

Laughs, Corpses..... And a Little Romance

The River Postman and his Two Sons

Author Mike White

Published by Mike White at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Mike White

All film and TV rights reserved, Mike White 2013

Cover photo by the author, copyright 2013

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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All characters and events described in this book are completly fictitious.

Part One, TED

I guess everyone gets the occasional morning when they wake up feeling full of beans, in tune with the world, and life seems just about perfect. I started off that way one beautiful spring morning, right up until the moment, that is, when I spotted the corpse.

I'm Ted Farley, a river postman and ferryboat man, and my boat is the "Lady Annabelle" or "Annabelle" for short. At 5.30 that the morning we heaved ourselves out of bed, all except Jack of course, as usual I had to yell at him. My missus in her old blue dressing gown and slippers made us a bit of breakfast, plates of cereal for the boys and a poached egg on toast for me. We ate our breakfast hurriedly and pretty much in silence; not much to talk about when you're all still half asleep. We climbed into the cab of our old truck and I backed out into the street. We drove through the town just as the sky was getting lighter. The street lights were still on, and a few folk were about, scratching and yawning, and trying to get their brains into first gear. I turned along the wharf, where Annabelle was floating quietly at her moorings, covered in dew. She looked as if she was just struggling to wake up too. We set to work squaring her up ready for the day's work, but I paused for a moment and leaned on the starboard rail, savoring the perfect start to the day. In the dawn hush there was scarcely a breath of wind. The air was balmy, with a hint of floral perfume. The reflections of boats and masts on the water were barely shivering. The boat yard was silent, but across the harbour a winch rattled on a fishing boats back from a night at sea. I took a deep breath of cool salty air, feeling very relaxed and contented.

I put the kettle on and soon it was gently sizzling in the back of the wheelhouse. Jack was drying the dew off the passenger seats with an old towel in a slow-moving sort of way. Tim had the hatch up over the engine, and was down there polishing and fiddling. When the kettle came to the boil I brewed three mugs of instant, and the entrancing smell of coffee filled the wheelhouse. I called to Jack and Tim. Jack dropped his towel and came immediately, ever ready to stop work. We'd half drunk our coffee and Tim still hadn't appeared. Jack snorted in disgust. "He's playing with that bloody engine again." Annabelle has an old-fashioned slow-running diesel engine, the sort that lasts forever if looked after by an expert, but otherwise they can be a real pain in the ass. "Well at least he keeps it running smoothly" I said, "I just wish sometimes you could get off your backside the way he does". Jack looked away from me. He'd heard that sermon too many times already.

I shouldn't refer to Jack and Tim as my boys really. Jack is twenty-two, and Tim nineteen, and they are as opposite as port and starboard. You can tell the difference from their bedrooms. Jack's room is always a mess, clothes all over the floor, and posters of the latest rock bands and racing cars stuck up on the wall. Tim's room on the other hand is neat and tidy, with everything put away, and the only poster on the wall is a picture of an old steam locomotive.

Jack is a biggish bloke, curly brown hair, brash and self-confident, but, alas, idle with it. He could have done much better at school if he'd wanted to, but he preferred to mess around and waste his time. Now he spends a lot of time fussing over his appearance and trying to impress the girls. I had hoped he would get his master's ticket and take over the business from me, as I had from my dad, but gradually I've come to realize that he'll never make it, he just can't be bothered. Still, he does have one redeeming talent; he has a quick wit, which often makes me smile.

My younger son, Tim, was small as a child, quiet and almost painfully shy. "Tim for Timothy and Tim for Timid" my missus always said. At school he never gained good results even though he tried, and he was always picked last for any sports team. However he has one skill he picked up hanging around in boatyards as a lad, he's a wizard with anything mechanical. It isn't anything he's learnt from lessons; he just seems to have a knack for it. A mechanic only has to show him something once and he can do it too, just like that. The tradesmen in the boatyards didn't seem to mind a kid hanging around, helping out, like an old-fashioned apprentice. They quite like explaining their skills to an interested boy, and soon he was getting paid for doing odd jobs. Now he can charm any machinery into working. Give him an old outboard motor, and within half a day he'll have it stripped and reassembled. A bit of grease in the bearings, a magic tweak of the carburetor, and it starts purring like a contented cat He never thinks of himself as skilled. He can't understand why anybody can't do the same as he does. Because of that he never gets paid what he's really worth, but at least I know he'll always be able to earn a living.

Annabelle doesn't really need a three-man crew, two can manage quite easily, but I can hardly fire one of my own sons, so Jack collects the fares, does a little cleaning, and tries to chat up the girls, while Tim does most of the maintenance and keeps the engine running like new. Any other employer would fire Jack, but if I did that he'd probably end up unemployed, and I'd sooner have him work for me than hang around town getting into trouble.

We earn a living on the Hawkesbury River, north a bit from Sydney, a big tidal estuary with lots of islands and side branches. Our harbour is really a summary of life on the river. It's a jumble of jetties and rusting sheds, and a small fleet of fishing boats, prawn trawlers, oyster boats, ferries, tour boats, private yachts and expensive cruisers. There's a busy boat yard with a slipway and the smell of fresh paint. There's a flashy marina with beaten up motorboats for hire. Shoals of tiny fish swirl and dart in the shallows around a neglected hull half sunk. There's a fish co-op where the professional fishermen clean their catch, and where you can sit outside in the sunshine and get a grand feed of fish and chips. In the cool of the morning our harbour is a busy bustling place, but often in the heat of a summer afternoon it drowses quietly. We moor Annabelle at the inner end of the harbour, handy for the car park and the railway station. You can catch a train from there right into the centre of Sydney.

******

Our first job each weekday is to pick up commuters from Mulloway Island. Mulloway is a great hump of sandstone sticking up two hundred feet out of the water like a giant turtleback half a mile long. Early explorers coming upstream camped out on it, and caught lots of fish in the river, among them a fish called Mulloway, so they called it Mulloway Island. It's still mostly covered with bush and trees, but a necklace of houses encircles the Island just above river level. Quite a few folk have made permanent homes out there, even though there's no bridge, so they have to come and go by boat. Some of them have jobs in Sydney, so each morning on my first couple of runs I pick them up from the jetty at the Island store and drop them off near the station for a train ride to the office or shop. They all seem to think living on the Island is very romantic, and they love the quiet isolation and the absence of crime. Traffic noise is replaced by the singing of birds. It's one last corner of Australia where people still don't bother to lock their doors.

When it was time for our first trip I checked the run of the tide as I have every morning for forty years. I called down the hatch, "Start up, Tim". The engine sprang to life and a puff of black smoke came out of the exhaust pipe. Jack cast off the mooring lines. I backed Annabelle out from the wharf into the centre of the harbour, then slipped the engine into forward, turned the wheel and headed south past the marina and west out across the river.

The sky was clear blue, with just a couple of wispy white clouds. Some outboard boats were making a racket rushing and thumping across the water. A couple of oyster farmers were chugging out to their oyster leases in their workboats. It was all very familiar, and I felt very relaxed at the wheel. We were nearly half a mile out when I saw a bump in the water that shouldn't have been there. I fished out my binoculars and then cursed under my breath. I knew my perfect morning had just turned sour. Jack and Tim felt Annabelle heal over a little as I changed course to go and have a look. "What's up dad?" "I'm not sure." They both strained to look ahead.

During my many years on the river I'd seen corpses before, and this was another one, drifting up the river on the incoming tide. I steered Annabelle slowly alongside and eased the engine back to idle. Tim peered down at the body. "It looks like a girl, dad". I heard a tremor in his voice. I realized he'd never seen a corpse before. "Pull her in to the side, Tim". "I don't want to touch her". Jack jeered at him. "What's the matter, d'you think she's going to jump out and grab you?" He fetched the boat hook, deftly hooked it into the collar of her dress, and pulled her in alongside. Tim moved away, looking suddenly pale. I climbed over the rail and put my hand on her throat. The skin was as cold as the water. Whoever it was had been dead for many hours.

I clicked on the CB radio I use to talk to NIcky. "Hey Nicky, you there yet?" Nicky is the part-time girl who runs our office on the wharf, taking bookings, sorting out freight, keeping the ledgers, and all the other odd jobs of a small business. "Yes Ted, what is it?" "We've found a corpse in the river, half way out to the Island, looks like a young girl. Phone the cops and see what they say, would you?" "A corpse? Uh, a girl did you say? Jesus! Hold on a minute"

We drifted alongside the body. Nicky came back on the radio. "Police ask if you've checked for vital life signs, have you tried CPR?" "She's been dead for hours. I know a stone cold corpse when I see one." We waited again. Tim had moved right over to the other side of Annabelle. I could see he wasn't going to be much help. The radio hissed again. "The police say their launch is being repaired. They ask could you recover the body and bring it in please. They'll meet you here at the wharf." I felt irritated. "What a damned liberty" I half yelled into the radio, "What do they think I am, an undertaker or something?" "Sorry Ted, I'm just the messenger." "Yeh, sorry Nicky."

I clicked off the radio. The cops had a launch in their boatshed near the wharf, but it never seemed to be in working order when it was needed, although it always seemed to be shipshape when some top brass wanted a river cruise. I was on the verge of refusing to have anything to do with the corpse, I didn't want to get mixed up with doing the police a favour; it was sure to be a big waste of time that I'd get no thanks for. Then, stupidly, I started to think about my civic duty and all that stuff, and I could hardly leave the poor dead girl drifting about in the river, could I? That's how I came to get mixed up in the whole damned business.

I had an idea what to do. "Get that spare role of canvas out, Jack". We spread the canvas out on the deck near the boarding gate where the passengers come aboard. "Tim, open the gate, Jack, help me lift her onto the canvas." Tim opened the gate and turned his face away. "Come on Jack," I said, "I know it's not a nice job, but it's got to be done, so let's get on with it." As I glanced at him he grinned. "Do I get paid extra for undertaker's duties?" I realized the unfeeling bastard was almost enjoying this, like a new and exciting experience. I caught hold of the girl under the arms, and lifted her body, dripping wet, through the gate. Jack leaned over the rail and lifted her legs, and we put her down on the canvas. She didn't seem to weigh much at all. We rolled her over on her back and straightened her out. Tim shut the gate, trying not to look.

She was a slim, middling-tall girl, probably early twenties, long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, the sort of look many young Australian girls seem to want. Her lifeless blue eyes seemed to be staring into the distance. She was wearing a cheap muslin dress, badly torn, and obviously not much in the way of underwear. She also had a lot of purple bruises that didn't come from a fall. I wrapped the canvas around her. "Come on Jack, let's put her in the freight locker out of the sun." We carried the body forward, lowered it into the locker, and closed the lid. Back in the wheelhouse I pulled out the river chart, took bearings off three landmarks on the riverbank, and penciled a cross on the chart. I expected that some time in the future someone would want to know the exact position where we'd picked up the corpse.

I went back into the wheelhouse, opened the throttle and turned the bow towards the Island. "Aren't we going to take her back first?" asked Tim, all concerned. "I've got a living to earn" I said, "and there are people on the Island waiting to go to work! D'you think the cops are going to pay us for doing their dirty work? Anyway she's in no hurry any more. Why don't you sprinkle some water on the canvas to keep everything cool." Tim silently scooped up some river water in a bucket, opened the locker and tipped it in, keeping his face turned away. The sun was getting up now and it was still a lovely morning, but a lovely morning with a big crack in it.

As we came in to the jetty on Mulloway Island I throttled back the engine, then reversed the propeller. Boats don't have brakes like a car, so you have to put the propeller into reverse to slow up quickly. With a feel for the tides and a few years of practice you can still stop within a few inches of the right spot, although the fast tidal currents past the Island make it tricky at times. As the current bumped us against the jetty Tim jumped ashore with the bow mooring line and looped it over the bollard, while Jack opened the boarding gate and ran out the gangplank. The usual assorted group of regulars were waiting to come aboard, the men mostly wearing business suits with waterproof coats over the top; some carrying brief cases and lunch boxes; two women wearing slack suits, straw hats, and big bags over their shoulders, some school kids in their school uniforms

They'd all obviously been watching us in the distance. "Bit late this morning Ted! What were you doing out in the middle?" I paused trying to think what to say. "We saw a corpse of a girl floating in the river, and the cops asked us to pull it out and take it back to the wharf." They all smiled knowingly, thinking it was a leg-pull. "Oh, yeh!" "No, we did, really" said Tim from the side. There was a moment of a startled silence, then they started to glance cautiously around. "What corpse?" "We wrapped it in canvas and put it in the locker," I said, "now if you don't mind we need to get going. Cast off Tim."

Walter Trevelyan-Smythe is one of my regular passengers, a tall, polite, imperturbable Englishman, with a carefully trimmed mustache. His trousers have perfect creases, and his brown leather shoes are so well polished you can almost see your face in them. He's the only man I know who still raises his hat to the ladies. He looked at me reproachfully. "I say, Ted old boy, that's a bit off-colour you know." "I like it even less than you do Walter, but I've got stuck with it."

I shifted Annabelle into reverse, backed out from the jetty and turned her bow towards the town. The passengers muttered uneasily among themselves. You might see lots of violence and death on TV and think you're familiar with it, but when you encounter it in real life it's a different thing all together. Jack went round collecting the fares. As he passed by, one of the passengers murmured to him "It's a girl then is it?" "Yeh, 'bout twenty. She looked pretty badly beaten up." I could have strangled Jack right then and there. The lady passengers looked a bit sick. To tell you the truth I wasn't feeling too good myself either.

******

Twenty minutes later I steered Annabelle in between the red and green harbour marker posts, slowing to the regulation four knots for the run up the harbour, and clicked on the CB radio. "Boys in blue turned up yet Nicky?" "Yes Ted, a Detective Sergeant Tucker is waiting for you." "Thanks." I didn't recognize the copper's name, but then, we don't often get senior detectives in this neck of the woods. As I inched Annabelle into the wharf I could see a white police car waiting by the office shed, and just then an ambulance came fast along the wharf and pulled up in a cloud of dust. Anyone would think they were going to some sort of emergency. Tim tied up to the bollard, Jack ran out the gangplank, and the passengers trooped ashore, glancing nervously at the cop.

He was a big guy in a crumpled dark suit, scuffed black shoes, hard face, balding, looked as if he drank scotch. Probably a good guy in a fight, as long as he was on your side. He came on board as the last passenger left. I went over to him, holding out my hand. "Ted Farley" I said. He glanced down at my outstretched hand with apparent distaste, then gave it one shake, nearly crushing my fingers. "D.S. Tucker. Where's the corpse?" he said briefly. "In the locker. Come on Jack, help me get her out." We lifted out the roll of canvas, and unwrapped the body. Tucker leaned over, gave her a quick scan, and then called over to the ambulance. "Come and pick up the stiff you guys, no need to hang about here." Two paramedics came on board with a stretcher, lifted the corpse onto it, and covered it over with a sheet. "Take it straight to the morgue, I'll talk to the coroner" said Tucker. Without a word the paramedics lifted the stretcher, loaded it into the ambulance, shut the doors, did a fast three-point turn and were gone in a flash. I guess if you see dead bodies every day there's not much to talk about.

D.S. Tucker asked me where exactly we'd found the corpse. I pointed. "About half way between here and Mulloway Island." Tucker looked out towards the Island, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Probably a suicide, jumped off the freeway bridge last night." he said. I hesitated, a bit loath to interfere. "No I don't think so." Tucker looked sharply at me. I could see his irritation at being contradicted. "Look, this is a police matter now, you're out of it, ok? Leave this to the experts. We'll need you to make a statement later." He turned and walked down the gangplank. That was the last I ever saw of D.S. Tucker. I never did learn his first name.

