible. She said she had been a member of a cult called The Valley People. When she decided to leave the group the leader had tried to talk her out of it; but, unlike some other cults, they made no effort to physically prevent her from going. Like many such stories, hers was quite extraordinary. The beliefs said to be espoused by the members of the cult were, to be frank, beyond belief. Not satanic, I must add, but decidedly odd. They included a ritual similar to one practised by some of the ancients—sun worshippers who believed the rays of the sun could bring the dead back to life. For The Valley People, the valley they lived in was thought to be the source of life. The sixty-six days was a mystery, but after sixty-six days the body was taken down and buried. Sixes often appear in the literature about omens and superstitions; but we aren't sure what it meant to this group, the informant didn't know. How long have you owned this place?'

'Only a couple of years.'

'It would be interesting to trace back its ownership.'

'You haven't said what happened with the body found in Queensland.'

'The coroner declared there was no evidence the death was not from natural causes. The only charges laid were to do with failing to report an untimely death and contravening legislation about dealing with human remains. The leaders were fined and put on good behaviour bonds.'

'Well, I will definitely make enquiries about previous owners of this place. Would you care to stay and have a meal?'

'I'd better press on. But a cup of tea wouldn't go astray.'

While the tea brewed, Tony telephoned Justin Brody's office. Kenny Fetlow put him through to Meg Schmitz and arrangements were made for Edwin to call on her when he returned to Sydney to provide a briefing on The Valley People.

Boss Lady

Friday 30th October 1992

It had been a busy and highly productive few weeks for Gavin Froyland. The second of the chemical sprays he tried brought him out in impressive unsightly sores. His forearms and the backs of his hands had been seen by most employees at the shire offices and by many other citizens of Arajinna. At the outset of the affliction the local pharmacist gave him some sleeping pills and urged him to seek medical attention. The outpatients department at Calway Junction hospital agreed it was a job for a specialist in skin conditions and encouraged him to go to Sydney. The dispersal of information via the grapevine ensured that few in the shire were not soon aware of these developments—Bill Smith, the weed control contractor, had some dreadful pox! When Bill returned from his second visit to Sydney he made a show of great reluctance in presenting his medical certificate to the shire president, Grant Hughes, and asking for relief from a full three months' notice to terminate his contract. Anxious to avoid the possibility of legal liability for the development of Bill's condition, Hughes instructed him to cease work immediately and promised the contract would be paid out in full. Hughes was relieved and pleased when Bill Smith told of his good luck in being offered a desk job in Sydney, and filled with gratitude when Bill announced he had the name of a firm willing to take over the Kalawonta contract for a slightly higher monetary consideration. There was surprise and further gratitude when Bill told the shire president he had spoken to that nice police chap, Brody, and to Mrs Kingsley, because he understood the pest control company he would be working for had been founded by Lenny d'Aratzio. Both had thanked him for his concern, and Brody had said he should not knock back the offer of a job with a company that had never been in trouble with the law. Bill Smith did not bother Hughes with the information that the increase in the weed control contract price was to cover the amount he had requested as a "finder's fee".

On Friday 30th October, in the office where he had first approached Lenny d'Aratzio, Gavin Froyland met his new boss, Miranda.

'I better not shake your hand, Mrs d'Aratzio,' Gavin said. 'It's best if I keep these cotton gloves on.'

'I hope you're not too uncomfortable.'

'Just a little, but happy to be. I saw the doc this morning and he says I'll be back to normal this time next week. I am very grateful for your assistance. Mrs d'Aratzio.'

'No need to be formal when there are no outsiders around. Feel free to call me Miranda. They all used to call Lenny "Boss" and they call me "Boss Lady", which I rather like.'

'Then Boss Lady it is.'

'I think you know the name John Sutton, the man who lost a button.'

'Lenny told you that?'

'Yes. You'll need to see Sutton when it's convenient. Some types of transactions Lenny insisted be done elsewhere. He referred to it as keeping our William Street premises sanitised.'

'No problem. I understand.'

'It was Sutton who suggested you inform Brody and the Kingsleys about your new job. He is even hopeful Brody's team might try to recruit you as one of their little helpers.'

'I think I'm going to enjoy working here.'

'Keeping these premised sanitised doesn't extend to the meetings we have from time to time. Are you up to participating in one now?'

'Whatever you say Boss Lady.'

Miranda buzzed her intercom and asked Jodie to bring coffee and people. People turned out to be Savvy and Rodney Durkin. Rodney smiled at Gavin and said, 'We've met of course.' Laughing at Gavin's obvious surprise, he added, 'I was the dumb truck driver with the badly secured load.' He held out his hand.

'Sorry; can't shake hands. I've had a touch of industrial dermatitis.'

'I sympathise. Allergies have been the bane of my life. I have to be really careful what I put on my skin.'

Savvy laughed. 'Yes, Gavin knows how careful you have to be. Took us a while to find something to bring on his dermo.'

'I can't believe you were the bloody truck driver,' Gavin said.

'Well I was, my friend. Sadly, that makes you and me the last of Lenny's mates to see him alive.'

'Which is why we're meeting now,' the boss lady said. 'Unfinished business. My dear brother here has played a number of cameo roles for us over the years.'

'It's such a wonderful challenge,' Rodney said. 'In the theatre, the audience knows you're an actor playing a role. But it's much more fun when you take Shakespeare literally and make the world your stage. Savvy here likes to be made up to play a part. We're a splendid team, and we're planning ourselves another gig in Arajinna, but we need your local knowledge.'

It was late in the evening before they had worked out the details. On Gavin's recommendation they scheduled their gig for the last day of the school year when Arajinna would be overloaded with visitors preoccupied with Speech Day and other break-up activities. All of the Blakes would be sure to be at the book-launch of a biography of Walter Blake written by Max Kingsley. It was also the day when Bill Smith was to attend the shire's staff Christmas lunch and be thanked for his work and wished well for the future. That made it appropriate for him to drive Rodney and Savvy to Arajinna in a hired van. Their cover would be as casual workers engaged by Bill Smith to help cart his belongings back to Sydney. To help establish the legitimacy of their activities, Smith would arrange with the letting agent for them to leave the keys at the police station when they vacated the house. This would allow them to display their made-up characters who would, if anybody ever sought them, have told Smith their next work was to be somewhere in Queensland as fruit pickers. Not until the last detail was agreed did the boss lady open the drinks cabinet and shout them all a drink.

'It's a good plan,' she said, clinking her glass against Gavin's. 'It's particularly good because we can use your local knowledge without much risk of blowing your cover. Rodney and Savvy will attend to our business while the citizens of Arajinna are in town doing theirs. From what you and Savvy have reported, it seems unlikely our work will be interrupted. After your Christmas lunch you can pick them up out along the highway and be well away by early afternoon.

'Such a pity,' Rodney said. They all looked at him. He shrugged and sighed. 'Saverio and I will play our parts beautifully and the chances are nobody but some copper at the station, will see us. The real drama will be played to an empty house.'

Weirdness

November 1992

Arramulta

Arajinna

3rd November 1992

Dear Edwin

Meg Schmitz called me to say you had briefed her about The Valley People. She says things will move slowly because there is nothing to suggest our skeletons are a priority job and the coroner has a chronic backlog. I think Meg is hoping our activities will turn up something more for them to go on.

Meanwhile, I have researched the ownership history of this property. I purchased it from the Estate of Nora Keppel who had owned it until her death in 1990. She purchased it in 1982 from a man named Magnus Lansing, who had inherited it in 1973 from his father Tolis Lansing. It was a Lansing who built the place in 1905, so the Lansing family held the property for about 77 years in all. I shall be fascinated to learn whether either of the surnames Keppel or Lansing appears in any of the files of your organisation.

Yours sincerely

Tony Blake

9th November 1992

Dear Tony

Jackpot! We have lots of information on various cults but names are hard to get. Luckily, our card index contained the name Lansing. The entry directed me to a file on The Valley People.