I was glad we'd finished our part in the drama, but unfortunately the news seemed to spread round the town in a few minutes. All morning we had to recount our story to nosey passengers. Jack, of course, loved every minute of the attention. His account got more embellished with each re-telling. Pretty soon it was he who had spotted the beautiful young girl, gently lifted her out of the water, and attempted to revive her, but to no avail. He always did have trouble distinguishing truth from imagination. Tim, on the other hand, did his best to hide himself away, and refused to say anything to anyone.

That afternoon a TV film crew turned up. They'd received a leak from the police department about the body and seemed to want to film anything even remotely connected with it. For my appearance in front of the camera I dug out my battered old skipper's cap, the white one with an anchor on the front. A very aggressive woman reporter asked me questions in front of the camera, but before I could finish answering each question properly she'd butt in with another one. She rented Annabelle for cash, which pleased me; some repayment for all my trouble. She wanted to be taken to the spot where the body was found, but she seemed surprised when I stopped out in the middle of the river. "Is this where you found the body?" "That's right" "I thought it must have been washed up on the riverbank somewhere. Why didn't you tell me you found it out here?" "I don't remember you asking me." Out the corner of my eye I could see Jack smiling. They shot film of the water and the distant shore, which seemed a bit pointless. She asked me if I thought it was a case of suicide. In the light of D.S. Tucker's attitude I thought it best to refer her to the cops on that one, but I guess my face gave me away. When the story was shown on TV that night my interview had been cut down to a few seconds, and I was referred to as 'Captain Farley', and my boat was renamed 'The Queen Annabelle'. I'll probably get ribbed over that for a long time. Still, who cares about accuracy as long as there's a newsworthy story?

What worried me a bit however, was when the reporter at the end said, "Local opinion is that this girl did not commit suicide by jumping off the freeway bridge as the police currently believe." Detective Sergeant Tucker would not be pleased to hear that!

******

I've worked on this river all my life, as my dad did before me. He was a riverboat skipper in the old days when everything was carried by horse or boat, so on the river there were quite a few boats carrying passengers, post, freight, goods for sale and so on. Then the government built roads and railways everywhere, cars and trucks came into common use, and the need for riverboats gradually faded away, except for some properties on our river that still don't have access roads because they're built on the river's edge at the foot of steep cliffs, or because they're within National Parks where no new roads are allowed.

I was born right here in my dad's house on the riverbank, an only son. I was christened Edward, but everyone calls me Ted. My mother died when I was twelve, which meant my dad had to raise me on his own. At sixteen I left school and started to work with him and he taught me all he knew about the river and river craft. I regret now that I didn't stay at school longer. I wish I'd studied things like English and history and science, and maybe a foreign language, but it's much too late now.

Eight years after I started work with my dad he died of a stroke and left me his house and his boat. He'd worked many years to pay off the mortgage on his house, so at twenty-four I became the proud owner of a house on a quarter acre of land, debt free. That brought prospective brides buzzing round, like flies round a dung heap, although I suppose my good looks might have had something to do with it. Nowadays the house is regarded as a bit of a tired old shack, timber frame sagging a bit at one corner, a rusty tin roof, ancient electrical wiring and plumbing, a worn out kitchen. Mind you, a real estate agent would probably describe it as "Prime Waterfront Property", except that it fronts onto mudflats at low tide, and shares a side boundary with a mangrove swamp. Lucky there's no saltwater crocodiles this far south. Years ago after each heavy rain a flood would come down the river and a couple of times we got water in the house. Nowadays most of the water gets caught in the big Sydney dam, and as Sydney grows it needs more and more water, so floods are a thing of the past.

Dad's boat on the other hand was no gift. It was a worn-out wreck, with a petrol engine that never wanted to start and a rotting timber hull that leaked all the time. I realized I was going to have to make my own way in the world from then on, so being young and carefree, and full of self-confidence, I sold the boat pretty much for scrap value. Then I mortgaged the house, bought Lady Annabelle, and set myself up as a riverboat skipper just like my dad. At that time there were several riverboats up for sale and not many buyers, so I picked up Annabelle for a bargain price. Even so, river folk thought I was mad buying a boat when demand was dying out. I had the last laugh on them though; soon afterwards the Post Office put the mail delivery contract for the Hawkesbury River up for tender, and I was the only skipper who could be bothered to fill out all the forms, so I got the contract, and it's kept me going ever since. I'm proud to say I'm the last river postman left in Australia, and to me every day is a pleasure, well almost.

The Lady Annabelle is still almost as good as new, and quite frankly she's my pride and joy. She's part passenger ferry, part mailboat, part tourist boat, part freight carrier, in fact an all-can-do sort of riverboat. Every day we run up one side of the river delivering mail, boxes, sacks, boxes of groceries, hardware, mail orders and booze, and at the same time picking up outgoing letters, then we cross the river and do the same thing back down the other side. Lots of tourists come with us just for the wonderful trip. Annabelle is sixty feet long, (that's twenty metres for young folk) with a flat-bottomed hull for shallow water work. Her hull is made of oregon, the decks are tallow-wood and she has beautiful polished hand rails made of real teak. Yachties looking at her often say she should be in a museum, but they're just envious of those fine timbers that you can't get any more. I bet I could sell those teak handrails alone for a thousand dollars. She has seating on the afterdeck for thirty-two passengers, and space for one and a half tons of freight for'ard. In rainy or very hot weather we can rig a canvas awning over the passenger seats, but in fine weather the passengers seem to prefer the sunshine and the open air. The wheelhouse has polished brass brightwork on the doors and lights, and a ship's wheel made of real timber, not one of your modern plastic ones like a car steering wheel. There's also an antique magnetic compass in a brass binnacle with oil lamps for use at night. I think it must have come off an old-time sailing ship. That always brings a bit of respect from the yachties! Annabelle might not be fast or modern, but she's seaworthy in all weathers, fine or foul, and the passengers love her.

******

Next day was Saturday and some keen fishermen were out in their boats, fishing for bream, flathead and taylor. Pelicans and seagulls were hanging round the fish cleaning tables, hoping for discarded fish heads and guts. I'd put the drama of finding the corpse out of my mind. I thought our part in the affair was finished. The wind had gone round to the southeast and it was a bit chilly at first, with low black clouds running before the wind and the smell of rain in the air. We started off with a couple of ferry runs, the sound of waves smacking against the bows was mixed in with the chug chug of the engine. Next we had a tour down the river with a coach load of older women. They looked like recent widows to me; new jackets and slacks, and curly colour-rinsed hair, and being jolly on their own, with only a handful of older men with them. As we came back into the harbour I saw another white car parked on the wharf, so I clicked on the CB radio. "Nicky, is that a police car back again?" "Yes Ted. It's Greg Bennett." I knew Constable Bennett from years back. I wondered what he wanted. I hoped it was nothing to do with finding that damned corpse. As we tied up Greg Bennett came on board. He was a middle-aged, middle-sized man, paunchy from too much fast food and too much beer. He walked with slightly bowed legs and a rolling gait, like a sailor home from the sea. His hair was going thin and it was brushed forward to cover his balding head, and he'd grown a droopy black moustache since I'd last seen him. He seemed to be very weary.

We shook hands. His fingers were stained with nicotine. "Geez Greg, I wouldn't have recognized you." I said. "No, last time I was out this way I was in uniform. I'm a Detective Constable now. Got myself a transfer to plain clothes at last. Much easier on the feet." Plain clothes was right, his suit looked as if it had been slept in, many times. "Come on in". I lead the way into the wheelhouse and he sagged down on the helmsman's stool. "What can I do for you Greg?" I asked. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. I opened the starboard light to let fresh air through. "D.S. Tucker asked me to come and have another word with you." "Ah. I suppose the postmortem report said the girl was already dead before she hit the water." "How the hell did you know she didn't jump?" I paused. "Well, she was floating." "Floating? What about it?" "Well, if the girl had jumped off the bridge and drowned like Tucker thought, she would have gasped for air, and her lungs would have filled with water, and she'd have sunk to the bottom. However, if a person hits the water and they are already dead they don't sink they float. Their lungs are full of air, you see, and the buoyancy stops 'em from sinking." Greg didn't seem too impressed. "Quite the bloody expert." "Well," I said, "In forty years on this river I've seen a few bodies both ways, floaters and sinkers. The girl was definitely a floater." Well I'd actually seen two corpses before this last one, the rest I'd learnt from my dad.

Greg took another long drag on his cigarette. I asked him "So what else did the postmortem report say?" He blew smoke out the door. "Well look, keep this to yourself, 'cos I'm not supposed to let it out, but she'd been gagged, beaten and raped, then strangled and finally thrown in the water." "Jesus!" We were both silent for a moment. "What sort of a person would do a thing like that Greg?". He shrugged. "Who knows? Some kooky guy. Guess the shrinks will have something to say about it. I'm no expert."

Greg flicked his cigarette butt over the side and lit another. He stirred on his stool. "So she was thrown off the freeway bridge already dead," he said. "No, that's not true either." "Why?" "When we found her the tide had been coming in for seven hours. If she'd been thrown off the bridge she'd have drifted upstream, not downstream to here." "Well you're the expert on the river, where the hell was she thrown in then?" "That's a good question, let's have a think" I pulled out the river chart. There was the penciled cross, marking the position where we'd pulled the body out. On second thoughts I called Jack and Tim, and they squeezed into the wheelhouse too. Three heads were better than one, and they knew the river almost as well as I did.

"How long had she been in the water, Greg?" "Pathologist says six to eight hours." "There we are then lads, here's the puzzle. If the body finished here at this cross, where did it start from six to eight hours earlier? That would have been just about the time the tide turned."The three of us concentrated on the chart, tracing back through the rips and eddies of an incoming spring tide in our minds. "I reckon somewhere between here and here." I said, pointing to an area further down the estuary. "No, I think you're wrong dad." said Tim pensively, "There's a rip round Oatley's Point at mid tide that would have carried her further across if she'd come from there. I think it's more likely she came from here, Whitebait Bay" He pointed to a small beach on the chart. "Mm, yes, I think you're right." said Jack

Greg looked at me. "So what's at this Whitebait Bay?" "Well not much" I said, thinking, "Just three houses at the back of the beach. Been there for ever." "Do you know who lives there?" "I know all the people there to say "G'day" to, but I don't know too much else about them. They've all got their own boats, so I've no reason to go over there very often." "Well I think perhaps I should go over there now. How do I get there from here?" "You can't drive, there's no access road into that beach. It's all National Park over there, and no roads. You'll have to go by boat." Greg stubbed out his cigarette, looking a bit embarrassed. "Our launch is still out of service, perhaps you could take me over there?" As it happened we had an hour and a bit a spare with not much to do. "Is the Police Department paying?" "Probably, but only the DI can authorize expenditure." "Can I charge it to your credit card?" "Get knotted." "Come on then, we'll go in our runabout, I can't afford to run Annabelle over there in the faint hope the cops'll pay up afterwards. It doesn't need all of us. Tim, you stay here and give Annabelle a bit of maintenance."

******

Greg Bennett, Jack and me trooped along the wharf to the aluminium runabout we use for odd-jobbing and small deliveries. Fishermen generally refer to aluminium boats like that as 'tinnies', and Jack had christened our tinny 'Lizzie'. He jumped in first and grabbed the wheel without even asking. I held Lizzie steady as Greg climbed somewhat unsteadily in. He obviously wasn't used to boats. Jack fired up the outboard engine, I pushed out from the wharf, and we cruised down the harbour at the four-knot speed limit.

A stiff breeze was coming in from the ocean, and the river was quite choppy. As we left the harbour we ran straight into it. Jack loves the speed of the runabout and as soon as we got clear of the harbour he opened the throttle wide. Lizzie rose up on her stern, and pretty soon we were flying across the water, leaping off the top of each wave with the engine racing, smacking down hard in the next trough, and the wind blowing our hair about. The sky had cleared to a beautiful blue, and spray was flying out on each side of the bow, sparkling in the sunshine. Jack was obviously having a huge buzz at the helm but Greg wasn't so happy. The head wind blew some of the spray back over us. He leaned over and yelled in Jack's ear "Slow down you stupid bastard. I don't want to get my bloody suit all wet!" Jack eased back the throttle, a bit disappointed, and we settled down for a rather more sedate run down to Whitebait Bay.

The rock hereabouts is fairly soft sandstone, and over millions of years the river has cut itself a channel three hundred feet deep and up to a mile wide. The steep cliffs of yellow-brown rock are covered with eucalyptus, casuarinas, golden wattle, banksias, tree ferns and so on. As we turned into Whitebait Bay we could see the crescent of sand, golden in the sunlight. The three houses at the back of the beach looked like dollhouses against the rise of the cliff behind.

Greg peered ahead. "Remote looking spot." "Yeh, the original houses were probably built by fishermen a hundred years ago." "So who lives here now?" "Well, in the left hand house you have Lewis and Damian." "Two blokes living together?" Jack laughed. "You might say they're more than just good friends" "D'you mean they're gay?" I gave Jack a disapproving frown. "Surnames?" asked Greg, trying to make notes despite the boat leaping about. "I've no idea." "Who's in the next house?" "In the middle house is Norman and Barbara Williams. They seem a pretty ordinary couple, but they've got money. Lived there about a year I would think. They don't mix much with the other people around here. I've seen them going off on weekends dressed up looking smart." "Yeh, and they've got a very cool boat too," added Jack "very expensive. Tim fixed their engine once when it wouldn't start, and they gave him twenty dollars. And sometimes they have parties over here with their rich friends. Lots of yachts come up from Sydney. You can hear the music for miles." He sounded distinctly envious. "The house on the right is Neville.... Neville ...something. What the hell's his name Jack?" "Uh ... Neville Snowder I think...um, no, Sneider,...yes, that's it, Neville Sneider. Grumpy old bugger." I filled in a few details for Greg. "Hardly ever comes across to town, and he never speaks to anyone if he can help it. Just goes out fishing on his own all the time. Must have been here for at least ten years. Fancy living in a dump like that for ten years on your own."

Jack butted in. "There's a boat I've never seen before." A nice forty-five foot ketch was tied up to Neville Sneider's jetty. As we got closer we could read the name on the transom, 'Sea Jenny' and underneath 'Southport'. "Somebody visiting from Queensland," said Jack.

Greg said, "Ok, I think I'll talk to the two gays first." Jack steered in to their jetty and I jumped ashore with the painter and tied up. "Ted, you come with me and look out for anything suspicious, but keep your mouth shut. I want to ask all the questions. Jack, you wait here." Jack looked very unhappy, he wanted to be in on all the action, but now he'd been told to stay out of it. Ted and I walked along the jetty to the house. It was built in the 'Californian Rancher' style that was very popular in the fifties. The occupants had obviously seen us coming, because before we had a chance to knock the door was opened. "G'day Lewis," I said, "this is Detective Constable Bennett." Greg flashed his ID card. "A policeman! Oh my! What _have_ we done now?" Lewis was a tall skinny guy, brown eyes, brown curly hair, and full dark moustache. He was wearing a floral Hawaiian shirt over cream shorts, and a large gold signet ring on his little finger. "Come on in," he said, "we can't talk on the front doorstep." He ushered us into the lounge, which I must say was immaculate. Polished timber floors with oriental rugs, lots of pastel shades on the curtains and chair coverings, a large floral arrangement in a glass vase on the glass coffee table.

Damian drifted into the room. "Damian, this is Detective Constable Bennett," I said. "A _Detective_? _Oh_!" Damian held his hand to his mouth. "So what can we do for you Detective Constable?" asked Lewis. Greg started off in that formal way coppers have when questioning potential witnesses. "I'm making routine inquiries concerning the suspected murder of a girl". "Oh yes, we saw a bit about that on the TV. Why on earth are you asking _us_ about it? We don't have _anything_ to do with girls like _that_!" "Were you at home the night before last?" Damian answered "Oh yes, we were at home together, weren't we Lewis?" "And during the night did you see or hear anything suspicious?" Lewis thought for a moment. "No. _I_ can't remember anything, can _you_ Dammie?" "No, nothing at all. Nothing much ever happens in Whitebait Bay except when Norman and Barbara next door have one of their _very_ noisy parties that I find _so_ tiresome." "So nothing unusual has happened in, say, the last week?" "No, nothing at all, oh, except that yacht tying up to crabby old Neville's jetty of course."

Greg pulled out his packet of cigarettes and lit one. Damian rushed out, and came back with a cut crystal ashtray. Lewis asked "why are you asking questions over this way? I thought the girl was found near Mulloway Island." Greg paused for a moment, then said, "We have reason to believe the girl's body was consigned to the water somewhere near this bay. Have you ever seen this girl before?" He pulled out a photo of a girl's head, obviously taken in the morgue. Damian took one look and looked away. Lewis looked a little more closely, then shrugged. "The prototype all-Australian girl. She could be one of dozens of girls around these parts. Come to think of it, she could be the girl that came in on that yacht that's tied up at Neville Schneider's jetty." "Oh?" "Well, I've only seen her from a distance, but she _might_ be." Greg thanked them for their cooperation and Lewis showed us to the door. Back inside the house Lewis and Damian were no doubt busy trying to remove all contamination from our visit.

Jack came hurrying to join us. "Did you find out anything?" "No, not yet." We walked along the beach towards the next house. It was a substantial home, with expensive sandstone walls and a tiled roof. A beautiful scarlet bougainvillea rambled over a portico that sheltered an impressive pair of timber doors. A smart thirty five foot sloop was tied up to a mooring buoy just off the end of the jetty. "Their runabout's not there," said Jack, "they might not be home." "What's their names again?" asked Greg. "Norman and Barbara Williams." "Stay outside Jack."

Greg knocked at the door and it was opened by Barbara. I introduced Greg to her. "Is your husband home?" asked Greg. "No, he isn't. He's gone to Sydney for the day." She let us in, with some reluctance, after carefully examining Greg's ID card. You could see from a glance round the lounge that they had money. A high ceiling, with big picture windows looking out to the beach, deep wall-to-wall sculpted carpet, expensive leather chairs and lounges, a large TV and stereo system, a timber bar with nautical embellishments, a row of expensive bottles on display on the glass shelves behind. Several modern paintings adorned the walls. Barbara was thirty-ish, wearing a silk blouse, well-cut slacks and oriental embroidered slippers. Her hair and nails obviously received regular professional attention. She was probably struggling to retain her youth, but losing the battle round her hips. She invited us to sit, then sat opposite us on the edge of her chair, knees together, hands folded on her lap.

Greg started his questions again. "Were you and your husband at home on the night before last?" "I was home all evening. Normy came home about eleven-ish. I remember, because he phoned to remind me to switch on the jetty light, so he could see his way when he came home in the runabout. He was home for the rest of the night until about eight the next morning." "You have a phone then?" "Yes, of course we do. We're not that far out into the sticks you know!" "And that night, did you see or hear anything unusual?" Barbara stopped to think. "No, not that I can think of." "Has anything unusual occurred in the last week or so?" "No, I don't think so. Nothing's happened at all, except that yacht coming in and tying up to Neville Sneider's jetty." "Ah yes, when exactly did it arrive?" "I would say..., oh, about four days ago, which would make it, um..., last Tuesday."

Greg looked uncomfortable, and several times he unconsciously combed his hair across his bald spot with his fingers, He was probably itching to light up another cigarette, but he didn't want to commit a social error in such a posh house. "How many people were on the yacht?" he asked. "Two, a man and a girl." "Can you describe them for me?" "Well, I haven't seen them up close you know. The man looks in his early twenties, slim build, medium height, dark hair I think. The girl is a little taller and long blonde hair." "And are they still there?" "Well I don't watch them particularly, but now you come to ask, I haven't noticed them for a couple of days. When I turned on the jetty light on Thursday I did notice that the yacht was all dark, and there were no cabin lights on. In fact there were no lights last night either come to think of it. They must have gone away and left the boat there." "They might have moved into Mr. Sneider's house." She laughed sarcastically. "You obviously don't know him. He's the most miserable old sod you ever met. Nobody would _ever_ want to stay in his house. They were definitely living on the boat earlier in the week. I saw them now and again." Greg took out the photo of the girl. "Do you recognize this girl?" Barbara glanced at it. "No, not really. Is she dead or something?" Greg went through the same explanation as before. Barbara looked a bit sick when he came to the bit about "..have reason to believe the body was consigned to the water near here." "Could this be the girl that arrived on the yacht?" Barbara looked more closely this time. "Well, yes it could be, but like I said I never saw her up close."

As we left I complimented Barbara on her house. "What made you move into Whitebait Bay?" I asked. "Oh it was Norman, he loves sailing and he had this dream of a waterfront property on the beach. We couldn't afford Sydney prices so we came here. Norman loves to go out sailing single-handed at least twice a week. I'm waiting for him to get tired of it, so we can move back to civilization. Quite frankly if we'd known what our neighbours were going to be like we would never have bought this house in the first place. those two _dreadful_ creatures on one side and that _horrible_ person on the other. In our first mad rush of enthusiasm we spent heaps of money doing this place up. Now we'll _never_ get our money back when we sell." We thanked Barbara again, and left her feeling sorry for herself. Just goes to show, money isn't everything.

Jack came up eagerly. "Did you find out anything?" "No not really," I said. "I'm not so sure." said Greg, "What's the next guy's name again?" "Neville Sneider." We walked on along the beach to Neville Sneider's house, although it wasn't much more than a tumbledown timber shack, with a rusty corrugated iron roof and desperately in need of a coat of paint. There were waist-high weeds round the side and rusting junk piled up at the back.

We had to knock on the door a couple of times before it was opened. Neville Sneider was a small man, thinning hair, wearing dirty jeans, an ancient very greasy blue sweater and scruffy canvas shoes. He had a ratty face, bony nose and his eyes were too close together. He smelt like he hadn't showered for some weeks. "What'cher want?" he asked, in an aggressive tone of voice. "Mr. Sneider, this is Detective Constable Bennett." Greg waved his ID card. Mr. Sneider looked at me, ignoring Greg. "What the 'ell does 'e want?" "Mr. Sneider is it? Mr. Neville Sneider?" said Greg, in his most charming voice. "What of it?" Neville Sneider stood firmly blocking the door. It was quite obvious we weren't going to be invited in. I could see a little past him; a real bachelor's place, junk piled up everywhere and a stale smell coming out through the door. "I just wanted to ask you a few questions Mr. Sneider. " "Why should I 'ave to answer questions? I don't 'ave to answer no questions. I know my rights!" "Perhaps you would rather come in to the station, and we can have our chat there Mr. Sneider."

"Or'l right, what'cher want ter know?" he snapped. "Were you at home the night before last?" "'course I was, I'm 'ome every bloody night aren't I? So what?" "I'm making routine inquiries into the suspected murder of a girl, Mr. Sneider." "What girl? I don't know no girls." "Well you do, Mr. Sneider." Greg pointed his thumb over his shoulder, "you know the girl who arrived on that yacht for a start." I noticed a look of caution flit across Sneider's face. "Oh ' _er_ , I don't know nothin' about ' _er_. Them two turned up 'ere Tuesday, tied up to me jetty bold as brass. Then they come knocking on the door saying an old friend o' mine up in Queensland told 'em it'ud be orlright if they tied up 'ere for a few days. Since it was an old friend sent 'em I said orl right, just for a few days, but they'd 'ave to stay on the boat. I wasn't going ter let 'em into the 'ouse, not on your nelly! Do that and next thing you know they've taken over the place and you don't feel comfortable no more in your own 'ome." "It's two people on the boat then is it Mr. Sneider, we're talking about a bloke and a girl." "Nosy neighbours mindin' my business again I suppose! Yes 'im and 'er. Mind you I never set eyes on 'em before, and it wouldn't bother me if I never set eyes on 'em again!" "Are they on the yacht now?" "'ow the 'ell should I know ? Go and look for yerself." "I might do just that." said Greg

Jack joined us as we walked out along the jetty and stopped by the visiting yacht. There was no sound except the slosh of water on the jetty. Nobody seemed to be about. "I think I'll go aboard and have a look." said Greg. Jack pulled the yacht close in to the jetty and Greg grabbed a stanchion and heaved himself aboard, with us after him. "Watch it you two, you're not supposed to be here. Stay where you are, and don't touch anything." "Hey look," said Jack "the cabin door's been forced." The timber on the lock side of the door was all splintered. Greg pulled and the door opened easily. "I'm going in to have a look. You two stay out here, is that clear?" He disappeared into the cabin and we waited in the cockpit.

Jack leaned over the transom. "Look dad," he said, "someone's changed the name of this boat." When it was pointed out you could see where someone had indeed put a coat of paint over the old name and painted the new name over the top of it. "Perhaps a new owner wanted a different name." I said. "No dad, it's an amateur job, done in a hurry. Look you can feel the old name under the paint." He started tracing the outline of the old name with his finger. "Z E N O B I A. What does that spell dad ?" "Damned if I know. Just a name I suppose, sounds a bit Greek to me. Never come across it before."

After a couple of minutes Greg came back up the companionway. "Did you find anything?" I asked. "No, everything looks neat and tidy, nobody's here. If it wasn't for the forced door I'd say they've just gone away. Think I'll go back and have another word with our Mr. Sneider." "I don't know if it means anything," I said "but the name of this boat has been changed very recently from Zenobia to Sea Jenny." Greg wrote it down in his notebook.

We went back along the jetty and knocked on the door. Sneider re-appeared. "You lot again! Wha'd'ya want this bleedin' time?" "The couple on the boat Mr. Sneider, when did you last see them?" "Oh I don't know, a few days ago. Like I told you, they lived on the boat and I 'ad as little to do with 'em as possible." Greg pulled out the pictures. "Do you recognize this girl Mr. Sneider?" "She's the girl wot came on that yacht. What's 'appened to 'er?" "She's dead Mr. Sneider, believed murdered last Thursday night. Can you offer any suggestions as to how she might have died?" "'ow the 'ell should I know ? I told you, I never set eyes on either of 'em before! Tell you what though, I did wonder why they should 'ang around 'ere. Maybe they was 'iding 'ere from somebody. Thought they'd never get found 'ere, and whoever was lookin' for 'em caught up with 'em!" "That's possible," said Greg, "although nobody seems to have heard anything." "Well if the girl was murdered during the night I wouldn't 'ave 'eard anything now would I? I sleep the sleep of an 'onest man Mr. Tucker, and it's quite a long way to the end of the jetty, now ain't it? Come to think of it I _do_ remember a plane comin' over Tuesday or maybe Wednesday, and then it came back flying lower. One of them small jobs with only one engine. Maybe that's who was looking for 'em and they saw the yacht tied up 'ere."

"What were the names of the couple on the boat Mr. Sneider?" "Oh I'm not too sure. Let's see now, I think 'e called 'er Andrea or somefing, and she called 'im Tony." "Did their yacht have a dinghy they could have left in?" "'Ow the 'ell should I know?" "And they didn't borrow your runabout?" "What? No bleedin' fear they didn't! If they'd wrecked it I'd'a' bin stuck 'ere wiv no bleedin boat wud'n'I?" "A very reasonable concern Mr. Sneider, and by the way, what's the name of your friend in Queensland who recommended they should come here?" He looked cautious again. "Wha'd'yer wanna know that for?" "It will help us to find out who these people were, and who was looking for them." Neville thought about the request for a moment. "Well if you catch up with 'im, don't mention my name, 'cos 'e's not very nice sometimes." He looked both ways as if to make sure that no one else was listening, then said in a low voice "'is name is Vince Lombardo. 'e's Italian!" he added, somewhat unnecessarily. "And where can we find this Mr. Lombardo?" "Ah! Well! Last I 'eard 'e was livin' at Surfers Paradise, but I couldn't swear if 'e's still there." "And how do you come to know Mr. Lombardo, Mr. Sneider?" "Well that's my business and none o' yours." "I notice the couple's yacht is registered in Southport, not far from Surfers Paradise." "Yeh, that's right, that's were they said they come from. Cruisin' round the coast they said."

"I have no more questions at this time Mr. Sneider, but perhaps you would give me your phone number in case there's anything else I need to ask you." "Phone? What makes you think I got a phone? Ain't got one and never wanted one. Get one o' them things and people keep ringing you up botherin' you all the time." "Thank you Mr. Sneider, you've been most helpful. I must ask you not to go onto the yacht until our scientific squad have had a good look at it." The door was shut very firmly in our faces.

******

I asked Greg why he had taken me into the houses with him. "It's useful to have an independent witness to any conversation, in case I later have to recount what was said in court." "Well what a shifty bastard you are! Leave me out of it. I don't want to get involved." He smiled gently at me. "Sorry Ted, but you _are_ involved, as a witness, whether you like it or not."

I looked at my watch and had a shock. These investigations had taken longer than expected. "Come on," I said "we've got to get back. There's a tour party arriving in half an hour." We hurried along the beach to Lizzy and piled in. On the trip back to town Greg pondered over what he had uncovered. "So far," he said, checking his notes, "we can be pretty sure the dead girl arrived on the yacht with her companion on Tuesday. We think her name is Andrea, and we are pretty sure she was murdered on Thursday night and we think her body was dumped into the river at Whitebait Bay. We don't know why she was murdered, or who murdered her. The most likely suspect is her companion. We think he's called Tony, and he seems to have disappeared, and we don't know what's happened to him. Also we have at the possible scene of the crime three lots of residents. Firstly we have the two homosexuals. Now bearing in mind that the girl was raped before being murdered I think it's unlikely they were involved, although you can't be completely sure. Secondly we have what seems to be a perfectly normal married couple, although we haven't questioned the husband yet.

Thirdly we have a very unpleasant character, who quite frankly I wouldn't turn my back on. I don't think we can believe anything he tells us. He seems to me to be a possible suspect." "I doubt that." I said. "Here we go again" said Greg, "Why do you doubt it?" "He knows the river backwards. If he murdered the girl he'd hardly be likely to drop her into the river outside his own house, knowing the tide would carry her up past Mulloway Island, now would he? He'd be too crafty for that. He would have waited for the tide to turn, then taken her out into the main channel and dumped her there, so she floated out to sea. Why would he murder her anyway? He said he scarcely knew her. I think you can cross him off your list of suspects."

Jack cut in. "Maybe old Sneider was right. Maybe they were hiding away from someone. Maybe that's why they changed the name of the boat. Maybe whoever it was looking for them found them, and sneaked in Thursday night and murdered the girl and took the bloke away with them. If they weren't locals they wouldn't know about the tides and stuff. That would explain everything. Sneider said he heard a plane go over low that was probably looking for them." "If there was a plane" I said," how come none of the other people noticed it? Come to that, if a plane was flying low up and down the river we'd have heard it ourselves. We're out on the river most of the time and you can hear a plane like that from miles away. And how could they sneak in? There's no way in by land. If they'd used a powerboat all the people in the bay would have heard it. If they sailed in, it would have taken a good sailor to pick up the jetty in the dark". "Ah well," said Jack, "there's an answer to that. Maybe they dropped anchor out in the bay and rowed very quietly in to the jetty in a dingy. That way nobody would have heard them." Jack seemed to have a watertight theory there.