In 1971, Magnus Lansing's father, Tolis, approached our group. Earlier, he had filed a missing person's report with police. Magnus was eventually located at a property in the north of Queensland. He told police he was happy and wanted to be left alone to determine his own life. Because he was an adult, and seemed to be in good health and spirits, the police closed their file after informing the father of the outcome of their enquiries. I have little other information. One of my colleagues made notes of a couple of subsequent telephone conversations with Tolis Lansing. If Magnus inherited the property, he must either have been named in a will or have been the beneficiary in the winding up of the estate if his father died intestate.

It would be interesting to make enquiries about activities at the property from 1973 until 1982. Arajinna is a small community so presumably somebody will know. I should be grateful if you would keep me informed.

Regards

Edwin

Judith, who was the only Blake to have lived in Arajinna throughout the period of interest, could not recall hearing the name Lansing and knew nothing about the previous occupants of the house on the river. Emily remembered the name from earlier times but didn't think she'd met any of the Lansing family. She had no idea of the age of the man she had sometimes seen fishing from the verandah when she rode her bicycle across the bridge. Max had not arrived in Arajinna until 1987.

'Try Adrian,' Judith suggested. 'He and Olive were always a mine of information about everything to do with the district.'

Over a cup of tea at Land's End, Adrian told Tony what he knew. 'I believe the Lansings used to attend the catholic church at Calway Junction, so they weren't part of Olive's network at St Mark's. I never visited the property on the river but I knew there was an orchard when I was young because the girl used to bring oranges to school. She would have been a couple of years younger than me. The name Magnus doesn't ring a bell. Have you spoken to Ginny? She'd probably come to Arajinna by then. Being a nurse, she might have had contact with the family.'

'Sorry, mate,' Ginny said when Tony paid her a visit. 'I'll have a dig at Adrian next time I see him. Damned cheek. I'm not that old. I do remember Nora Keppel in her last years but I didn't have any dealings with her. Have you asked old Stan Fleming? He's in his nineties but he still has his wits about him.'

Tony found Stan Fleming dozing in a rocking chair on his front verandah. 'I remember old man Lansing, the one who built the place,' he said. 'I'm not sure I ever heard his first name—he was Mr Lansing to us young tykes. The house was still quite new when I was a kid. We used to go fishing a bit further down the river. The old bloke used to let us use the track through his place. There was no orchard in those days. It was planted after I stopped going there; I can't remember exactly when—sometime in the twenties I'd guess. The son must have been born around the same time. I don't remember his name but he was one of the lads who went away to the war.'

'Does Tolis sound right?'

'It does. Yes, Tolis, that was him. Magnus would have been a post war baby and there was a girl born later—Rita I think. Not a very sociable family; they weren't members of the golf club or anything. But I used to see them at the flicks sometimes. I was a regular at the Odeon on a Friday night. The Lansing family must have had money because they weren't farmers and the orchard would never have supported them—not living in a big place like that. It's the way with some people, of course. Some folks stick to themselves. Tolis must have died quite young—maybe in his fifties. The mother wasn't around then. I don't know what had happened to her. I think there was just Magnus and Rita. Thinking back now, it makes me realize how little you really do know about some of your neighbours. Somehow, the Lansings never attracted attention. They weren't even the subject of gossip at the club. They were merely "the people who live in that place on the river". End of story. Have you found out what happened to Magnus and Rita?'

'All I know is, Magnus sold the property to Nora Keppel.'

'I knew Nora, of course. Everybody knew Nora. Lost her husband in the war. She was the postmistress for yonks, and the telephone-exchange operator at the same time. Gilbert Ross handled most of the conveyancing for local properties. He might know what happened to Magnus. And Barbara Borthwick must have taught them in primary school; you'll have to go to the hospice if you want to talk to her.'

Tony rang the hospice and arranged a time to visit. He found Barbara Borthwick sitting in the garden. She was hard of hearing but otherwise bright. In a shouted conversation she confirmed she remembered the Lansing children. 'Quiet. Bookish. Never any trouble. Not brilliant but always passable. Did their homework. Never any need to send a note to the parents asking them to come in for a chat. You never get to know those sorts of kids. You remember them being in your class; but they don't register much with the teachers or the other students. The naughty ones, and the really bright ones, you get a feel for. Sorry I can't be of more help.'

In the offices of Duncan Ross and Sons, Tony looked across the desk at Gilbert and said, 'By the time I've finished I will have spoken to everybody in Arajinna and been given the name of somebody else to call upon. I can guess what you're going to say. "Can't divulge anything about a client!" Am I right?'

'Almost right,' Gilbert laughed. 'Ethics is our middle name, and all that. Never disclose anything learnt in confidence.'

'Why almost?'

'Nothing says I can't talk about a client per se. I can't talk about anything I learn as their representative. Strictly, according to my old man, we should not even confirm we are acting for somebody except to the extent that it becomes obvious if, for example, we appear for them in court. But if I see a man at the football, I can say I saw him at the football.'

'You're playing with me Gilbert. What do you know?'

'I know that Tolis Lansing's wife, whose name I recall was Marguerite, was admitted to hospital at Calway Junction and that the doctors didn't really believe she fell down that wonderful staircase you now own. I know that Mrs Lansing—Marguerite— never returned to the house on the river. She discharged herself from hospital and bought a single one-way train ticket to Sydney. This I know because, much later, I was asked to advise somebody else who needed to know from whom he could legally take instructions in relation to a subsequent issue. Exactly what the issue was, I shouldn't disclose; but it is not relevant to your enquiry. What I've told you is information dating back many years. Tolis Lansing died of a heart attack in his fifties. There was a will leaving everything to the son. That's how Magnus inherited the house. That, and the fact that he sold it in 1982, is on the public record. Not on the public record, but not privileged information from my viewpoint, is that Magnus left Arajinna before settlement of the sale.'

'And the sister? Rita?'

'She was sometimes seen around town. For a while she was the local eccentric.'

'What became of her?'

'What a very interesting question.' Gilbert sat back in his chair, opened his arms and shrugged.

'Why so interesting?'

'Because that's something I don't know either as privileged information or as a citizen of Arajinna during all the years in question.'

'One of my skeletons?'

Gilbert repeated his shrug and raised his eyebrows in what Tony thought to be the most animated act he had ever seen from this crusty old solicitor.

15th November 1992

Dear Edwin

Magnus Lansing disappeared from Arajinna ten years ago. Presumably your records would have revealed this to you if he had rejoined any of the Valley People enclaves your organization has listed. Presuming he's still alive, he would only be mid-forties. Do you have anybody who might be able to search for the name in government records? I'm thinking of things such as driving licences. Nobody around Arajinna can tell me much about any members of the Lansing family, which is unusual for a rural community. Mystery upon mystery.

Yours

Tony

On 22nd November, Tony received a telephone call from Edwin.

'We've found him, my friend. Found him. I had to call you straight away. Amazing what our members turn up when you throw them a problem. Can't tell you how it was done. "Protecting my sources" as the journalists say; although like the journos what I really mean is the methods used were probably illegal. Somebody knows somebody who owes somebody a favour. You still there?'

'Slightly stunned, but yes.'

'And you haven't heard the stunning bit yet. Magnus Lansing changed his name by Deed Poll to Marcus Loader. Finding that was routine. The odd thing was picking him up in prison records—and that was "off the record" in every sense.'

'Prison?'

'Lansing is serving a life sentence for murder under the name of Loader. If Meg did a search she'd have only found him if the change of name had been linked to the prison file—the name Lansing wouldn't have shown up in the data bases she would normally use. Deed Poll records are something we often check because we found one cult insisting all its devotees adopt new names given by the high priestess. It's not what happened here. Lansing must have changed his name of his own volition. Why? Good question eh?'

'Who did he murder?'

'A member of The Valley People.'

'So he did re-join the cult.'

'Not that we can determine. I'll be going to the library to look at newspaper reports of the trial. I'll let you know what I find. And I'll let Meg know.'

Interview with Marcus Loader

Friday 4th December 1992

On 4th December 1992, Detective Constable Megan Schmitz and Detective Senior Constable Paul Walsh visited Marcus Loader in prison to interview him about the skeletons. Although Megan was Paul's junior in rank, it had been agreed she would take the lead. She had been well schooled by Justin Brody in his softly softly approach to first interviews. After consulting with a prison supervisor, Megan rejected the offer of a sparsely furnished interview room. Instead, she and Paul were shown into the small office Marcus used in his role as prison librarian. They already knew Marcus was in his mid forties. Although she would not have described him as handsome, Megan found him pleasant to look at. He had untidy, thick, blond, wavy hair and a smile that frequently softened an otherwise solemn expression. He was slightly flustered when he realised he had only one visitor's chair beside his small desk. He went immediately to find another.