"Mm, perhaps we've made some progress," said Greg. "Add to the list of suspects, person or persons unknown who sneaked in during the night and then left again. I'll get the scientific squad to go over that boat with a fine tooth comb, and see what they can turn up. I wonder if the missing couple were married?" "Well she didn't have a ring on her wedding finger." answered Jack. Greg glanced at him, then pulled out his packet of cigarettes and lit up. "What else did you notice about her, Jack?" "Well she didn't have nicotine stains on her fingers, so she didn't smoke like a chimney, like someone I could mention." "Kindly keep your bloody opinions to yourself my boy. I must get the police up at Surfers to run checks on the names of the girl and bloke to see what comes up. Maybe they can run down that mate of Sneider's, Vince Lombardo, and see what he knows. I'll run a check on who the registered owner of the boat is as well." "Don't forget the original name of the boat was Zenobia," I said, "it might still be registered under that name."

When we pulled into the wharf we found the coach load of tourists had already arrived and were waiting for us, and Nicky in the office was going nuts wondering where we were. We had to scamper around and get Annabelle underway. Greg jumped into his car and took off immediately, and I was glad to see the back of him.

******

One thing I enjoy about my job is chatting to a constant stream of passengers. The tourists we get are a pretty mixed bunch, a lot are Australians of course, but quite a few come from other parts of the world. On this trip there was an American couple. Most Americans are charming and friendly people, but occasionally you get one who wants to let you know in a loud voice that everything 'over here' is obviously inferior to everything in the US of A. We had such a one on this trip, a stocky, aggressive man wearing a loud tartan suit, and after a while he started to get under my skin. On the way back to the harbour we passed back under the long railway bridge that strides across the river with a one kilometer chain of steel arches. "Why does that bridge have all those extra piers beside it?" the loud American asked. "Well you see, when the government decided to build the bridge in 1883 the contract was won by an American company." "Yes I can see that, a fine piece of American engineering too." "Ah no, you see, the bottom of the river is covered in a very deep layer of sand and mud and they didn't sink their piers in deep enough, and after several floods their bridge started to fall over. By the nineteen forties it got so unsafe Australian engineers had to build a new bridge alongside the old one, with piers sunk down much deeper. Those old piers are all that's left of the American bridge." Some of the other passengers tried not to a smile and had to turn their faces away. I felt a bit ashamed of myself afterwards, but he had asked, and at least he kept his voice down for the rest of the trip.

There's a fellow lives on the Island called Norman Bransky, and before our next ferry run he came along the wharf leading a large chestnut horse by its halter. "G'day Norm," I said, "going for a ride somewhere?" "No Ted, I want to take this horse over to the Island." "You mean you want us to take your horse across on Annabelle?" "Yeh, you can do that can't you ?" "Well we've taken dogs and cats and chickens and rabbits and parrots and even pigs, but we've never taken anything as big as a horse before." "He's a very quiet animal. He shouldn't be any trouble." I paused. "Well let's see now, I'll have to charge you fifty dollars freight." "Thirty." "Uh, all right then, forty and that's final. Are you sure horses are allowed on the Island?" "Well the regulations say no private cars are allowed, but they don't say anything about horses. I'm going to keep him in my back yard and ride him round the Island or down to the store." "What if he drops manure on the road?" "Oh don't worry about that! There's plenty of keen gardeners will shovel it up and put it on their gardens."

"Do you think we can get him aboard along the gangplank?" "No need, just take out a piece of the handrail and he'll step across onto the deck, no worries." I told Tim and Jack to unbolt a section of forward handrail, so we could get the animal onto the foredeck. I couldn't allow him into the passenger section, it was too dangerous to mix passengers with a horse that might behave, or might not. Tim and Norm tried to pull the horse across onto Annabelle. He didn't seem too willing to step across the gap from the wharf so Jack went to push from behind. "Don't get behind him Jack, he might kick you." My warning came only just in time, as a large hoof just grazed Jack's leg, giving him a hell of a fright. "Fucking animal, I was a bit too quick for you wasn't I?" "Watch your language Jack if you don't mind! You know I don't like you using that word."

Eventually Jack and Tim got the horse tethered in front of the wheelhouse and after he'd settled down we headed off down the harbour. "Better get your broom out Tim, in case he craps on the deck." said Jack. We were going down the harbour into a light headwind, and the wheelhouse filled with a terrible smell of ammonia etc. coming from the horse's rear end. I was very relieved when we turned across the river and picked up a crosswind. I never knew before how smelly a horse could be. "Where d'you get him?" I asked Norm. "From a riding school." "Well he'll probably be pretty stubborn then. I've heard they get that way when they've been ridden by lots of learners."

At the Island Tim and Jack unbolted the handrail again, and the horse seemed very pleased to step across onto the jetty and get back on solid ground again. "That's good", said Norm, "Here you are Jack, here's your thirty bucks." "Dad said forty dollars for the horse, and don't forget there's also five for yourself. That's forty-five bucks altogether." "Bloody robbers." "Come off it Norm, we've all got to make a living." "I think I'll ride him bareback round to the house, like an Indian chief." He jumped up onto the horse's back. The horse promptly bucked and threw him off onto the ground, then took off at a fast trot along the jetty past the store, with Tim chasing after it. Jack burst out laughing, and I couldn't help smiling too. Norm got up, dusting himself off and using some very vulgar words to describe the horse. "Looks like you got yourself a handful there, Big Chief Sitting Bull" called out Jack. "I suppose you think that's very funny", said Norm. He limped off along the jetty after his horse. It didn't help when he saw Jim Henty, the Island storekeeper, leaning against his doorpost, almost crying with laughter. "Geez Norm, that was the best circus act I've seen all week!"

******

We finished our last run by seven o'clock that evening. I left the lads to lock up Annabelle for the night while I walked round to the pub, as I always like to enjoy a glass of beer and a chat with my mates before I go home for dinner. Our local pub, The Hawkesbury Arms, is a pretty average country pub, worn floor coverings, and a long bar with pumps for eight brands of ice-cold beer. The furnishings consist of kitchen tables and chairs. There are two rows of poker machines, all noise and flashing lights, and the occasional crash of coins into the winnings tray. Two TV screens show horse racing, dog racing, and replays of sporting matches. Another screen shows never-ending games of Keno, a new one every three minutes, five hundred games a day. The whole setup is designed to separate mugs from their money as quickly as possible. At seven in the evening the bar is full of blokes like me who've just finished work. Often their womenfolk are there too, although my wife Nellie only comes with me occasionally. The kids and the dogs wait at the tables outside, the kids kept quiet with a bag of chips and a coke, unless of course they are racing round on their skateboards. It's not that I particularly like this pub above all others, it's just that it's the only one we've got. As I walked up to the bar the barmaid pulled my usual glass of Tooheys Old Black Ale.

The pub has got a bistro selling regular Australian food over the counter; pies and hamburgers and stuff like that. Some parts of Australia have had lots of migrants from places like Greece and Italy and China and so on, and they've brought their own food with them but our town seems to have missed out on all that. We're still pretty much an all-Australian town. There was an attempt once to open a Chinese take-away in the town, but it didn't seem to get many customers and soon folded.

At least half the people in the town make their living from the river in one way or another. Some work at the boatyards scattered along the shore, renting out motorboats, houseboats, and so on, or repairing and servicing the private craft that pass through. Others go out catching fish or trawling for prawns. Prawns breed in the salt water on the bottom of the river and the trawlers scoop them up. There's nothing I like more than a plate of fresh prawns, washed down with a couple of beers. Others in the town make their living as oyster farmers. They lease areas of the river shallows from the government, and build long racks in the water. First they catch young oysters on sticks covered in cement and tar, then the sticks are moved to the racks. Then there's a three or four-year wait while the oysters fatten up, ready for the plates of fancy expensive restaurants. The oysters have to be guarded from mudworm and hungry fish, and fussed over all the time. They like to be out of the water for an hour or two at low tide and underwater the rest of the time, and they don't like the water too fresh. It's a wet, muddy business, and oyster farmers have wet muddy workboats, but they grow more than twenty million oysters a year, so they're not short of a quid. Now ever since I can remember there's been an invisible line drawn through the town, either you're an oyster farmer or you're not, and if you're an oyster farmer then anybody who isn't an oyster farmer isn't worth speaking to. The oyster farmers have their jetty and everybody else has theirs. In the pub, the oyster farmers sit at their end of the bar and everybody else sits at the other end. If you try to step across the line, you get irritated glares for your trouble. I've never understood the reason for it, but that's the way it's always been. This night however there was a truce. As soon as I stepped up to the bar I was besieged by mates wanting to know the latest hot news about the murder, straight from the horse's mouth so to speak, and I noticed that even the grumpiest oyster farmers had come along our end of the bar and were listening too. Mates were buying me drinks as fast as I could knock them back.

Two hours later the barmaid butted in, she'd just had a phone call from my missus, wanting to know when the hell I would be home. My wife, Nellie, is a wonderful woman, I've been married to her for twenty-four years, and we seem to fit together like a pair of worn shoes. Our mortgage was paid off years ago, and I've always had a steady income from Annabelle, so Nellie has never needed to go out to work to help make ends meet. It seems to me that in the sixties women's lib encouraged women to "get a job, get your independence, get some extra cash for a few luxuries". What happened of course was that house prices and then mortgages went up to soak up the extra cash, and now an awful lot of women _have_ to work whether they like it or not, just to help keep a roof over their heads. I guess Nellie has been lucky in that respect; she's an old-fashioned stay-at-home housewife. Anyway we've lived together all these years with very few arguments, and I guess in that respect we're old-fashioned too, some would say we're a couple of old stick-in-the-muds. Nellie's cooking is very much in the traditional Australian style, a juicy roast with three vegetables, steamed puddings, and that sort of thing. I see articles in the magazines about foreign food and sometimes I think I'd like to try it, but who knows, maybe our food is the best.

That night we had a lovely dinner. Everyone had all the happenings of the last few days to talk about. It was grand, the four of us sitting round the dinner table chatting, just like the good old days, before television. I went to bed that night a contented man. I felt we'd done a good job helping the police, and I had a belly full of roast lamb and a few beers.

******

I like to think I'm an easygoing chap, but there's one old grouch in town, Bill Evans, who's always rubbing me up the wrong way. He's an oyster farmer with a big oyster lease just outside the harbour, and only last week we nearly had a collision as he came flying out of his lease in his workboat. According to the rules of navigation I had right-of-way, but oyster farmers have their own rule, which says that oyster farmers have right-of-way over everybody else. At the last minute he had to make a sharp turn to starboard to avoid a whack to his boat, which is a lot smaller than Annabelle. This left him right alongside, and he took the opportunity to fling a lot of blue language in our direction, It was returned with great enthusiasm by Jack, who told him to learn the rules of navigation, but padded out with lots of unrepeatable adjectives. I had to pull him up a bit sharply about that.

To get back to what I was saying, next morning was Sunday, and Sunday means a bit of a sleep-in and a late start for us, which was lucky, as I had a bit of a hangover. We started at 9 a.m. with a ferry run out to the Island and back. Later that morning we had a trip with a bunch of British tourists. For some reason, pommie tourists are very keen on singing songs. They usually start off with "Sailing down the river, on a Sunday afternoon" and move on to all the old numbers like "She'll be coming round the mountain" and "Roll out the barrel", songs that I remember from my youth of long ago. As we were coming back down the river I noticed that Bill Evans was close behind us in his workboat. The tourists by then were really getting into full voice, and one over-endowed woman at the stern started them all off singing "Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves". She was wearing a blouse made from the Union Jack, which seemed a bit disrespectful to Her Majesty. She climbed up on the stern rail, conducting with one hand, and hanging on to the flagstaff that we use to fly the Australian Flag. The flagstaff snapped, and Queen Britannia disappeared over the stern with a mighty splash.

I jammed the propeller into reverse to stop Annabelle quick smart, and Jack grabbed the lifebelt from the back of the wheelhouse and heaved it to where she had disappeared, but by chance she bobbed up to the surface right alongside Bill Evans' boat coming behind, spluttering and screaming for help. She grabbed the side of his boat, and he had little choice but to pull her in, which was no easy task on account of her size, and he almost capsized. Finally he dumped her in the bottom of his boat on top of all the muddy oyster gear. Now the insults really started to fly, generally involving our incompetence, stupidity and so on, with Bill Evans, Queen Britannia and Jack all yelling at the tops of their voices. Anyway we were just coming into the harbour, so the outcome was that Bill Evans took a very wet Queen Britannia back to the wharf ahead of us. As he pulled away Bill yelled out a parting insult to us. "I should have a bloody payment out of you for this, you stupid bastards". Jack's wit didn't desert him. "You found her floating and abandoned Bill, so you'd better claim the salvage money." Nicky in the office had a lot of smoothing over to do, and Queen Britannia had to be taken round to the marina for a shower and a clean up.

******

Anyway, as we cruised up the harbour I had noticed a lot of activity behind the police boatshed. "Cops must have got their boat going again." observed Jack. As we passed by we could see men carrying briefcases and what looked like toolboxes from a police car into the boatshed. I went into our office on the wharf. DC Greg Bennett was leaning against the counter, the inevitable cigarette between his fingers. "G'day Greg, how're you going?" "Good, Ted and you?" I nodded. "We saw some blokes taking boxes and stuff into your boatshed." "Yeh, it's the lads from the scientific squad. We're going to go over that yacht with a magnifying glass." I was waiting to hear why he'd come round to visit us. "I thought we'd helped you blokes out enough.. What d'you want now?" "We've got the police launch back in service" said Greg, "but my problem is, the two constables who know how to drive it, one's off on a training course and the other's off sick. I was wondering if I could borrow one of your lads to steer us over to Whitebait Bay and back." "Hm, well you could borrow Tim I suppose, but don't forget on Sundays it's penalty pay rates." "Why can't I do it dad?" asked Jack very aggrieved. "Well firstly Tim missed out on our first trip over there, and secondly, if the bloody police launch breaks down again half way across, Tim might have a chance of fixing it, and then I wouldn't have to go to all the trouble of rescuing them." Tim was very happy with these arrangements, and went off with Greg. Soon we heard the police launch engine fire up and start off down the harbour with Tim standing very proud at the helm. I'll bet he was hoping the whole town was watching.

As I mentioned before, Annabelle really only needs a crew of two, so Jack and I managed quite easily for the rest of the day. The passengers were all dying to know about the happenings over at Whitebait Bay, so Jack talked non-stop for the next few hours, and I must confess I did a bit too. Well, it's not often you're at the centre of a bit of hot gossip. Two newspaper reporters came on one trip and pumped us for all we knew. I called Jack into the wheelhouse and warned him to be a bit cautious about what he said to those guys. I didn't want to end up with a libel case from any of the residents of Whitebait Bay, especially Neville Sneider.

Our town is a bit of a sleepy backwater really, just a ribbon of houses along the riverbank, clinging on to the base of the gorge. It's only here at all because this is where the railway crosses the river over a long bridge, and the bridge builders set up a base camp here which grew eventually into a town. The town then turned into a railway town, supporting the steam trains that came over the bridge and up the long steep climb into the hills on the way to Sydney. The road to the town is a dead end, it doesn't go on anywhere else, so we get no through traffic to disturb our slumbers. Anyway, the point is that a murder was the most exciting thing that had happened here in many a long year, so a very excited crowd plus the two reporters were waiting to hear all the latest news. The police launch came back into the harbour several hours later. Jack and I walked round to the police boatshed to meet it, but half the town had beaten us to it. As soon as DC Bennett came out the door the reporters started firing questions at him. "I'm sorry gentlemen, I'm making no statement at this time. Our press liaison officer may have something to say later."

Tim came out of the boatshed behind him, looking like the cat that had drunk the cream, grinning all over his face. I grabbed him before he could say anything, and we all went round to the office and shut the door. "So what did the scientific guys find on the yacht Tim?" "They didn't find hardly anything. They said the whole boat had been wiped clean very thoroughly. No fingerprints, no nothin'." "So did they find any documents or letters to say who the couple are?" "No, they practically took the boat apart and didn't find nothin'. They said it was like the couple had never been there. A real expert clean up job by somebody, they said" I could see by the smug smile on his face that there was more to come. "Go on, tell us the rest" "Well, while the cops was checking out the boat they told me to wait in the cockpit and not to move. I was waiting in the cockpit, leaning with one arm on the boom, y'know, with the mainsail furled around it, and I thought I could feel some bulges inside the sail and I couldn't figure out what they were, so I thought I'd hoist the sail up a bit and see what was there, and you'll never guess what! Some plastic bags of white stuff fell out. They'd been rolled up inside the mainsail. The scientific blokes said it was cocaine, worth about two million dollars they reckoned."

Jack and I stood there a bit stunned, and then Jack said triumphantly "There you are then, that proves why the girl on the yacht was murdered. They went out in the yacht to meet up with some ship to pick up a drug delivery for Australia, then they decided to double-cross the drug gang and steal the drugs. They changed the name of the boat, and tried to hide over at Neville Sneider's place. The drug gang must have found them and killed the girl and taken the man away. It all fits don't it?" "Yeh," said Tim "Greg Bennett has figured that out already. He said I did very well finding the drugs. He said they might make a copper of me yet." Tim seemed to have grown at least an inch that day. I had a feeling this day might in fact be the highlight of his whole life. "So what did Neville Sneider have to say about all this?" I asked. "Oh he wasn't there" said Tim. "He must have gone off fishing or somethin'. His house was all locked up and his boat was gone. Still they did manage to get his finger prints off the handle of a fishing rod they found in his back yard." "Why did Greg want his finger prints?" "I dunno, he doesn't seem to trust Sneider too much."

Just then Greg came in."Thanks for lending me Tim, Ted. He was a big help. In fact you might say he hit the jackpot. All I've got to do now is to clean up the paperwork and I can pass the whole case over to the drug squad and let them sort it out." "No worries Greg, always pleased to help out the boys in blue." "Am I glad I don't have to go over to that bay again! All that bouncing around in boats hasn't done my bloody stomach much good."

I'd had more than about enough of the whole business as well. I decided I wouldn't go to the pub that night. I'd been late getting home the night before, and I didn't want to be in the doghouse with my missus two nights in a row, and anyway Bill Evans and his oyster farming mates would be sure to be waiting in the bar to give me some stick over the Queen Britannia affair. Sometimes a tactical retreat is the most sensible option.

******

Monday is the day most working folk dislike, the start of the working week and nothing much to look forward to for the next five days. Of course if you work seven days a week all days of the week are much the same. One of the less pleasurable things about owning your own business is that you never get any time off. Four weeks holidays a year are strictly for those working for wages. Employed people dream of having their own business and 'being their own boss'. What a joke that is! When you own your own business the business is your boss, and it's far more demanding than any human boss would dare to be, like for instance having to work seven days a week and no weekend penalty wage rates. Still, I mostly enjoy my job, which seems to put me in some sort of minority, and I have the blessing of reliable employees in my two sons; they're not likely to leave at the drop of a hat, giving a bare seven days notice. Tim loves his job and wouldn't think of doing anything else, and although Jack is restless at times he's smart enough to know which side his bread is buttered.

This Monday the wind had gone round to the north west, which in these parts means the air has been heated up crossing a long stretch of the outback, and as the day goes on it starts to blow on you hot as a blowtorch. "Better rig the awning lads, the passengers'll need all the shade they can get today." I always keep an eye on the sky on days like this. The dry hot air coming over the Blue Mountains fights with the cooler humid air coming in off the ocean, and huge thunderheads can build up with very little warning. That's when you can get hail as big as golf balls and violent twisting winds. If the sky starts to turn green and purple you know it's time to run for a safe anchorage, because all hell is about to be let loose.

We followed our usual Monday timetable, two commuter runs, then delivering mail up the river. The air was hot and sweaty, and the birds and the dogs were silent and resting in the shade. One woman passenger asked me why it was that the seagulls were always so spotlessly clean. It's true, their white breasts _are_ always spotless, even though they're always mucking around in mud and polluted water and eating any old scraps. "I wish I knew the answer to that" I told her. "If you ever find out let me know, because it's been bothering me for forty years!"

Later that day we had a trip with a Japanese tour group, fifteen people altogether. It was a routine trip, except that as the passengers were disembarking one girl was looking at something in the water, and she tripped and stumbled and started to fall down between the wharf and the hull of Annabelle. It could have been really nasty if Tim hadn't jumped like lightening over the rail, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her back to safety. The girl was pretty badly shaken up so we took her to the office and sat her down for a few minutes. She was ok except for a few cuts and bruises. Just as they were about to reboard their tour bus the rescued girl came forward to Tim, put the palms of her hands together the way Japanese women do, bowed deeply to him, then she said something in Japanese. She was a small pretty girl, like a doll almost. Tim went red with embarrassment and bowed back. As their bus pulled away Tim turned to Jack. "I wonder what it was she said?" Jack looked at him gravely. "Tim, there's a matter of Japanese honour involved here. When you save the life of a Japanese girl she's in your debt forever. She was probably telling you she'll come back with her family to honour the debt. Her dad will probably insist that she marries you. Wow, you lucky thing, getting a beautiful Japanese girl for a wife." Tim looked horror-struck. "I don't want to marry no Japanese girl. I don't even know her." "Tim, it's a matter of family honour. If you don't marry her she'll probably have to commit suicide, hari-kari I think they call it. She has to slit open her belly with a knife, so I don't think you've got much choice, have you?" I curse Jack when he starts off with his inventions but I can't help smiling to myself, and Tim is such a sucker believing everything Jack tells him. After a bit I just had to put him out of his misery. "Tim, he's making it all up. Don't believe a word he's saying."

There was a break before our next trip, so I popped round to the supermarket to get a few things. I was a bit surprised to see DC Greg Bennett in there, talking to Rosie, the checkout girl. "Bloody Greg back again," I said, "Didn't expect to see you here." He looked round. "Hi Ted. I didn't expect to be back either, but DS Tucker is puzzled we haven't found any trace of the guy from the yacht. He seems to have vanished into thin air. I was just asking around to see if anyone had seen him. It's a bit difficult though not having a proper description, and all the yachties passing through." "Had any success with your inquiries in Queensland?", I asked. "We did get a hit with the registered owner of that yacht under the name 'Zenobia'. It's registered to a Constantine Esposito, who is known to the drug squad in several states, although they've never managed to pin anything on him." "He's probably the bloke on the yacht then." "No he isn't, they sent us his description. He's a short stocky chap with a bald head." "Have you identified the corpse?" "Yeh, she was probably Andrea Saunders from Surfers' Paradise. She was trying to be a model but she was much too old to start that game. New models these days have hardly made it into high school. I'd like to talk to Neville Sneider about his mate Vince Lombardo, and why we can't find him. Pity he hasn't got a phone, I don't fancy a boat ride over there for nothing if he's not there."

"Tell you what," I said, "come on round the office for a minute, we can call Barbara Williams over at Whitebait Bay. She might know if he's home." Back at the office I looked up Barbara Williams' number and phoned her. She wasn't too thrilled to hear from me again. I asked her if she could see Neville Sneider's runabout at his jetty. She went outside and came back again to the phone. "No" she said "it's not there, and I can't remember seeing him since yesterday or the day before." "Thank you Mrs. Williams, sorry to bother you." "Next time why don't you try ringing him instead of me." "I would have, but he doesn't have a phone." "Oh yes he does, the cable runs across the back of our garden to his place." "Oh? Do you happen to know his phone number?" "I've no idea. I've never had the slightest inclination to phone him. Try telephone inquiries." I had a feeling she put the phone down rather hard.

I turned to Greg. "The old bastard was lying about not having a phone." "Oh?" He called telephone inquiries. "Can you give me the number for a Mr. Neville Sneider of Whitebait Bay please?" After a pause he turned to me. "Nobody of that name in the directory." He looked up a number in his notebook and dialed again. "Hello Chucker, this is Greg Bennett... look buddy, I need a favour, I need the number of a phone in a house at Whitebait Bay up here on the Hawkesbury River,... no Whitebait Bay, yeh that's right. Owner's name is Neville Sneider.... Well there's only three houses in the whole bay, shouldn't take a clever bloke like you more than a few seconds to find it.... What's that?... No not that one,... no nor that one, there should be one more.... What? Who?" He wrote rapidly in his notebook. "Thanks old mate, I owe you. Yeh, yeh, next time." He put the phone down. "Well, the plot thickens, as they say. There is a phone in the shack, but it's registered to a Mr. C Esposito in Queensland, who no doubt is the Constantine Esposito who owns the yacht. It's also an unlisted number, so he obviously doesn't want anyone else to know about it. No wonder Neville Sneider lied to us. Looks like he's tied in with the drug business too. "

He picked up the phone again and dialed. "DC Bennett here. Look I want you to find out if there's been any interstate phone calls made from this number in the last few weeks." He read Schneider's number from his notebook. "OK, call me back on... um... hold on." He turned to me "What's your number here Ted?" I gave him our business card and he passed the number on.

Meanwhile I'd been thinking. "Why doesn't Sneider just have his own ordinary phone?" "Dunno. For some reason he must have been hiding over at Whitebait Bay for years". "It must be pretty hard to hide away for all that time" "Well it's true, it's bloody hard to vanish these days, so many organizations are keeping track of you, and everything about you is stored on a computer somewhere. All it takes is a few inside contacts with computer terminals to run a search and they've found you. You can't have a credit card or a cheque account or ever borrowed money, you can't be on the electoral role or own a phone or a car, never paid an electricity bill or a gas bill or a water bill." "How would he manage for money? He must have had a cheque account or a savings account or something." I said. "The drug gang probably always paid him in cash for his part in the operation. He probably only needed a bit of cash for groceries and stuff like that. I wonder who owns the house?" "Hold on a minute, I'll find out." I said. I wanted to show Greg I had my contacts too. I picked up the phone, called the local council offices and asked for Bill Hemmett. "Hi Bill, it's Ted Farley. How are you mate?... Good,... Good. Listen Bill, I'm interested in buying that old shack over at Whitebait Bay, you know the one? Yeh, that's it. D'you know who owns it?." I waited while Bill clicked away on his keyboard. "Yeh that's the one.... Who?... I thought an old bloke called Neville Sneider lives there.... Well, is that so!" I turned to Greg. "Guess what?" I said. "Let me guess" said Greg dryly, "the council rate demands are sent to a Mr. C. Esposito in Queensland." I nodded, a bit put out that he'd figured it out. "Seems like our Mr. Sneider is really hiding away, thanks to the generosity of Mr. Esposito."

Just then the phone rang and Greg picked it up. "DC Bennett... none at all?" He put the phone down looking puzzled. "There's been no calls to or from Neville Sneider's phone for the last four weeks." he said, "Maybe I'll try calling the old bugger myself and shake him up a bit." He picked up the phone and dialed the number in his notebook. He looked even more puzzled. "Funny, the phone's not ringing." He dialed again. "Hello, is that telephone inquiries? I'm trying to call a number and I can't seem to get through." He read the number from his notebook. There was a long pause. "Mm..... You're sure? I see, thank you very much." He hung up. "The phone isn't working, the line seems to be faulty."

Greg, heaved himself to his feet. "Jeez, seems like now we've got one corpse plus two blokes disappeared in suspicious circumstances. Ah well, I must continue with my inquiries. I think I might start by closely questioning the barmaid at the Hawkesbury Arms." He strolled off with his rolling gait towards the pub for a session of elbow bending at the bar.

******

A bit later Jack and Tim came into the office to see what needed doing next. I told them about the new developments. "I wonder what's happened to the man from the yacht, and now Neville Sneider?" I said. Jack suddenly looked thoughtful, and rubbed his forehead. "What Jack?" "Well, dad, maybe it's nothing, dunno, perhaps I should have mentioned it before. You know the first time we went over to Whitebait Bay and I was hanging about on the beach? Well I noticed a mob of ravens fighting over something about half way up the cliff behind Sneider's house. I wondered at the time what they'd found up there." Tim and I looked at him. Ravens are scavenger birds, quite fond of a feed of dead meat. I started out to go after Greg, then I changed my mind. "Nah, it was probably just a dead possum or something. Maybe we'd better take a look before we tell the police, we don't want to look stupid." I checked my watch. "If we're quick we can just about get over there and back before the next ferry run."

We hurried along the wharf and piled into Lizzie. This time without Greg aboard Jack could go flat out, and he went all the way with the throttle wide open and joy in his heart as Lizzie leapt from wave top to wave top. I glanced over my shoulder. Huge ominous thunderheads were rising high up into the sky. We came into Whitebait Bay once more and as we slowed I told Jack to steer in to Neville's place. Neville's runabout was still missing but the yacht was still moored there. "OK," I said, "it looks as if Neville Sneider still isn't home. We'll tie up to his jetty." We jumped ashore, and Jack paused and scanned across the cliff up behind the house, looking for the place he had seen the ravens. Just then a couple of them flew up from the rocks. "There, that's the place."

I took a bearing from the house to the spot, then we hurried round the house and started to climb up the steep slope, scrambling over boulders and through bushes. We weren't the first to go that way. There were footprints and other marks in the dirt, and I noticed a couple of bloodstains on the rocks. I told the boys not to rub out anything. We knew we were close to something when we heard a massive buzzing of flies. There was the body of a man lying face down, a man in his mid twenties, medium height, slender build, dark hair. Parts of him had been pecked away by the birds. It was also apparent that his skull had been smashed in from behind. "Looks like we've found the man from the yacht." said Jack. Tim was stood well away with his hand over his nose. I said "Come on lads, we can't do anything here, we'll just go back and tell the cops and let them deal with it." We scrambled back down to the beach, then I remembered about Neville Sneider's phone. Sure enough there was the phone cable looped across the backs of the houses, but then I saw that it stopped short of Neville Sneider's house. I went and had a closer look. The cable had been cut with something sharp.

As we hurried along the jetty I noticed that the sky had gone pitch black. The thunderstorm I had been expecting all day was racing towards us, and halfway home it broke. Violent claps of thunder made Lizzie tremble, and streaks of lightning zapped across the sky. The wind started to swirl from all directions, sucking the water up into choppy waves that made Lizzie leap about. Then the rain started to pour down, and it felt as if we were sitting under a waterfall. Jack stood tall at the helm, fighting the elements like the old man of the sea, and loving every minute of it. Tim and I put on our lifejackets and started to bail. It was all over in ten minutes, and we were all soaked to the skin.

Back in town I hurried round to the pub. Greg was still sitting on a bar stool, with a glass of ale on the bar and a cigarette between his fingers. "Hi Ted, hey, you look bloody wet mate D'you get caught out in the storm then?" "Yeh, and doing your bloody work for you!" I told him what we'd discovered. "Half way up the cliff did you say? I'd better get the rescue chopper to go and get the body out. That way I won't have to go over there by boat." He seemed very cool and unexcited by the new developments. "How many murders have you investigated lately, Greg?" "Oh, in the last two years I'd say a couple of dozen. Most times it's a woman's been done in, and you check out the husband or boyfriend first. Usually you need look no further." No wonder he was so unexcited, it was just another day at the office for him.