As soon as Megan introduced the subject of the visit, Marcus said, 'My sister Rita was the skeleton in the tree. The other was a man named Jamar... Jamar... no I can't remember... I'd rarely used his surname and it escapes me now.'

'We can come back to it,' Megan said. 'Could you tell us how they came to be where they were found?'

'Yes. And I will, of course. But where to start? Jamar and I undressed Rita and put her in a tree? It's not the sort of explanation I'd expect you to accept easily.' He shrugged and gave a brief smile.

Megan had to suppress an urge to laugh before replying. 'You're right. It does raise questions.'

'What might help is that I'm writing a sort of memoir.' He picked up a manila folder. It's handwritten, even in this electronic era. I'm a bit old fashioned in some respects. But I've taken a photocopy in case you want to take it away. Perhaps you could browse through it now and ask me questions as you go? That might get us started.'

Megan took the folder and glanced at Paul who said, 'Sounds like a plan to me.'

Megan handed Paul a copy of the manuscript and they began reading.

I do not recall exactly when I first realised my father, Tolis Lansing, was violent to my mother. I knew he was an unusual man; but the insular life my family led did not provide me with a broad experience to allow much comparison between our lives and the lives of other families.

It was a while before I came to realize my mother was not as clumsy as my father said she was. I must have been twelve when I became aware my young sister Rita was afraid of him.

I think my father would be considered a religious fanatic of sorts. He always took us into Calway Junction early on Sunday so we could confess before Mass. On the way home, my father would ask Rita and me to tell him what we had confessed. He said the head of the house had a right to know. I usually gave him a made up response and I suspect my sister did too. He said he would hear about my mother's confession in the privacy of their bedroom.

We lived an oppressed and private life. I had no real friends. The only treat we were allowed was to go to the cinema in Arajinna, on Friday nights. On occasions we would get as far as the doors of the Odeon and he would declare a poster for the film to be sinful and take us home.

If my father thought my sister or I had been naughty he would call the family together, lecture us on the ways of the devil, and administer a spanking in front of the others. For this purpose, he used an old fishing rod. His behaviour on such occasions was strange because he would make a show of modesty by instructing those not to be disciplined to turn their backs while the victim bared their bottom and bent over. When the victim was ready, the others would turn back to witness my father strike that bare bottom six times. We were required to touch our toes for each blow. As the punishment continued, it became increasingly difficult to do so. By the last stroke, touching the toes was quite painful. I could not be sure of it, but I often felt he hit my sister harder than he hit me. I have wondered since, whether he had a problem dealing with women. I've seen it a lot with men in the prison. To my shame, it was me who sometimes shed tears. I don't recall my sister ever doing so. I would see the six red stripes appear on her bottom, and watch as she straightened up and walked stiffly from the room, never looking back or making a sound. I admired her for that. I do not think he abused her in any other way. I suspect it was warped piety and not depravity that made him so awful.

In 1971, when I was 24, my mother was taken to hospital after falling down the stairs. Rita and I were not allowed to accompany my father when he went to visit her. The next day, after my father had returned from the hospital, I pretended I was going fishing at a spot upstream. I hid my fishing gear under the bridge and caught the bus into Calway Junction. My mother told me she had been pushed down the stairs by my father who thought she had sinned in some way. She was ready to be discharged and told me she would not be coming home because she could not take the abuse any longer. After going into Calway the next morning, my father ceased visiting the hospital. He said nothing to us to explain our mother's absence.

Paul cleared his throat and said, 'Question?'

Megan looked up and nodded.

'Your mother's fall down stairs. Was there a police report?'

'No. Something one of the nurses said made me think the hospital staff were suspicious. But I suppose, if my mother hadn't made a complaint, it would be difficult for them to intervene. And I'm sure she wouldn't have wanted anything done to upset her plans to leave home.'

Paul nodded and they resumed reading.

Some days later, I told Rita what had happened and that I was also going to leave home. I told her she was welcome to come with me. She decided not to. I think she had already started to become drawn into herself and fearful of a world she did not understand.

My father had a large stash of money in his room. I stole it and went to Sydney. I took a room at a guesthouse. It was there I met a man, about my age, who was on his way to join a commune in Queensland. This was the era of flower-power, although I had not heard the term at the time. I had no plans and nowhere to go, so I joined him. A week or so later, I was a member of The Valley People. We lived on a property at the top of a valley running down to the sea.

In retrospect, I must admit The Valley People were an odd bunch, with some odd beliefs. I wonder, however, if those beliefs were any more extraordinary than the faith I had been taught as a child.

Megan looked up from her reading and said, 'An odd bunch, with some odd beliefs. What sort of beliefs?'

Marcus said, 'I know what you're wondering. I read those Sunday tabloid articles suggesting The Valley People were Satanists. All rubbish, I assure you. It was fair enough to label the organisation a cult, but I heard less about Satan from its members than I'd heard at home from my father. Behaviour was unconventional, but of no risk to outsiders. Some of the members smoked hemp. Some used cocaine. Casual sex was available—a thing I found threatening at first, and comforting later. But I was never pressured into anything I didn't want. I assume you know about the wrist tattoo?' He looked pointedly at his wrists, which were covered by the cuffs of his prison shirt.

Megan nodded. 'Yes we were aware of a wrist tattoo.'

Marcus pulled up his sleeves. There was no tattoo. He smiled again. 'Sorry to disappoint you. The tattoos are quite impressive if well done. Some members wore them as a symbol of their commitment. I am not fond of body art. I was never criticised for opting not to have one.'

Megan and Paul resumed reading.

But for our leader's belief that the dead benefited from being strung up facing into the valley, we might never have been vilified so thoroughly by outsiders. It was a strange ritual; but I am sure the few people it happened to had died from natural causes. The body of the departed was put in the tree. We all stood around the base, close together, holding hands and gazing at the beauty of nature. The dead person had a better view than we did. That was the symbolic benefit for the person we were told was passing through the valley to a better life. I did not believe a word of it. But I found the ritual every bit as uplifting as I had ever found a service in a cold and gloomy church.

After I had been with The Valley People for many months, two policemen and an officer from a government welfare department came to enquire about me. I learned that my father had reported me as a missing person. I told them I was happy as a member of The Valley People and invited them to come in and meet our leader. They declined and went away.

Paul looked up. 'The reports I've read of police visits to cults often leave the impression that members of the cult might have been reluctant to speak out for fear of retribution.'

'I wish you people weren't so bloody judgemental!' Marcus said, sharply. 'In my view police reports are too often coloured by the preconceptions of the investigators. The impression I get from reading police reports is that they are frequently composed in the minds of the officers before the meeting takes place.'

Sensing that Paul was about to leap to the defence of unidentified colleagues and the force in general, Megan said quickly, 'I can see you have a continuing respect for your leaders.'

'I do!' Marcus said, tersely. He was still stern as he spoke again directly to Paul. 'My own reading leaves me in no doubt that some cults exercise oppressive control over their members. Not The Valley People, though. When your officers came looking for me, no barrier was placed in their way by our leaders. It's true that some members of the group gathered and stood off at a distance. This might have seemed odd, but I knew it was intended to provide me with friends I could call for support. Fortunately, the officers did not choose to place any sinister interpretation on what happened.'

'Then let's move on', Megan said.

Marcus turned toward her and said, 'I want to stress that, although most of The Valley People had deliberately cut themselves off from life outside our small community, no restrictions were imposed on our communicating with outsiders. We had no telephones, but the postman came from time to time. That is how I came to learn my father had died. There was a letter from a solicitor. You must be up to that part in my notes.'

'I think we are,' Megan said.

'Good,' Marcus said, his tone softening. 'Would you like me to get you something to drink? Librarian's privilege. There's a machine just by the door.'

'Thank you. I'd like coffee,' Megan said. 'White no sugar.'