I gathered up the lads and we nipped home to put on dry clothes. When we got back to the office, Greg had maneuvered himself behind the counter, and was sitting in _my_ chair. "Oh Ted", he said, cool as a cucumber, "I've organized the chopper to come in and collect the body. It'll be here in about an hour. I'll need someone to come over with us and show us where the corpse is exactly." Jack and Tim both froze, and stood like two puppies waiting for the ball to be thrown. "We'll do the next run first next. We'll be back in forty minutes. One of us'll come with you then."

All through the next trip each lad had a far-away look in his eye, each dreaming of a trip in the rescue helicopter. I was trying to decide which one to give the nod to. Then I wondered, why should young guys have all the fun, how about us wrinklies? They would probably have lots of opportunities to ride in a helicopter in the future, whereas I'd never ridden in one, and I might never have another chance. Anyway that's how I justified my decision. When we got back from the trip we were tidying up Annabelle when Greg's car came along the wharf. "Chopper'll be here in a few minutes. It's going to land round on the sports field. Who's coming? There's only room for one." "I think I'd better come" I said, "I know the bearing from the shack to where the body is." I didn't look at the lads, but I knew they would both look like our old dog when he thought he was going for a walk then gets left behind. "Oh lads, I might not get back in time for the next run, so you two will have to manage between you. Jack take the wheel and Tim in charge of everything else." Legally they shouldn't operate Annabelle without me as they don't have the necessary licenses, but they'd done it a few times before when I'd been off sick, and they were both pretty competent. It would make up a little bit for missing out on the helicopter ride.

I jumped into Greg's car for the drive round to the sports field. The car stank of stale cigarette smoke, the ashtrays were overflowing, and empty take-away cartons covered the floor. I had to shove some aside to put my feet down. "Sorry about the mess Ted, I spend a lot of time in this car, it's my second home." "If this is your second home I hate to think what your first home looks like."Soon after we got to the field we heard the pulsing roar of the chopper as it approached, and then dust was flying everywhere as it landed. Greg and I scurried out to the machine. Greg pushed my head down and we ducked in under the spinning rotors. The pilot asked where exactly we had to go. I pointed out Whitebait Bay on his chart, and I asked if I could sit up front with him. He gave me a smile of indulgence.

I looked in awe at his array of dials and controls. I guess to him a river postman must have looked as ancient as a dinosaur. No wonder yachties chuckle at the antique magnetic compass on Annabelle. Jack often nags me about it, saying we should get radar and an echo sounder and so on, but when I've managed perfectly well all my life without them why waste the money? We do sometimes get morning fog on the river, but when we do, a quick glance at the compass is all I need. The pilot opened the throttle, the engines roared, and we rocked a bit as we took off and climbed straight up. It was a most strange sensation, seeing the place you've lived in all your life from a bird's eye view. There was the town dropping away and getting smaller and smaller. Cars and trucks looked like little toys. I could see my own house at the other end of the town, on the edge of the mangrove swamp. The pilot tilted the nose down and we started to fly east. I could see the pub, our wharf and Annabelle. Then I saw Jack and Tim, two tiny figures, waving. We flew down the harbour, past the marina with all its pennants flying in the wind, past the car park and the swimming pool and out across the river.

In no time at all we were coming in to Whitebait Bay. I pointed out where we needed to land. The pilot threw the chopper into a steep bank and circled around the bay, looking for a good spot to touch down on. "This is going to be a bit tricky" he yelled above the noise, "there's not much flat space to land on. Hold tight" He dropped the chopper down very carefully on a small patch of rough grass between Neville Schneider's shack and the Williams' house. Barbara Williams came out of her house, then Lewis and Damian came hurrying along the beach. "What on earth's going on?" Barbara yelled over the noise of the chopper. Greg yelled back "Sorry to disturb you all like this, but the body of a man has been discovered up in the rocks behind Mr. Sneider's house, and we have to go and recover it. "Damian was very brave, he just leaned rather heavily against Lewis. "Is it Neville Sneider's body?" yelled Barbara. "No we think it's most probably the body of the man who came in on that yacht." yelled Greg, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the yawl still tied up to Sneider's jetty. "Oh my God" yelled Barbara, even louder, "first a girl murdered here in the bay, then the police coming round asking questions, then the police launch coming here and the place _swarming_ with people searching, and now a body in the rocks! I'm going to put this house on the market straight away." She went inside her house and slammed the door, as if it was all the fault of the police.

By now the crew had pulled out a stretcher and I lead the way around the shack. We started scrambling up the cliff and forcing our way through the bushes once more. When we got close to the corpse I chickened out and stood back. First Greg took a good look at the body, and then he searched around while one of the chopper crew took photos of the crime scene. I pointed out the footprints and the blood stains on the rocks. "Yeh, I noticed those." Greg took photos of the clearest footprints and measured them for size. The crew rolled up the corpse in a black plastic bag and zipped it up with a big zip fastener, then they lifted the bag onto the stretcher and strapped it on so it couldn't roll off during the scramble down the cliff. Greg looked at the ground that had been under the body. "See" he said to me "there's hardly any blood under the body. That means the victim was already dead when he was dumped here. I expect this bloke was murdered down on the yacht or the jetty. I must get the forensic team in again. They can pick up the tiniest traces of blood, even after a place has been cleaned."

Off we went, slipping, sliding, and scrambling back down to the beach. I offered to help with the stretcher, but the two crew guys were carrying it with shoulder straps and they seemed to know what they were doing. "It's all right" one of them said, "This one's not as heavy as some of the bastards we've had to carry." We all piled into the chopper, roared back up into the sky, and headed west towards the setting sun. In the pub that night I achieved 'Superstar' status.

******

Well, after that all the excitement gradually died down again, and we returned to normal, thank goodness. We did our usual runs with Annabelle, and the boys forgave me for keeping the fun of the chopper ride to myself.

I remember the Tuesday because it was the day Jack had a bit of a run-in with Mrs. Crabtree. She's one of those women that seem to have acid in their veins. She's short and skinny and always wears a long black coat no matter how hot the weather. She has a long bony nose, black eyes, a wrinkled face, and gray hair that she keeps piled up under her hat. Privately she always reminds me of the wicked witch in the old fairy tales like Snow White. She quarrels with anyone over the slightest thing, and needless to say she was always snarling at Jack. As she came aboard that morning at the Island jetty, she was carrying a wicker basket, like the ones people use to carry cats and dogs. Jack went round collecting the fares. "Good morning Mrs. Crabtree, is that a cat in your basket?" "No, it's a chicken young man, and I'd be grateful if you would mind your own business in the future." "Ah, but it is my business you see Mrs. Crabtree," he said, with an artificial smile, "ferry rules state that all livestock carried must be paid for extra, and a chicken is livestock I believe." "Pay extra for a chicken? I've never heard of such a thing in all my life!" "Sorry Mrs. Crabtree, I don't make the rules, I just collect the fares. That'll be fifty cents extra please." "I don't care what your rules say. Fifty cents extra indeed! What an imposition! I'll not pay! Now then!" "Very well" said Jack quietly. I was surprised that he gave up so easily, but then I realized that the wheels might be turning in his brain. When we arrived at the wharf and the passengers started to walk off down the gangplank, Jack barred Mrs. Crabtree's way. "I'm sorry Mrs. Crabtree, but the rules state that all livestock not paid for must be returned to the port of embarkation. You'll have to leave the chicken with us for return to Mulloway Island. If you like we'll leave it for you at the Island store."

Of course there was no such rule, Jack was making it all up to infuriate Mrs. Crabtree, and he certainly succeeded. She turned nearly purple with rage, and tried to push past him, but unfortunately the top of the basket flew open, and her squawking chicken flew out over the side into the water. Chickens can't swim of course, but quick as a flash Tim climbed over the rail and, hanging on with one hand, he managed to grab the chicken by its legs. He climbed back on board holding the chicken upside down; furiously flapping its wings. It was the breed of chicken known as a White Leghorn, but unfortunately there had been a patch of oil floating on the water, so now it was a sort of Dirty Grey Leghorn. "Here you are Mrs. Crabtree, I rescued it, no harm done." He held out the wet, dirty bird. A furious Mrs. Crabtree snatched it and stuffed it back into the basket, shoved past Jack, who was too busy laughing to resist, and marched off along the wharf towards the station. "Don't forget you owe us fifty cents Mrs. Crabtree," Jack shouted after her, "pay when you come back if you like." I was going to say something to him about being more polite to passengers, but then it occurred to me that politeness should cut both ways.

******

Next day Greg came into the office with two uniformed constables in tow. "Uh oh" I said, "here comes more trouble. You're starting to outlive your welcome here Greg. What do you want this time?" "Don't worry, we're not asking for help, we're looking for the man known as Neville Sneider. Have you seen him at all?" "Known as? You mean that's not his real name?" "No it's not. The British Police identified his fingerprints; his real name is Stanley Croaker. They've been looking for him for ten years for armed robbery and assault, but he must have slipped out of England just before they caught up with him and he must have been hiding over at Whitebait Bay all this time. The British Bobbies also suggest he might be sitting on a stack of cash that's never been found. I've got a warrant for his arrest, but as you know he's disappeared again, so we're just asking around town to see if anybody has set eyes on him."

Tim butted in "If he had come here his tinny would be tied up here somewhere, and I'm pretty sure it isn't. I'd have recognized it if it was." "How can you be sure you'd know which boat was his? Those aluminium boats all look much the same to me." "His has a big spill of blue paint on the port side. He must have dropped a can of paint on it sometime and never bothered to clean it off. If it was anywhere around here I'm sure I would have seen it by now." Greg turned to me. "If he's not been here I suppose he could have gone anywhere, right up the river to Windsor or somewhere like that. He could be anywhere in Australia by now." "Yes, or he could be up at Surfers Paradise, staying with what's his name, Con Esposito" I said. "No, we've been looking out for Mr. Esposito, but he's been out of the country for the last month, and nobody seems to know when he's coming back. Anyway I've got a search warrant for the shack over at Whitebait Bay, so we're going over there now to take the place apart. You'll be pleased to know our launch is up and running. Unfortunately it means another bloody boat ride for me."

He went off with the constables and soon after we saw them slipping their boat into the water. As they hit the starter button some very unfortunate noises were heard. "Sounds like they've broken a piston." said Tim, "they won't be going anywhere for a few days." Soon after Greg re-appeared in the doorway. "Don't tell me" I said, "you want us to run you over there in Lizzie." "Well I wouldn't bother you again, but it is urgent, and you blokes seem to be the only ones with a boat at the ready." "Your bloody bill's starting to mount up you know." "All right, all right, don't keep on about it! You'll get paid, eventually." "Yeh, 'eventually' is what I'm worried about. There are three of you and Lizzie only carries four so I'd better go. Stay here boys". The police and I trooped off along the wharf and climbed into Lizzie. I took the wheel, and we cruised sedately across to Whitebait Bay. It was a beautiful spring day, the water calm, the sun was shining and not too hot. A couple of dolphins leaped and plunged alongside us for part of the way. Even Greg almost seemed to enjoy it as he sat there puffing away on a cigarette.

We moored at Neville's jetty. I was having trouble thinking of Neville as 'Stanley'. I noticed his runabout was still absent. We walked along the jetty to the shack and Greg banged loudly several times on the door. All was silent inside. "Force the door constable." said Greg. A large boot took aim and the door splintered inward. That awful stale smell came out again. "Wait outside Ted" said Greg, and he and the constables donned rubber gloves and went in. While they were inside I went round the back of the shack out of curiosity. Near the back fence under a big bush I noticed a rock with freshly disturbed earth around it. The police were inside for quite a long time, and when they came out they were carrying several plastic bags. "Find anything?" I asked. "Oh not much, mostly porno pictures. We found hiding places under the floor and up in the roof, but there wasn't much in them. However we did find one pair of girls' panties. That was very careless of him." He held up the evidence bag with the underwear inside. "Well there's something out the back I think you should take a look at".

We went round there and the constables rolled the rock over. In a hole underneath was a metal cash box. "These cash boxes aren't as strong as they look" said Greg, "the metal's quite thin. If you've got a screwdriver on your boat I'll soon get it open." Greg carried the cashbox back to Lizzie and I found a screwdriver in the tool kit. With the application of a little brute force Greg had the box open in a few seconds. Inside were bundles of bank notes with a 'Bank of England' design, all in large denominations. Greg flipped through a couple of bundles. "The British coppers said he might be sitting on a big stash of cash from his last robbery. Still, he'd have had a hell of a job unloading these," he said, "they're all new notes with consecutive serial numbers. The Bank of England would have been looking out for them as soon as they were stolen. Constable, put the whole lot in an evidence bag and seal it please."

On the trip back to town Greg was deep in thought for a bit, chain-smoking his cigarettes. He said suddenly, "I think I've got it all sorted out now. The couple picked up the drug shipment, then decided to steal it and double cross the drug gang. They knew about Whitebait Bay and came here, and they cut Neville's phone line so he couldn't tip off his mates in Queensland, which is why there were no calls from his phone. They probably threatened Neville to keep quiet, and being the tough bastard he is, he must have decided to get even. He waited for his chance, then whacked this Tony bloke, but perhaps he hit him a bit too hard. His record in England shows he's not too fussy about doing that sort of thing. The girl must have seen what happened and locked herself on their boat. He realized she knew too much, and he'd have to get rid of her as well, so he broke open the cabin door. Then he thought he'd have a bit of 'fun' with her before he killed her. What a psychopath he must be."

"Only one snag with that argument" I said, "I still don't believe he'd have been stupid enough to chuck the girl in the river at Whitebait Bay, knowing she'd float up past the Island." "Well I'll just have to find the old bugger and ask him about it, won't I?"

******

Next day the wind had changed and we had one of those hot, humid days when things keep going wrong and passengers complain about every little thing. By mid afternoon I was feeling a bit grumpy and sweaty, and ready for a beer, so when I saw Charlie Ball on the wharf I groaned, I just knew he was going to be yet another problem. Charlie is a veteran musician, mostly unemployed, who lives in a shack on Mulloway Island. He was standing beside an old upright piano, dark walnut in colour. It was so old it had brass candlestick holders on the front. "Hullo Charlie," I said, "what've you got there?" "It's a very valuable piano that's come my way Ted, and I was wondering if you could take it out to the Island for me. I want to keep it at my place so I can practice on it." "I can't, it's too big for Annabelle. You'll have to get a barge." "Ah, alas, Ted, they cost too much money, and I can't afford one. It's only an upright, not very big. I'm sure you can manage it." Tim butted in. "Go on, Dad, we can unscrew a bit of the handrail and roll the piano across onto the deck." I lifted one end of the piano to feel the weight of it and it didn't seem too heavy. "Oh.... alright." Tim fetched Jack, and they unscrewed the handrail, then the three of us rolled the piano across the wharf. Charlie was a bit the worse for a hangover so he wasn't much help. We cinched Annabelle tight up against the wharf, then eased the piano across onto the deck without doing anybody's back any damage. "There you are" said Charlie with great delight, "as easy as slipping a sausage into its skin." "We depart in half an hour" I said. "Excellent, dear chap, just time for me to wet my whistle at the Hawkesbury Arms." He strolled off towards the pub with a little skip in his step.