'Same for me,' Paul said without looking up.

When Marcus left the room, Paul said, 'Prickly bugger! I thought my comment was innocuous.'

'Perhaps it was. But we now know he has sensitivities about police. Not unusual in a place like this, Paul. They've all had to deal with coppers along the line. Let's keep reading.'

The solicitor's letter informed me I had inherited my father's property and a substantial portfolio of share investments made by my grandfather. I also learned my sister was now living alone in the house. I took leave of The Valley People and returned to Arajinna, not sure what I would do.

Sadly, my sister's early life had made her withdrawn and unworldly. She was living frugally off the large stashes of money my father had secreted around the house. She would take a little money at a time and walk into the town to buy provisions. I discovered she was considered an eccentric. She said nothing to the shopkeepers—simply bought her provisions and left. Physically, she appeared healthy. I was afraid to seek a medical opinion lest she be committed to an institution. So we lived together quietly—just the two of us in that large house.

**To occupy myself, on most week days I took the bus to Calway Junction where I did several courses at the technical college and spent a lot of time at the library. I brought books home for Rita. She rarely commented on anything; but I put the books on a table near the front door and, over a period, I was able to work out what she liked—old style romances, where the nearest thing to sex might be a chaste kiss; never Agatha Christie or anything with murder or violence. The only time she ever commented was when I was taking a book back to the library and she said she wanted to read it again. It was an early Mills and Boon publication, a book called** _Visitors to Hugo_ **. When I took it back, I sat in the library and read it myself. It was a sentimental story about love and family relations. I wasn't sure whether to be happy or sad. I decided it was good for her to have a fantasy life because she had no other pleasures, save for the beautiful surroundings in which we lived.**

I had more income than we needed so, soon after my new life with Rita began, I sent a large donation to The Valley People in thanks for their having taken me in when I needed shelter.

When Marcus returned with coffee, Paul surprised Megan by smiling at him and saying, 'Now I know why you write such good English. Those courses at the tech school. And unlike me, your handwriting is legible.'

'Thank you,' Marcus said. 'When you're isolated and lonely, reading and writing are good ways to occupy the mind. You must be getting to the guts of the story now. Enter Baldo and Jamar, if I recall correctly.'

As Megan started to read again, Marcus said to Paul, 'Please don't think I'm hammering a point, but the arrival of Baldo and Jamar is further proof ours was not a secretive group. They'd had no trouble getting leads to my likely whereabouts from The Valley People. In this case, I came to regret it.'

He pointed at the notes in Paul's hands, an obvious hint he should resume reading.

About a year later, two young men arrived on our doorstep. I recognized one of them from my time in Queensland. His name was Baldo. His colleague was Jamar. They told me they were trying to set up a new settlement of The Valley People on a property on the southern tablelands of New South Wales. An elderly farmer was allowing them to use a hilly area he no longer worked, but they lacked the money and the people to get started. They hoped I might join their new venture. I showed them I already lived in a valley and explained that I had a sister to care for. I gave them a donation of money and wished them well.

I did not see them again for several years. Then they turned up again. The venture on the southern tablelands had never taken off; the owner of the property had died and the beneficiaries of the estate had evicted the few remaining members. Both men looked to have aged by more time than had passed since I last encountered them. I suspected they had been living debauched lives. I didn't want to take them in; but what could I do? Here I was with an ample income and a large house. I told them they could stay with us for a while to recover their health. I said I would give them the necessary funds to return to their homes in Sydney or to find board somewhere while they looked for work to make a new start to their lives. Jamar accepted the challenge and was soon looking much better. Baldo was clearly reluctant to mend his ways.

One day, I spent the morning at the library in Calway Junction and arrived home early in the afternoon to find Rita lying on the couch in an attitude that set my heart racing with anxiety. She was dead—strangled. Her clothing was askew and I had no doubt she had been sexually assaulted. In the kitchen I found Jamar slumped at the table. He was alive but there was a strong smell of liquor. At first I thought him comatose from drink. I grabbed his shirt and yanked him up to abuse him. Then I realised he'd been badly beaten. It was some time before he recovered sufficiently to tell me what had happened. Baldo had observed me topping up the kitty of cash I maintained in a secret location so Rita would have access to money if anything happened to me. It had never bothered me to have large amounts of cash on hand. Baldo had suggested to Jamar that they take the money and leave. He also suggested they give Rita a parting gift. His sniggering and gestures left Jamar in no doubt what he meant. Baldo then made advances to my sister. When Baldo became abusive, Jamar tried to intervene. He was a smaller man than Baldo and was attacked and beaten. When he awoke, Rita was dead. He was feeling nauseous and dizzy and went into the kitchen to get water. He had collapsed at the table and not regained consciousness until my return. The smell of liquor was rum the drunken Baldo had spilt.

I asked Jamar if he had any idea where Baldo might go after leaving Arajinna. To my surprise, Jamar was quite certain he knew. He told me Baldo would go to Sydney to the home of his parents whom he had said were now too old to order him around. Jamar believed Baldo had originally been thrown out of his parents' home because of a drug habit, but more than a decade had passed and Baldo had said they owed him things he had been denied. Jamar even knew the name of the suburb, though not the precise address.

The expectation of any law-abiding citizen would surely be that the appropriate action would be to call the police. I thought about how things might unfold if I did—what the authorities might think about me and others in this strange drama. I knew how far from the norms of society our behaviour would seem, how keen the tabloids and Sunday papers would be to tell the story in sensational terms, how my innocent Valley People friends, who had taken me in at a time of need, would be ridiculed and vilified. I also knew there was no certainty Baldo would be brought to justice under a system I believe has failed to find a proper balance between the interests of the falsely accused and the interests of the community at large. There is no perfect justice system. Even the most rigorous procedures will see some innocents convicted and some guilty go free. My belief is that our system relies too much on form and too little on trying to find the truth. I was now alone in life and my only thought was to make sure the man who had violated and murdered my gentle, harmless sister, did not escape punishment. If this makes me a vigilante, or a one-man judge and jury, I don't care.

Haste to action had never been my way. I knew the saying about revenge being a dish best served cold. An advantage of having lived a private existence was that it might be a long time before anybody other than Jamar and I wondered what had become of the eccentric woman who had rarely ventured from the house on the river since my return there. I decided not to arrange a funeral for Rita. Instead, I got Jamar to help me with the ceremony we had learnt from The Valley People. We undressed Rita, bathed her, washed her hair, and took her into the orchard where I found in me the strength to climb the highest tree and tie her so she faced up the valley. Jamar and I stood at the base of the tree with our hands against the trunk.

I had told Jamar I was happy for him to stay as my guest—more to guard against him telling others what had happened than to be charitable. But events took another strange turn. As we were making our way out of the orchard, Jamar tripped and fell. He was weak from the beating he had taken, and from the effort of assisting me with Rita, so I was not surprised when he did not get up at once. When I rolled him over I found that a stick had penetrated his eye. It must have inflicted some awful trauma because he was already dead. Next day, I dug a shallow grave where he had fallen, and buried him. I had neither the energy nor the inclination to repeat The Valley People ritual.

Megan winced. A moment later Paul shook his head and looked up. Marcus said, 'I'm afraid the stick through the eye was as gruesome as it sounds.'

Paul said, 'In the briefing paper I read before we came, there was something about cutting down the body after sixty-six days. Obviously that didn't happen.'

'I've already mentioned I didn't believe the ritual. Strangely, however, doing something ritualistic seemed appropriate, and there was something a bit sentimental and romantic about putting Rita's body in the tree. I was happy for it to stay there. With Jamar, I confess, I said a short prayer over the grave. We humans are strange beings aren't we?'

Megan said, 'If you're prepared to include this memoir in an official statement, the story is consistent with where we found the remains. There will be a coroner's inquest and I expect you'll be called to give evidence.'

'Will I be charged with anything?'

'In relation to the deaths, it might depend on whether there is any other evidence to confirm or refute your story.'

'I can't imagine there is,' Marcus said.

Paul said, 'Your failure to disclose what you knew, particularly the location of human remains, is certainly contrary to law. But, given your guilty plea to the murder for which you are currently serving time, the crown prosecutor might decide those are not crimes he will pursue.'

Marcus nodded and gave his now familiar quick smile. 'It doesn't matter much. Nobody bothers me in here. I am the librarian and my fellow inmates respect me. I'm happier now than when I lived with my father. And I no longer have a sister to care for, except to arrange for a more conventional burial now she's no longer able to gaze down the valley.'

Megan said, 'Apart from getting you to make a formal statement, I think we've probably covered our brief, but I'd like to consult with Paul in private. It might save another visit. Is there somewhere?'

'Do it here. Just give me a call when you're ready. I'm happy to give you a statement and to waive any right to legal advice if that's an issue. My supervisor can be a witness.'

When they reconvened ten minutes later, Megan said, 'A statement based on what you've written here might be all we ever need. But it's not our call. We'll report to our superiors. I've read the file on your conviction for murder. Because you pleaded guilty, it's a bit short on detail. I'm not sure yet if any of the untold story is of official interest to the police, but, having read this much, I'm sure it would be of interest to the people who are compiling a history of Kalawonta. Do you feel inclined to write the story up?'

'Why not. I had intended to continue the memoir, and anybody who writes is happy to find a reader. So consider it done, subject to a condition.'

'Which is?' Megan asked.

'Find someone in Arajinna to be my contact to organise a burial for Rita. And for Jamar, too. And support my application to be allowed out to attend.'

'That's not a commitment I can make without permission from my superiors. But let me make some enquiries.'

'I trust you,' Marcus said. 'I've had problems with police in the past. Present company excepted.' He looked at Paul and gave the small grin. 'See what you can do!'

Conviction for Murder

December 1992

On the afternoon of the interview with Marcus Loader, Justin Brody gave Megan permission to visit Arramulta. She rang Edwin and, after a call to Tony, it was arranged to meet in Arajinna the following day, a Saturday. Megan and Edwin left Sydney early and arrived in time for lunch. They were greeted by Tony, Emily, Max, Judith and Constable Dominic Gerado.

As soon as Megan had finished telling them about the interview, Tony said, 'I'd be very happy to be the contact to arrange a funeral for Rita and Jamar. How do you feel about adding one presumed lapsed catholic and one "religion unknown" to your multi-cultural graveyard, Max?'

'If Marcus agrees, it's fine by me. It sounds as though he's no longer practising his original faith; although the urge he felt to say a prayer over Jamar's grave interests me.'

'Then I'll telephone the prison tomorrow,' Tony said. 'And I'll pay Marcus a visit to introduce myself within the week.'

'I'm sure he'll be pleased,' Megan said. 'But it will probably be some time before you can get the remains released by the coroner, and Marcus has to get approval to attend, so don't talk dates yet.'

When Tony visited him less than a week later, Marcus was well advanced with the last part of his memoir. Tony asked him to send it to Max with written permission for it to be used as a source document for the history of Kalawonta. The memoir and the permission arrived at Banabrook on Monday 14th December. Max telephoned Tony immediately and invited him to bring Emily to Banabrook for dinner that night.

Drink in hand, Tony settled in the family room before dinner to read the memoir. The first parts were not much altered from the version Megan had brought with her after the interview. He browsed fairly quickly until he got to the new sections.

After the deaths of Rita and Jamar, I spent a week getting the house in order and then visited the local estate agent to put the property on the market. I was determined to pursue Baldo and knew my efforts might be thwarted if bodies were discovered by somebody exploring the orchard. I tried to reduce the risk by telling the agent enough about my attitudes to life for him to swallow the story that I would accept a modest price if he could find a buyer who would maintain the quiet solitude of the place and simply enjoy the tranquillity of the river setting. Nora Keppel was the ideal purchaser. She could not have afforded to pay a fair market price but she loved the house and I sold it to her for an amount she could manage. I guessed she had neither the resources nor the inclination to re-open any of the unused areas.

As soon as I had signed the papers, I packed up and departed. I told Mrs Keppel she could keep anything I left behind and I would pay for the things she did not want to be donated to The Society of Saint Vincent de Paul. It was a long time later I discovered I had created a problem by not leaving signed written instructions and that Mrs Keppel had to consult the solicitor, Mr Ross, before a contractor was prepared to undertake the removal.

Finding Baldo was easy; as was killing him, which I did without a second thought. It was he who opened the door to my knock. I stabbed him, there and then, with a knife I had taken for the purpose. No words were exchanged. He fell to the ground. As soon as I was sure he was dead, I left.

I would have liked to believe I was not capable of such a calculated cold-blooded act. Perhaps my father's warped teaching had prepared me to deal with a man I believed evil and without hope of redemption.

Had my actions been witnessed, I would have surrendered without demur and confessed. But I saw no need to turn myself in. It seems Baldo's parents had no idea where he had been for the past decade; nobody knew of his links to The Valley People; the police had nothing to go on but the knife bearing my fingerprints—fingerprints that were nowhere on record. All this I discovered from reports I read later on. Meanwhile, I found myself lodgings in Sydney and waited to see what happened. Later, I changed my name by Deed Poll and started systematically changing all my financial records to my new name.

I put the past behind me and enjoyed my new existence. But, two years later, there was another strange turn of events when I saw a newspaper report about somebody else having been charged with Baldo's murder. How this could have happened, I didn't know; but, given my beliefs about our justice system, I could not stand by while an innocent man was tried. I approached the police and confessed. My fingerprints were on the knife, and my statement included facts that were not public knowledge. I could describe the nature of Baldo's wound, what he had been wearing, and the precise time of the murder. I mentioned The Valley People only to explain how I had met him. To keep my sister and Jamar out of it, I said I had met Baldo again by chance and my motive for murder had been the theft of a large wad of cash I carried on my person. The evidence was so conclusive that the crown prosecutor took the matter to court without delay. I believe there was a mistake in the proceedings. I was charged as Marcus Loader, which had not been my name when I committed the crime. It didn't matter to me so I did not point it out. One reporter suggested my trial had set a record for brevity.

Although a convicted murderer, I was not considered a risk and, with the high-security gaols already overcrowded, the authorities were quick to put me into a low- security facility. I have lived a peaceful life as prisoner and librarian ever since.

The finding of the skeletons at Arajinna brings this saga to a close. Soon I shall be able to see the remains of Rita and Jamar buried in a conventional cemetery, and to pay for a memorial headstone for my gentle sister. I have met the present owner of the property on the river and believe it will become a place of beauty and love again, as I suspect it was when my Grandfather built it nearly a century ago. I am as happy as I have ever been in my life.

Tony put down the manuscript and blew his nose on the silk handkerchief he kept in the top pocket of his jacket. 'Dear me, what a sook I am!'

'I hope you don't think it's too sentimental,' Max said.

'It's not sentimental at all. It's the simple telling of a moving tale. And I'm a noted sook, okay?'

From the kitchen, Judith called, 'Dinner's ready. I'm serving ours in here.'

'Where's Emily?' Tony asked as he settled himself at the table.

'She's helping cookie in the dining room. A mob of casuals blew in late.' Judith took a wok of seared beef and vegetables from the stove and placed it on the table. 'So what do you think of the manuscript?'

'I blubbed like a baby. Especially at the end where he says he's happy for me to be the new owner. I think what moved me most was to know this unhappy family had lived in Arajinna—a community we all believed to be caring—and none of us ever realized the suffering of that poor woman and children. Marcus must be much of an age as young Adrian. Just think how different their lives have been. Adrian taken in by Olive, loved and cared for. While only a mile or two up the road, Magnus and his sister are being abused by a monster.'

'I had similar thoughts,' Judith said. 'Magnus and Rita must have still been at school when I started, although they were several years older.'

Tony served himself from the wok. 'I thought when Marcus eventually comes to Arajinna to attend the funerals, I would ask his permission to name the orchard after his sister—"Rita's Orchard". I could design an archway and take a cutting from Banabrook's famous climbing rose. What do you think?'

'I think you'll have me blubbing soon. Eat your dinner.'