Half an hour later he still hadn't reappeared, and the other passengers were already aboard. "Jack, go and get Charlie out of the pub, and don't stop to have one yourself. Tim, chock that piano and lash it down in case the river gets rough. I don't want it rolling all over the deck." Already I was starting to regret my decision to take it. Jack came back from the pub, not just with Charlie but with two other blokes as well, both carrying musical instrument cases. "Ted old fellow, I'd like you to meet two of my professional colleagues, Bill Brown who plays clarinet and Puffer Grimshaw who is a veritable virtuoso on the sackbut, also known as the trombone. I happened to stumble across them at the pub, and they are coming to stay at my place for a few days." "I'll bet your neighbours are going to enjoy that," I said. Bill and Puffer looked like a comedy duo. Bill was short, somewhat rotund, and wearing a very ancient suit and a pink bow tie. Puffer was tall, thin, and sad-looking, wearing old pants, a striped tee shirt and a bowler hat. Tim was looking in awe at these real musicians, and Jack was looking at them with an amused smile. I was looking at them and thinking that they probably didn't have ten dollars between them.

"Cast off Jack." I backed Annabelle out from the wharf, and we headed off down the harbour. Charlie opened the lid of the piano keyboard and ran his fingers along the cracked yellow keys. What came out sounded tinny to me, but then I'm no musician. "Hasn't it got the most excellent tone?" asked Charlie, of no one in particular. He started to play a piece of ragtime, and quick as a flash Bill pulled out his clarinet and licked the reed. Puffer pulled out a battered old trombone, spat on the slide to lubricate it, and blew into the mouthpiece to warm it up They all started to play, and they really didn't sound too bad. They'd obviously been playing together for a long time. I leaned out the wheelhouse door. "You blokes aren't bad!" Charlie beamed at me. "It's because we got properly lubricated at the pub, my dear Ted. Musicians like us are always in top form after we've had a few sips of the old hops and malt. This is quite exciting; I've never played while sailing across the briny before. It makes me dream of getting a booking on a cruise ship, food and accommodation provided, and perhaps a few unattached ladies on the side." For the rest of the trip to the Island we were serenaded with a selection of jazz and popular songs. Luckily there was no swell, so Annabelle didn't roll at all, and it was certainly different from our usual trips. The other passengers seemed to enjoy it too, and after we tied up at the jetty Charlie stood at the gangplank holding out Puffer's bowler hat, and he collected enough to pay their fares.

Now however we had the problem of getting the piano off Annabelle. The tide had been falling steadily, and there was a big step up from the deck onto the jetty. Jack and Tim unscrewed the handrail again and we rolled the piano across the deck. Jangling noises came from inside "Steady now" said Charlie "this is a very valuable instrument. We mustn't drop it." "Well you'd better help us then, and put your back into it." I didn't really think he'd be much help, and the other two looked pretty hung-over as well. "We really need a crane to do this job" I said. "Tell you what" said Tim "I'll take off as many of these wooden panels as I can. It'll be lighter to lift" He fetched his toolbox and unscrewed some of the piano case. With a big effort and lots of grunting we managed to heave one end of the piano up onto the jetty, then the other end. "There we are then," said Jack "I wouldn't want to do that every day. That'll be twenty dollars freight please, Charlie." "Ah, my delightful young friend, twenty dollars is indeed a very modest sum but, alas, I shall have to defer payment until I'm a little more financially solvent. Perhaps next week?"

By now the evening was drawing in fast, and lights were winking on in the town across the water. "Leave it Jack," I said, "I think this one might have to be a write-off. Let's head for home." "My dear Ted" said Charlie "how can I get this beautiful instrument round to my place?" "That's your problem Charlie. We said we'd carry it to the Island and we've done that. Goodbye, or arrividerci as the Italians say." Charlie didn't seem too worried at being left there with his piano. He found an old crate to use as a piano stool, Puffer pulled off his boots, and the trio started playing again, just for the fun of it.

I switched on the navigation lights and backed Annabelle out from the jetty. The day had faded to a beautiful evening; the air was cooler, with a whisper of breeze. A full moon hung low in the sky, and splashes of moonlight were dancing on the water. Half way home I stopped Annabelle and we drifted quietly on the tide. We could hear the music faintly across the water, the sound mellowed by the distance. They were playing a haunting old Italian song, and we stood listening, entranced. I could feel the hair standing up on my neck. For me it was moment of pure magic.

Early next morning we had some boxes of vegetables and fruit for Jim Henty at the store out on the Island. Jim was waiting for us on the jetty with his trolley. The piano was no longer there. "Morning Jim, I see the piano's gone." "Yeh, and no thanks to you bastards for bringing the bloody thing here and abandoning it. Three o'clock this morning they were still blasting away out here, and my missus said if I didn't do something about it she'd get an axe and chop the piano to pieces. I came out to tell them to shut up and they said they'd only stop if I took the piano round to Charlie's place on my truck. I didn't have much choice, so I took it round there, in my bloody pyjamas and all, and at last we had a bit of peace and quiet. That bloody Charlie had the nerve to complain because I tipped the piano down on it's back to get it on the truck. He said it would never be the same again." "Ah well," I said, " I can understand that. He told me it was a very valuable and delicate instrument, to be treated with respect." "Bullshit! It sounds like he found it on a rubbish tip somewhere." Jim turned and wheeled his groceries off towards the store. Jack called after him "Ah Jim, Jim, you've just got _no_ appreciation of fine music."

Incidentally, a few weeks later Charlie Ball came on board. "G'day Charlie, I hear you got your piano home ok." "Ted, my wonderful friend, it turned out you did me a very good turn. I've formed the Charlie Ball Trio, that's me and Bill and Puffer, and I've moved my piano round to the Bowling Club. We've been engaged to play every Friday and Saturday night, a modest income to supplement our unemployment benefits, and the barman slips us free grog now and then." With a flourish he pulled out an old wallet and offered me a ten-dollar note. "A little something towards what I owe you my dear chap."

******

Anyway, to get back to what I was saying, next morning Tim hurried his breakfast, then shot out of the house, calling over his shoulder that he would meet us at the wharf. He didn't give me time to ask what he was up to. Jack and I drove along to the wharf in the truck, and soon after we got there, up roared Tim on a motorbike. "Whose bike is that?" I asked. "Mine" "Yours? Where d'you get it?" " I just bought it from Dick Roberts at the garage." "You bought it? How are you going to pay for it?" "I've paid for it already. I've been saving my pay for ages to get it."

Well, he certainly was a dark horse, been saving for ages and never said a word about it. It was one of those two-stroke bikes with long front forks that are used for off-road riding. "Why didn't you get a proper bike?" "This is a proper bike. I want to go trail riding with it." "There's nowhere round here you're allowed to go riding through the bush. The National Parks people don't allow it." "There's plenty of places you can go on the other side of the river. Dick Roberts at the garage told me about some." He'd obviously been planning all this for ages. Then I noticed the sour look on Jack's face. "What do you think Jack?" "I think it's a damn stupid waste of money." I could see that Tim had got one up on Jack. "You could buy one too if you tried saving some of your money instead of spending it all." " Huh, I wouldn't buy a dopey motorbike, I'd buy a fab sports car with a soft top, so I could drive round with the top down. Wow, wouldn't that pull the girls! Yeh, maybe a Maserati Spyder, or something really groovy like that!" "Well you'd better start saving, seeing as you're starting with nothing." How typical of Jack, he hadn't saved a cent, but was dreaming of driving around in a car that only millionaires can afford, just so he could impress the girls. Tim, on the other hand, had quietly saved enough for a bike, and was heading off to have fun. Jack sometimes makes me despair; Tim sometimes makes me gently proud.

When we knocked off that evening Tim jumped on his bike and took off in a cloud of dust. Jack looked very down in the mouth as we climbed into the truck. I'd often seen Tim jealous of Jack when they were lads, but now the boot was on the other foot. Perhaps it was Tim piloting the police launch and finding the cocaine, and now having his own bike, but their relationship was suddenly changing. They were becoming equals, rather than Tim being the younger brother. Next day Rosie the checkout girl from the supermarket sidled up to Tim on the wharf, looked at him with big round eyes, and said "Hullo Tim, I saw you on your new bike last night; can I have a ride?" She was a pretty girl in a homely sort of way, a bit shorter than Tim, with curly brown hair and a nice smile. Tim looked at her a bit startled, and then said, "Ok, jump on then, where would you like to go?" They drove off with her arms tight around him.

******

The following Saturday we were once again cruising up the river with a coach load of tourists. I had the wheel in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. Suddenly Tim shot into the wheelhouse. "Dad, I saw a tinny in the mangroves up that side creek we just passed. I think it might be Neville Sneider's boat." I pulled out the river chart and had a quick think. "Why would he have left it there? There's nothing up that creek, and he couldn't have walked away, there's no road for miles." "Maybe he hasn't just left it there. Maybe he's camping out 'til the search for him dies down. Don't forget he left the loot buried over at Whitebait Bay, That means he's probably planning to go back there some time and pick it up." "Well we'd better not turn back, that'll raise his suspicions. We'll come back this way later and take a good look as we go past."

An hour later we passed the side creek again going the other way, and Tim had the binoculars out. "That's it dad, that's his tinny all right. I can see the blue paint on the side." The boat was pulled well in among the mangrove trees. Even if you knew where to look it was hard to see. I switched on the CB radio. "Hey, Nickie, you there?" "Yes Ted?" "See if you can get hold of Greg Bennett and tell him we think we've seen Neville Sneider's boat." "Will do."

Soon after we arrived back at the wharf Greg Bennett's car came tearing along and pulled up sharply. Behind him came a police patrol car with a couple of uniformed constables inside. Greg came into the office, and his previous weary manner had vanished. "Where did you see the boat?" I pulled out a chart from the counter and pointed with a pencil. "Tim is pretty sure it's Sneider's boat, but we didn't actually see Sneider himself. The boat's hidden in the mangrove swamp just here. It's a very remote spot, no way of getting there except by boat. We think he might be camping out, waiting for the dust to settle so to speak." "Hm, what worries me is, if he's hiding out there he might have a gun. Is there any way we can sneak up on him?" I pondered that for a bit, but the chart didn't give much detail about the riverbank, and there's no way you can 'sneak' through a mangrove swamp. The ground under mangrove trees is full of twisting roots in ankle deep mud, and it's underwater at high tide. "Don't know. You might just have to front up to him, and hope he comes quietly." "Fat chance with his record. Well at least I've brought some help with me. We'll just have to try it and see what happens. Come on constables, let's get round to the boat shed."

"Hold on" I said, "I hate to have to say this, but if you go roaring over there in the police launch he'll hear you coming long before you get there, and he'll just vanish. Why don't we go over there gently in Annabelle? That way at least you can get close before he realizes what's happening." "Good plan" said Greg, "all aboard for a jolly cruise constables." We all boarded Annabelle, Tim started the engine, and I backed her out from the wharf. Just before we arrived at the hiding place, Greg said "You constables keep out of sight so he doesn't see your uniforms." They ducked down behind the wheelhouse, and one pulled out his Glock automatic and started to check it out. "Keep your guns holstered unless he starts to fire first." said Greg, "I'll tell you when to draw. We don't want bullets whizzing all over the place unnecessarily. That way people can get hurt." The two constables looked nervous and a bit excited. They both seemed very young. I wondered if they were straight out of police academy. Probably their first bit of action where guns were involved.

As we drew closer I pointed out the side creek where we'd seen the boat hidden. The creek runs into the main river at an angle, and I noticed there was a small headland on the upstream side of the junction. As I scanned it through the binoculars I could see mangrove swamp along the shore with a small patch of grass behind and the steep rise of the cliff behind that again. "There's a patch of grass behind the mangrove, Greg" I said, "I'll bet that's where he's camping." I passed the glasses to Greg for a look. "Ah yes, there he is" he said. "He's up in the rocks behind the grass. I can see the smoke from his campfire. If we land quietly on this side of the headland maybe we can catch him unawares. How do we get ashore?" "Well I can't get right in with Annabelle, the water will be too shallow. We'll go in as close as we can, then you'll have to go ashore in the life raft. Tim and Jack can paddle you in." "Ok" said Greg, "but your lads must stay well back out of trouble." "Inflate the raft Tim and drop it in on the river side so he can't see it if he's watching." We went just past the end of the creek and I eased off the engine.

Tim and Jack slid the life raft into the water, then climbed into it and held it against the side of Annabelle. "Quietly, lads" said Greg in a low voice.The three policemen climbed over the rail into the raft, then Jack and Tim pushed off and silently paddled the short trip into the shore. They managed to go part way into the mangrove, and then the police had to step over into ankle deep mud and wade ashore to the edge of the grassy area. The constables had boots on but Greg only had shoes.

Alas Greg hadn't managed to outsmart Neville Sneider. He stepped out from behind a rock at the back of the grass, with a shotgun pointing at the police. "Well, well, what 'ave we got 'ere then? Detective Constable Bennett if I remembers correct. Brought two big strong lads along to 'elp you 'ave you? Well you'll need a small army to get me out of this little spot. You'd better go away and call up reinforcements." He swung the gun towards one of the constables who had taken a small step forward. "Take another step sonny and I'll blow you to Kingdom Come." "Hold it constable" said Greg, "don't let's have any heroics. Mr. Stanley Croaker, alias Neville Sneider, I have here a warrant for your arrest. I suggest you put down your gun and come quietly with us. That way no-one gets hurt." "Wot, and spend the rest of me life rottin' in jail? No way! I'd sooner die first, but I'll take some of you wiv me if I have to."

Greg must have been on a negotiation-training course. He sat down on a rock. "Don't mind if I have a fag do you?" he said. He carefully pulled out a pack and lit one. The other constables kept their hands in view and away from their holsters. Then Greg started to try and calm Neville down, and to wear down his opposition into giving himself up. It struck me that with an ex-con like Neville what we had here was a stalemate.

I was watching all this from Annabelle, and I realized we might be here for some time, so I let go the anchor, and Annabelle swung quietly round on the chain, facing her bow into the current. It was after about thirty minutes, when little progress had been made that I noticed that the life raft with Jack and Tim had moved along the shore a bit. I wondered what those two were up to, nothing stupid I hoped! Ten minutes later I noticed a slight movement in the rocks above and behind the point where Neville was standing. Jack appeared, holding something large above his head. He must have landed further along the shore and circled back, part way up the slope. I didn't dare look through the glasses in case Neville saw me looking and turned round. Jack took aim and threw. Suddenly Neville was sprawling face down on the ground, his arms stretched out in front still holding the shotgun. The two constables suddenly gathered their wits and jumped forward. One kicked away the shotgun while the other put a knee firmly in the small of Neville's back, twisted his arms round and snapped on the handcuffs. As they pulled him to his feet Greg stubbed out his cigarette, walked calmly forward, and started his set speech, "Stanley Croaker, alias Neville Sneider, I am arresting you...."

As he finished, Jack came scrambling down through the rocks, grinning all over his face. Greg looked at what Jack had thrown. It was a large tangled clump of grass, roots and dirt, heavy enough to knock a man over when thrown from above, but soft enough not to seriously hurt him. "That wasn't too clever. What the hell were you playing at?" said Greg, a little sourly. "Oh it's an old trick we used to play as kids on the way home from school." "And what if you'd missed?" "Oh I never miss, I was champion of year twelve." Far from being grateful, Greg seemed quite angry. "You stupid bastards, you could have got somebody killed. You were told to stay out of it. Come on constables, let's get this villain back to the station." One of the constables picked up Neville's gun and emptied out the shells. Tim and Jack fetched the life raft, everybody was loaded in, and the boys paddled out to Annabelle. "Hold on" said Jack, "We'd better salvage his runabout too." The two boys paddled over to Neville's boat, and Jack stepped in over the transom and fired up the outboard engine. "You go ahead dad" he called across, "I'll run this boat back to the harbour." He backed out from the mangrove and headed off. Tim and the constables pulled the life raft back on board and raised the anchor and we got underway back to town.