Book Launch

Thursday 17th December 1992

Over the years, the last day of term had become something of a festival at Arajinna. It was not only the parents of children currently at the High School who came in from all areas of Kalawonta, but others who had some past connection, and many, in addition, who found it an opportunity to meet with folk they rarely saw at other times. For some, the drive took several hours. Every bus in the district was in service; all accommodation was booked months in advance; the shire waived its requirements for camping permits; caravans and tents appeared in paddocks and playing fields. In the main hall, school projects were on display. The speech day assembly began at 2pm in a marquee on the sports field. Afternoon tea was served in a second marquee. Later in the day, there was a special meeting devoted to some current issue for the community. In 1992, the special meeting was the launch of _The Atlas of Kalawonta_ , Max Kingsley's biography of Walter Blake.

Earlier, at the speech day assembly, Max had briefed the school community on progress with The History of Kalawonta, which he and students had been developing since 1989.

'It has been a rewarding project for many students, but those who started on it with me four years ago, must be wondering if our promise to acknowledge them in the book will ever be realized. The editorial committee, headed by the principal, has decided that 1992 is an appropriate year for this volume to end. The early chapters chronicle the arrival of the founders of the district in the first half of the nineteenth century. When we began the project we planned to cover the first 150 years. But things happening around us as we worked, some wonderful, some not so wonderful, brought us to what the shire president referred to as "a grand new beginning". We have continued to chronicle events as they unfold, but the editorial committee has decided this is a good time to draw a line, leaving it to future generations to write the next instalments. Current students who had been looking forward to becoming part of the project should not despair. We will spend first term of next year preparing this volume for publication. Then, the school will begin a new project conducting interviews and writing notes for future volumes, bringing together the fragments of evolving stories, which researchers into the past often find hard to achieve in retrospect. The Kalawonta News has agreed to be the major sponsor.'

How Walter Blake's biography had come to be called _The Atlas of Kalawonta_ was one of the stories related at the launch by The Minister for Local Government, The Honourable Nerida Quigley. The artist who had drawn a cartoon for The Kalawonta News in 1945 spoke from his wheelchair of the events that had led to his depicting Walter bent under the weight of a globe bearing a map of the shire. The minister, who had read the entire book in three days to prepare for the launch, spoke of her awe at the achievements of a man who, having been rejected by the army on medical grounds, had looked for other ways to make his contribution to the war effort.

As he posed for a photograph with other members of the family, Tony Blake had no thoughts of personal tragedy. The threat posed by Miranda d'Aratzio had been relegated, in his mind, to what he had once referred to as his ever-growing stock of things to ignore in the quest to remain sane. Even when somebody commented on a plume of smoke rising at a distance, even when the siren of a fire engine was heard, his thoughts were of Walter and the family, not of any threat to the lovingly restored property he had named Arramulta.

The book launch marked the end of the formal program of events. Around the buildings and marquees, goodbyes were being said, and family groups had started moving away, when the school's public address system came alive.

'Attention. Attention, please. This is Constable Domenic Gerado. I have to tell you there is a fire along Old River Road. Please do not be alarmed. The brigade is in attendance and has the fire contained. The highway remains open, in both directions, but all side roads south of the highway between Arajinna and Dalley's Crossing have been closed off. Anybody needing access to property in that area should check with me outside the principal's office. Thank you.'

The announcement had barely concluded when Tony felt a hand take his elbow. He turned to find Trudy, the school principal, at his side. 'Domenic asked me to find you,' she said. He opened his mouth to speak but, for once, nothing came. He was aware of adrenaline flooding his system. His heart was beating uncomfortably. Trudy's grip on his arm tightened and she started to guide him towards the main office. They arrived to find Emily in animated discussion with Constable Gerado. The expression on her face, as she turned to Tony, was uncharacteristically grim. He lowered himself into a visitor's chair.

Fire

Thursday 17th December 1992

Arramulta was a smouldering gutted shell. Remarkably, seen from the bridge where the horrified crowd gathered, the facade was nearly intact except for the windows having fallen out and the paint above the lintels being blackened and blistered. Most of the roof had fallen in, leaving only the main roof frame in skeletal outline against the smoky sky. Having been turned back by a fireman at the gate, Tony joined the onlookers on the bridge who made way for him to stand with his hands on the old sandstone wall, surveying the remains of his dream. Nobody spoke to him; the hushed whispers of the observers attesting to their sympathy and, for many, their personal distress at the loss of a piece of local history. Even his own family members, Judith on one side and Emily on the other, could think of nothing to say. Judith put a hand on his; he responded by patting it with his other hand, then putting his arm around her. Eventually, he spoke.

'How extraordinarily dense the structural timber must have been. It makes me realise I don't even know what it is. I doubt it's local. I think they used to import some hardwoods in the early days. Strange when you consider how much forest was here. They would have used softer wood for the roofing battens, which is why the tiles fell in. Hardwood for the verandah, though. Amazing resistance to fire. In bushfires, it's the canopy that provides the fuel. The trunks often remain merely singed.' He paused before adding, 'If I can persuade the authorities the main framework is still structurally sound, we might be able to rebuild around it.'

'Do you really think you can rebuild?' Emily asked.

'Dear Emily, I've nothing else to do with my life. The place was fully insured, so why not? A new challenge for an ageing architect. The brigade has done a remarkable job of containment. Before they turned me back, I got close enough to see that Rita's Orchard has taken a bit of damage on the far boundary, but they got their pumps into the river and saved most of the vegetation. Don't look at me like that, I'm not mad. Might have a bit of a cry later on, behind closed doors. Oh, dear. We don't actually have any doors to close, do we. May we stay at Banabrook tonight?'

'Of course, you idiot,' Judith said. 'We do so love you, Tony.'

The remark was too much for him and tears rolled down his plump cheeks. 'Always the sook, eh?' He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. 'Sorry, people,' he said to nobody in particular.

The three of them remained on the bridge for another half hour, watching the brigade peg out a boundary and surround the building with tape. By that time, most of the other onlookers had drifted away. Then Caroline and Sean arrived.

Caroline hugged Tony tightly and said, 'Holding up?' She'd had a close relationship with her cousin for many years, having shared the grief with him when his father, her favourite uncle, died. They were an odd sight clinging together now, his massive arms engulfing her slim, elegant frame.

'He's already got the place half re-built,' Emily said.

Sean grasped Tony by both shoulders. No words were exchanged but the sympathy was palpable. After a moment Sean said, 'Max will see you back at Banabrook. He felt he should help supervise packing up at the school.'

'Poor Max,' Tony said.

'He's used to it of course,' Judith said.

'No, I meant poor Max will have to write another chapter for the history. It's still 1992, you know. The line isn't drawn yet. Well, folks, there's nothing we can do here, and I, for one, need a drink. The brigade will stay on site to ensure there are no secondary fires. Tomorrow they'll try to determine the cause. In my experience they're very good at that. Amazing what they can deduce from charred remains.'

'I'm sure we didn't leave anything on,' Emily said. 'We hadn't been cooking, and it's not the season for heaters. I hadn't even used a hair dryer.'

Tony took her in his arms. 'Don't fret yourself. Even if it was one of us, these things happen. My guess is an electrical fault; or something to do with one of the gas bottles, perhaps.'

'You had the place completely re-wired. I was here while they did it!'

'We'll know soon enough, Emily. Let's go home and see whose clothes we can borrow for the night. You're slim enough; but I'm going to be a challenge. We'll go shopping in the morning.'

It was a solemn Fire Chief who arrived at Banabrook, early the next afternoon, accompanied by Dominic Gerado. The family gathered to hear his report.

'I'm afraid it's arson, Mr Blake. I've brought Constable Gerado along because we'll have to liaise with the police on this.'

'Arson?'

'Yes sir. Fire was lit in four separate places. Method we've seen before. Did you own any single-bar electric heaters, sir?'

'No. We used open fires and heaters fuelled by gas-bottles.'

'That's what I thought when I looked around. Obviously, they brought the small heaters with them. Wouldn't have been any use to heat rooms that big. Dominic is happy for me to explain it all to you. He doesn't consider any of you folk "persons of interest". This is the work of professionals. What they do is drape material over the heaters. Some distance away, they soak the carpet with petrol or some other accelerant that gives off a flammable vapour. Inside, with no breeze, the vapour is heavier than air and it spreads slowly along the floor. When the heaters warm up, the material draped over them smoulders and starts to burn. When the flammable vapour gets to it, the effect can be spectacular. They wouldn't switch the heaters on until just before leaving, which gives them a head start. By the time it blows, the arsonist is well away.'

'And they did this in four places?'

'Partly to make it harder to do anything to stop the inevitable if somebody got there too soon. Partly because nothing in life is guaranteed, so they give themselves multiple chances. The probability of four sites all failing to ignite is very low if you know what you're doing. And our arsonist or arsonists certainly did know.'

'Do you ever catch the culprits?'

The Fire Chief glanced at Dominic who looked doubtful but said. 'I think we do... sometimes. Our blokes will do their best.'

Sean said, 'Whoever it was knew everybody would be going into town. The first place to look is people with a grudge and with local knowledge.'

Dominic nodded. 'I've rung Justin Brody. He's not arson squad, but I thought he should be told.'

Extracts from Judith's Diary

1993

1 January 1993

On New Year's Day two years ago I made my first entry in this diary. Although I have been irregular in my chronicles, I have nearly finished this book and will soon have to purchase a new one. In our current circumstances I'll need it. I find writing my notes therapeutic when the family is under stress. It helps clarify my thoughts.

It is early morning and I'm out on the verandah. I could not sleep. Emily and Tony are the only others in residence and I'm not expecting them to surface for a while even though we retired before midnight. We all drank at least one glass too many last night.

Max left on Boxing Day to go to Canberra where he has a meeting with a helpful archivist who found some new references to the early years of the district. He is staying with Caroline and Sean at Caroline's flat.

We have a holiday booking for a large group to arrive in a few days. I'll be glad of the diversion.

Although we try not to dwell on the possibility that we might still be targets for the d'Aratzio family, we know Justin Brody would not have told us to get on with our lives if he did not also feel an obligation to alert us to his concerns. The fire at Arramulta was a stark reminder of our vulnerability.

29 January 1993

Wonderful news. Tony telephoned from Sydney to say his persistence has paid off. He has an official letter confirming that the shell of Arramulta has been declared structurally sound. Now he can submit his rebuilding plans to the shire. For the first time in more than a month, I could hear the old Tony in his tone of voice. Since the fire, he has devoted himself exclusively to this venture but, despite his positive utterances, his bubbling personality had all but disappeared. I think it might be back. He seems so excited.

30 January 1993

Tony has purchased a caravan and hired someone to tow it to Arajinna. He intends to live on site so he can "watch the Phoenix rise" (his words).

17 February 1993

Arramulta is starting to look like a camping ground. There are now three caravans parked in the cleared strip between Rita's Orchard and the river. Each has a colourful annexe and Tony arranged construction of a large barbecue on the riverbank where the campers cook and eat together most nights. Tony's gigantic van is the centrepiece. Initially, he had told us he wanted to park it in full view of the bridge as a symbol of defiance. He changed his mind because he finds the view through the valley so uplifting; and there are no scars from the fire in that direction. Emily also opted to live in a caravan. The third is occupied by a gardener who was chosen because he used to be a security guard. He will be always on site when nobody else is there.

24 February 1993

An extraordinary and wonderful development. A fourth caravan at Arramulta with a charming occupant who knows the property better than we do. Marcus Loader has returned.

None of us knew Marcus had been released until Sean saw a report in a legal journal about a prisoner who had been "evicted" from gaol because of overcrowding. The report indicated that Marcus had asked the parole board not to review his case, giving rise to legal argument, which ended with the attorney-general apologising to Marcus but insisting that his desire to remain inside could not be accommodated.

When Tony was shown the article, he got in touch with Marcus and invited him to live at Arramulta. He arrived yesterday. What a delightful man he is. He has excellent social skills, despite his strange history.

An Interview with Miranda

Monday 8th March 1993

Miranda d'Aratzio sat back in her chair, her lips drawn tightly against her teeth in a line that gave the otherwise attractive face a look of menace. The few middle-age wrinkles suited her—they were laugh lines, not the thin floury folds of a long time smoker. Brody was good at reading faces. This was a woman who would age well. She looked from Brody to Megan Schmitz and back to Brody. 'If you would like to record this conversation to save taking notes, please do.'

Without speaking, Justin looked at Megan. She took a tape recorder from her bag and put it on the desk.

Miranda gave them a tiny smile. 'Shouldn't you be saying something like "Interview with Mrs Miranda d'Aratzio commencing 10.05 am Monday 8th March 1993, etcetera etcetera?" No? Then I'll start.' She stood up from her desk and wandered back and forth while she spoke, glancing occasionally at the detectives to emphasise a point.

'Firstly, Inspector, may I commend you for bringing a woman with you. It is a wise precaution, these days; particularly when you visit a lady like me who has so many friends around the building. Perhaps I should be insulted that you might have felt my invitation for you to visit to be an entrapment—that I might be planning to cry rape or something. I'm told those things do happen. But such behaviour must be the sad last resort of a woman who isn't in a position of strength. My late husband never spoke of your being accompanied by a woman when you visited him. And, as you might expect, you have made yourself the subject of discussions at our dinner table on several occasions, so I know the tenor of your meetings with Leonard, and I've had graphic descriptions of the imposing officers of the law who've accompanied you here in the past. However, I choose not to be insulted, so let's turn our attention to this fire in Arajinna that has caused you and your officers to pester my staff and business associates. As you have confirmed, the fire occurred on 17th December. Without any credible reason, you began your obvious and vulgar sniffing for smoke in this building before Christmas. Your invasion continued for weeks, at a time when my staff and associates should have been enjoying the festive season. Even my brother has been interviewed. I'm sure he gave a wonderful performance as a wrongly impugned citizen. He would have enjoyed every minute of it. He can be quite naughty that way; but only that way, inspector. The implied insults from your activity around here have certainly exercised my mind, increasingly so as I waited for you to arrive with guns drawn to arrest someone. You see, it did strike me there was a possibility you might know something I didn't—that I was unwittingly harbouring a monster, or maybe I had a friend who knew the details of my late husband's suffering and thought they might be doing me a service by attacking his tormentors. Nearly three months have passed and I have been on the verge of asking my legal advisers whether the police in this free society can continue harassing people when it must be obvious they are on a fruitless fishing exercise.'

Still standing, Miranda rolled her chair aside and stood facing Brody, leaning towards him with her hands flat on the desk. After a moment, she put a hand demurely to her cleavage as if conscious of exposing herself. Then she moved away and continued her slow pacing. 'My late husband told me of one visit you made here. He referred to it as "Brody's nod nod wink wink dissertation". It was clear to him on that occasion you had no evidence of something you were trying to imply he had done, just as is clear to me now you have absolutely no evidence pointing to any arsonist, let alone to an arsonist known to me. So, in case your harassment is based on a misconception that I am harbouring a grudge against people in Arajinna, I thought I would do you the courtesy of something more than nodding and winking. My position vis a vis the Blakes and Kingsleys of Arajinna is this: I detest them, as I detest others whose wealth is inherited and not the product of their own endeavours. I resent what they did to my husband over an extended period of years. I have suffered at their hands and, for a time, I was angry—vengeful even; I can admit to that flaw in my character, as I am sure you admit to your shortcomings. But I believe the Blakes and Kingsleys have suffered also. I am reliably informed Mrs Kingsley had a bad fall from a horse a year or two ago—a fall from which she has never fully recovered. There will be no offspring I understand. How cruel life is. Also, thanks to you, I have learned that Tony Blake, whose actions were the direct cause of considerable suffering by my husband, is now having to deal with the consequences of the destruction of a much-loved property. Can you imagine I would wish death on enemies who are suffering so terribly? What I am saying Detective Inspector is that, if I ever had business of interest to me in Arajinna, I now have none. The thing that might cause me to develop such an interest would be continued harassment by the police.' She rolled her chair back to its position, sat down, and smiled. 'I think I have now said all I had to say. Your turn.'

Justin looked at her steadily. He had already decided on his response but he counted slowly to twenty to give the pause time to have an effect. 'Since you appear to have been well briefed by your husband about my previous visits to this office, you will know that after the nod nod wink wink dissertation he acted contrary to my expectations. In fact, he responded to any nods and winks as might the proverbial blind horse.'

'Indeed he did. Regrettably the response backfired—one of his rare failures. It is a good lesson to learn. Those who ignore informed nods and winks do so at their peril.'

'I think we understand each other.'

'I'm sure we do.' She made an exaggerated nod of her head and screwed one eye into a gigantic wink! 'For the tape, the interviewee is nodding and winking. Or am I the interviewer, on this occasion?'

When Justin was sure her performance was finished, he said, 'You've been quite direct. Let me return the favour. Whilst it would be wrong for me to tell you what information we have obtained, I can disclose that we have good evidence linking people in Sydney to events in Arajinna, evidence admissible before a court or at an enquiry set up to assess the justification for the visits my officers have been making to your premises.'

Miranda smiled. 'Evidence you would have passed to the prosecutor's office if it was sufficient to support charges against anyone.'

Brody held her gaze for another count of twenty. Then he said, 'Has the purpose you intended from inviting us here been fulfilled?'

'I'm inclined to believe it has.'

Justin looked at Meg and pointed to the tape recorder. She turned it off. They all rose and Miranda escorted them to the door of her office where, wordlessly, they exchanged handshakes.

It was Meg who broke the silence when she had driven out of the car park and turned into William Street. 'The bitch has won, hasn't she!'

'It depends on how you define a win, Meg.'

'I'm listening.'

'Many of the people we interviewed reported back to her. It's what we expected to happen. It's is what we hoped would happen. She has assessed the situation well. She has guessed correctly that we don't have the evidence to make a case against anyone for anything. But her lawyers will have warned her against any attempt to pursue us for harassment. Her real concern is the on-going attention her operations would receive if we were concerned for the lives of the Blakes and the Kingsleys. She knew that so long as we thought lives were being threatened, her shady empire would receive far more than its usual share of our attention. She knows, if that happened, her rival operators would see the weakness and look for opportunities to erode her business. By convincing us she has no further interest in Arajinna she takes the heat off her operations. If that was the purpose of the meeting, she's had a win.'

'I thought so.'

'But so have we, Meg.'

'I'm still listening.'

'If you'd asked me before the meeting whether I would be satisfied if the only outcome of our visit was a belief that Miranda will cease pursuing our friends in Arajinna, I would have said yes. And that's what we've come away with.'

'Can you trust her? She hardly swore an oath with all that nodding and winking. I could have slapped the bitch at the end.'

'I couldn't say I trust her, but I believe what we've just been told because it all makes sense. Some criminals kill because they're wired to kill, some because their psyche demands payback for any perceived wrong. I don't think Mrs d'Aratzio is either of those. I think she sees herself at the beginning of an exciting new phase in her life—a middle-aged woman who is the respected boss of a successful operation. She doesn't want to mess things up by continuing to seek revenge against a few people in a country town—especially if she perceives them to be suffering already, although I think she was laying the Blake's suffering part on a bit thick.'

'You don't think she was behind the fire?'

'Of course she was. But I believe her intention was always to hurt, not to kill. I doubt if she was even motivated to seek revenge for Lenny. I think the arson attack was deliberately planned to target property, not people. That's why they chose that particular time on that particular day. Their intelligence was good. They did the homework and got the timing right. Well-run gangs know that deaths usually bring more heat than profit. Well-run gangs only target people when they think a death will remove a threat or help the cash flow. The successful arson attack on a personal enemy will allow Miranda to hold her head up at meetings with other gang bosses. They'll all know who did what, and nobody will say she's let Lenny down. She'll make the occasional snide remark about the misfortunes of the Blakes. Lenny was dying for a long time and other gang bosses would have had designs on his empire. Miranda was determined to continue running the family business. To do that she had to establish she's tough. I think she's done so without the carnage others would have thought necessary. So, yes, Meg. I think she's won. But I'm happy with our outcome too.'

'What will you tell the folk in Arajinna?'

'To stop looking over their shoulders. I'm sure it's all they've ever wanted.'

'Manny Cornelius?'

'I'm not going to have Tom Jones sing for the entertainment of the underworld. We made no deals and there won't be any. The protective custody was a ploy to create a belief we no longer need to sustain. Manny will be charged with crimes I am sure will see him put away for a long time. A jury might buy some lies about his intent, but you don't break into a church with a loaded Beretta without damaging your credibility, not with three good witnesses on hand.'

'What about Miranda's brother and Lenny's other helpers?'

'Who can tell? You've been with the team long enough to know the drill. We plod along like the beat coppers of old. Sometimes we get to say "Allo allo allo, what have we here?" Sometimes we don't. But we plod with purpose Meg. We keep on our desks the files of the bastards who bug us most. And if they make a mistake, we try not to miss it.'

Suddenly, Meg laughed. When she finished she said. 'Thanks for that. I am still learning.'

An Extended Family

Saturday 20th March 1993

It was a week since the election marking Caroline's retirement from politics. She would continue to be a member of parliament until 30th June and would attend any sittings of the senate in the intervening period; but in accordance with convention and her personal beliefs, she would act and vote as a caretaker member. She had already moved out of her flat in Canberra. Sean had put his Sydney house on the market, having recently entered into a partnership agreement with Gilbert Ross to start a new practice at Arajinna.

Although residing temporarily at Banabrook, Caroline and Sean had decided to purchase a cottage close to the town, in walking distance of the main street where Sean would work.

With bookings for The Banabrook Experience now consistently close to capacity for much of the year, the family rarely gathered in numbers at the homestead. Tonight, Tony had booked a table at Arajinna's new restaurant, Andy's, which had been opened by the proprietor of the successful local trout farm. With advice from Tony, Andy had devised a series of small menus catering for a broad range of tastes, with trout always a prominent item. Tony had personally recruited a young chef in Sydney. He had also designed the interior of the restaurant with an open kitchen on one side, allowing Andy to interact with his customers while supervising the preparation of the meals.

There were eight at their table: Tony, Emily, Caroline, Sean, Judith, Max, their long time friend Ginny Underwood, and their new friend Marcus Loader. Tony had sat himself at one end, Emily at the other, "to keep the youngsters in order". Tony had Caroline on his right and Judith on his left. Late in the evening, as they finished the champagne which Tony had ordered to go with the strawberries Romanoff, he spoke quietly to Caroline and Judith. 'How nice it is to be surrounded by what appears to be almost our entire extended family, and to have all of us living together in Arajinna. For tonight we're missing Tom and young Fred, and Cookie Cate. But we enjoy an abundance, my angels.'

Judith said, 'What a time we've had Tony. And now Justin thinks we're finally free of the d'Aratzio threat, we can relax a bit.'

He smiled and laid a hand on hers. 'If losing Arramulta was the price we had to pay to satisfy the needs of Lenny's family, I'm happy. We're alive and together. A house can be rebuilt. I'm already having great fun working with Marcus on plans for the interior. I was never totally happy with the entrance. The front doors were too close to the foot of the staircase. We think we can overcome the problem without losing the feel of the old place. Marcus has some very creative ideas.'

Caroline said, 'I think it was wonderful of you to bring him home to Arajinna.'

'I was taught that sort of consideration by two half-sisters. I know what it is to come home.' With one hand still resting on Judith's, he reached out to put the other on Caroline's. 'Thank you my angels.' After a brief pause, he withdrew his hands, picked up his glass and held it out for them to clink theirs against it.

Judith was aware the room had become a little misty.

END

~~~~******~~~~

NOTE TO READERS

If you enjoyed _Field Walking_ you might like to read _What Lies Buried_ , a novel about the Blake family of Banabrook in the years before Lenny d'Aratzio sent Mad Charlie Magro to Arajinna on his quest to kill Max Kingsley.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to:

My wife Jan and my family for unfailing support in the things that matter.

Dr Chris McLeod of Wordworks for his helpful assessment.

My dear friends Jo and Brian Smith, for support and pertinent comments.

Chris Coggin for his friendship, his perceptive notes, and his helpful suggestions.

Joleene Naylor for working in the snows of Southern Missouri to produce a cover with the colours of outback Australia.

Those readers of my first novel, _What Lies Buried_ , whose favourable responses encouraged me to finish the second.