I handed the wheel over to Tim, as I was feeling a bit weak at the knees. Neville was sitting handcuffed between the two constables, looking very withdrawn. Greg pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. I noticed his hands were shaking a bit. Perhaps he wasn't as calm and collected as he had pretended. "That was a bit ungrateful of you Greg," I said. "Ungrateful! If Jack had missed we could have had guns going off and bits of body flying all over the place, including bits of me. This is a one-off excitement for you lot, but I have to keep doing it week after week! I can't afford to take risks like that, I want to retire of old age, The last thing I want is to end up with a posthumous medal for bravery and a bloody State Funeral. Jack had no idea what he was doing. That's why I hate working with civilians, they charge around like bulls at a rodeo. Another hour or two and I would have talked him into giving himself up without a fight." I looked him straight in the eye. "Oh yeh?"

Halfway home we saw Jack heading back our way in Neville's tinny. "Hello" I said, "I wonder what he wants?" As we met he circled around and came alongside and we both slowed down. "I thought I should tell you, Greg" he shouted across, "there's a blood stain under the forward thwart." Greg pricked up his ears at that one. "Well, well Mr Croaker, alias Mr Sneider, it'll be interesting to check that blood against the girl's blood won't it?" "I don't know wot you're talkin' about, and I ain't sayin' nufin' till I get a lawyer. You got nufin' on me an' you know it." "Ah, of course, you don't know that since you went into hiding we've found the body of Tony from the yacht dumped up behind your house, and we've found your stash of banknotes too! Pull up his right foot please constable." One of the constables pulled up Sneider's leg. Greg took a drawing of a footprint out of his pocket and held against Sneider's shoe. "Gotcha," said Greg "it's a perfect fit. I've got you for the murder of Tony Esposito from your footprints when you carried his body up the cliff. I expect when our divers take a good look under your jetty they'll find what ever it was you whacked him with. All I have to do now is to pin the murder of the girl on you and all the loose ends will be tied up, and I can take a day off."

Neville Sneider said nothing, but he seemed to have shrunk into himself. He knew he was finished. Greg stood up and went over to the rail to throw his cigarette butt over the side. While he was away I said quietly to Neville Sneider "What I can't understand is why you dumped the girl in the river right outside your house. You must have known she'd drift up river past Mulloway Island. That wasn't very bright, it lead the police almost straight to you. Why didn't you wait 'til the tide had turned so she went out to sea? It was an very stupid thing to do!" It must have been the word 'stupid' that got under Sneider's skin and made him loose his temper. "I didn't dump 'er on purpose you stupid git", he said angrily, "I was trying to lift 'er into me bloody boat and the bitch slipped over the side under the bloody jetty and I nearly fell in meself. It was pitch dark an' I couldn't find 'er. Next day she was bloody-well gone and then you buggers had to fish 'er out." The final piece of the puzzle had clicked into place. Unfortunately Greg had overheard. "Well, bad luck mister river expert," he said sarcastically, "it seems that I was right and you were wrong all along."

When we got back to the wharf they loaded Neville Sneider into the police car. Greg seemed to have got over his temper a bit. "See you Ted". I didn't think it was the right moment to remind him that the Police Department now owed me three hundred and twenty-four dollars. One of the constables gave me a sort of nervous half smile, and they took off. Jack, Tim and I looked at each other. "Come on lads" I said quietly, "we've got a ferry run in fifteen minutes,"

The last passenger aboard was Walter Trevelyan-Smythe, the imperturbable Englishman in his tweed jacket. "Good afternoon Ted." he said politely, "Have you had a pleasant day?" "Oh pretty quiet you know Walter." I said, in my most imperturbable voice, "mind you, we did help the police arrest a violent murderer armed with a loaded shotgun, but apart from that, nothing much."

Part Two, JACK

My dad is Ted Farley, skipper of the 'Lady Annabelle', and I'm Jack, his eldest son. We run a sort of ferryboat-cum-river postman service on the Hawkesbury River, and we've got a very snug operation going; dad at the helm, my kid brother Tim doing the routine jobs like maintenance and cleaning, and me taking care of the management side of things, like collecting fares and looking after the cash. Some people say I'm a deckhand, but I regard myself more as a ship's purser. As the excitement of me and the police capturing the murderer Neville Sneider faded away we settled back into our normal routine, doing the same old trips and seeing the usual string of passengers coming and going.

The people along our river are a pretty average bunch, working men and women, a few hairy hippies, quite a few senior citizens, and people on social security. Occasionally a new face appears. Recently a guy called Zilga Marzetsky moved into a house a couple of kilometers upstream from the railway bridge, and soon we started dropping off mail at his jetty. The river is getting silted up along that bank and it's hardly deep enough for Annabelle to get in there, especially at low tide, so it's a bit of a challenge for dad at the helm. Sometimes Annabelle touches bottom and the propeller churns up great whirlpools of brown mud as we back out. Zilga's an elderly man with receding curly hair like steel wool, grey eyes, and a doorknocker of a nose. He speaks with a foreign accent, can't pronounce 'th' and 'w' properly. Every time I've seen him he's been wearing a dark suit with a waistcoat and tie, even in the hottest weather when everyone else is wearing shirt and shorts. Soon he started to walk along his jetty to meet us, and he obviously liked to have a bit of a chat. I asked him one time how long he'd been in Australia. "I first came here in August of 1968." "D'you like it here?" "In my homeland everyzing is very formal. You vould be Mister Farley and I vould be Mister Marzetsky. Here everyzing is free and easy, so you are Jack and I am Zilga." He chuckled to himself. "Yes, I like it here vell enough."

Soon we started dropping off parcels at his jetty, then boxes and wooden crates that took two of us to lift, and then we started to pick up similar goods to take back to the harbour for collection by a courier. "What's in all these crates?" I asked him. "Pieces of fine art. I am a dealer in zem you know." "What's fine art?" "Paintings, sculpture, bronzes, zat sort of zing." "How do you sell stuff like that from up here on the river?" "Oh I do all my dealing over zee Internet zees days. I take photos of all my pieces and put zem on my veb site. I don't have a gallery any more, I have customers all over zee vorld so a gallery is no use to me."

I'd heard of the Internet of course, but I'd never had a chance to use it, so I went off and chatted to a few mates round town about it. They talked about megabytes and stuff like that, and how Zilga must be using a broadband mobile phone connection, because the phone lines on that side of the river couldn't carry ADSL, whatever that was. It was all a bit like Greek to me.

The next crate for Zilga after that was delivered by a security service to the wharf, and two armed guards came with us to make the delivery to Zilga. They looked all over Annabelle before they carried the shipment from their security van to us. The guards weren't young guys; I reckon they were both around fifty. They wore dark blue uniforms with security badges on the sleeves and 'Security' across the back, and pistols on their belts. Dad seemed a bit nervous about them. We delivered the crate and Zilga signed the delivery docket. On the return trip the guards had nothing to do, so I was able to chat to them about their job. "Reckon you guys have a pretty easy job." "Well it's not bad, but you have to be on your guard all the time." "Does it pay well?" "Not particularly, but it's a living." "Have you ever used your guns?" "Only in practice." "They are loaded then?" "Well they wouldn't be much use if they weren't would they?" "What's in the crate to make it so valuable?" "We don't know, and if we did we wouldn't tell you." I think they were telling me to go away and mind my own business.

******

I've worked for my dad ever since I left school. Frankly, I couldn't wait to finish school, sitting around in the classroom all day listening to the teacher droning on and on, when I wanted to be outside mucking around. It wasn't that I couldn't understand geography and history and stuff like that, but I just couldn't see the point of remembering it all, and I still can't, it's never earned me a single cent extra. Mind you arithmetic, now that's something everybody should learn, otherwise how can you work out change and make sure you aren't being ripped off? For some reason we learnt a bit of French too, and that sometimes comes in handy to impress the girls. After school I was the leader of our gang. We used to play games like football, cricket and cops and robbers, and we had great times round town, in the bush, and along the river. Dad said I couldn't go swimming in the river, it was too dangerous, but I went in anyway. We puffed our first cigarettes at eleven; one of the gang pinched them from his dad. I started going out on Annabelle almost as soon as I could walk, and by the time I was twelve I was already collecting the fares and even doing a little bit of steering, so when I left school and went to work for dad full time I already knew what to do.

I get pretty bored, doing the same job all the time, but it's steady cash in my pocket, and it's better than sitting in an office all day, with fluoro lights and no fresh air. Dad says the river is never the same two days running, but you could fool me; there's hardly any action on this river at all, just locals in their runabouts and on the weekends a few yachts and expensive cruisers. What I need is a bit of excitement. Some day I would just love to head off down the river and out to sea, and maybe turn south to Sydney, or north to Surfers Paradise, somewhere where there's a bit of life and lots of girls. Surfers has got the Casino and bars and nightlife and exotic dancers and fabulous things to do. Our town doesn't even have a cinema.

Next time I saw Zilga I made use of my new Internet knowledge. "Can you get broadband on your phone over here?" "Yes, I use a broadband mobile phone connection, but sometimes I don't get a good signal. I'm zinking of switching to a satellite connection instead". "Ah yes" I said, trying to sound knowledgeable "that makes sense to me". Next trip I asked Zilga why he picked that spot for his business. "For low house prices, and for security. Some of my pieces are very valuable and people might be tempted to try and steal zem. Zere is, alas, a ready market for stolen fine art to private collectors who don't ask too many questions, and Australia has a bad reputation for zat sort of zing. Zere is no road in here so anybody trying to steal from me must come by boat and tie up to zis jetty, and I have alarms and strong safe."

I thought about all this. The idea of doing business all over the world from a house up the river was new to me. I told dad about it. The poor old codger didn't know anything about the Internet of course, so I had to explain it all to him. "Zilga says some of the paintings we're carrying are very valuable." Dad said. "Well I gathered that from the security guards that delivered that crate last week. I hope he's got them insured, because our insurance sure as hell won't cover them."

A dark thought entered my brain. "I wonder if he's all legitimate and above board?" "What do you mean?" "How do we know the goods we're carrying aren't pinched? He told me there's a ready market for stolen stuff. Maybe the _real_ reason he's got his place up here is so the cops can't watch him. It would be a good place to hide stolen stuff for a bit till the cops stop looking." "Stop imagining things, you're seeing a crime where there isn't one. You've got absolutely no reason to be suspicious. Zilga seems a very honest man to me, and don't forget he's our best customer."

Still I couldn't help wondering. When I was in the office on my own I called the police information number, and told the girl on the other end that I might have some information about stolen fine art stuff. She connected me through to some place called the Fine Arts Felony Squad and a Detective Constable John Fowler picked up the phone. He seemed a nice friendly bloke. I told him all about Zilga Marzetsky's operation, and how I thought he might be handling stolen paintings and stuff, and about the crates coming and going. "Have you any evidence at all that he isn't completely legitimate?" he asked. "Well no, not really, it just seems suspicious to me. I think he moved up here on the river so you guys can't watch him." "Just a minute." I heard him tapping away on his computer keyboard. "Well we have nothing on him. He's registered as a dealer in fine arts. There's nothing here to justify an investigation." "Can't you tap his phone or somethin'?" "No, we can't do that unless we have some evidence of criminal activity, and all you've just given me is suspicions." "Isn't there anything you can do ?" "No there isn't, just forget it, and don't let's have any 'accidentally' opened crates either." Well, that shut me up! There was nothing more I could do, so I had to let it go.

******

Annabelle is a bit of an old tub really, chugs slowly up and down the river, no modern electronics like radar or depth sounder or anything like that. She's even made of wood, built before fiberglass was even invented. Still, dad loves her and stupid Tim adores her ancient diesel engine chugging away down below decks. He's always polishing it and mucking around down there. I reckon if he could squeeze a bunk in there he'd sleep with the bloody thing.

Ninety nine percent of our trips are routine, and I was feeling especially bored one day, so it cheered me up no end to see an undertaker's hearse waiting for us on the wharf as we tied up. The undertaker came aboard after the passengers had gone ashore. You usually think of undertakers as tall thin men with long sad faces, black suits and black top hats, but that's probably from watching too many cowboy films on TV. This one was a chubby little man, even shorter than Tim. Still he was quite solemn, and he did have a black suit and shiny black shoes. He said to my dad "Good morning Mister Farley, your boat seems to be the only means of getting out to Mulloway Island at reasonable cost." "It is indeed, what can I do for you?" "We need to go over to the Island to bring back a deceased male person for interment." "I see. How are you proposing to carry this, er, deceased person?" asked dad. "We have a coffin with us." "A coffin with a, um, a deceased person inside must weigh a fair bit. How are you going to carry the coffin from the, er, place of deceasement back to the Island jetty?" "We have a trolley with us sir, we are very experienced in these matters." "Yes, well, come aboard then." He turned to us. "Jack! Tim! Help these gentlemen load their coffin aboard." The undertaker and his black-clad assistant produced a fold-up trolley. They slid a mahogany coffin with fancy chrome handles out of the hearse onto the trolley, and we pushed it across to Annabelle.

The trip across to the Island was routine, except that some of the passengers seemed a bit edgy with the men in black and the coffin aboard. Even the sky was unusually grey, and the smell of rain was in the air. The assistant was a fellow about my age, but his hair was already starting to go thin and brushed across his bald spot, and he was skinny, like he could do with a good feed. "How did you get into the undertaking business?" I asked him. "It's my dad's business. When I left school I couldn't find any other decent job so I took the easy way out and went in with him." "Yeh, same with me. What's it like dealing with dead bodies all the time?" "You get used to it; they're just business." "Don't you find it depressing having to be solemn all the time?" "Not all the time, I just turn it on for the customers. I go out in the evenings and get pissed just like anybody else."

We tied up to the Island pier and unloaded the coffin and the trolley. "We'll be back on our next trip in two hours. Will that be ok to pick you up again?" "That will be very suitable, thank you Mister Farley". On our next trip to the Island we saw the black-clad pair waiting in the shade, with the coffin on the trolley. I started to help them get the coffin on board again, but I saw Tim was holding back. "What's the matter with you, you lazy bastard?" "There's a dead body inside, I don't want to touch it." "Don't be such a bloody wimp," I said, a bit irritated, "come on and help." We lifted the coffin over the rail. "It's a bloody sight heavier now" I said, "must be a big fat bugger inside." The undertaker didn't even smile. "You managed alright then?" I asked. "Oh yes, but we were a little dismayed to find that it was only a dirt road round the Island. I'm afraid the coffin had a very bumpy ride to the pier." "Oh don't worry," I said, "the guy inside wouldn't have noticed." "It's not the deceased I was worried about young man, it was the wheels on my trolley."

We headed back across the river. All went well 'til we crossed the wake of a big motor launch that had just gone fast down the river. The trolley hadn't been properly tied down and as Annabelle pitched it started to roll from side to side across the deck. On the second roll the trolley hit the rail and the coffin nearly tipped over the side. "Get that damned coffin secured!" Dad yelled out. Me and the undertaker and his assistant struggled to hold the coffin still while Tim lashed the trolley to the rail. "That was a close shave" I said, "We almost had a burial at sea then. Dad's the skipper, so I suppose he would have had to read the service." "I find nothing amusing in that," said the undertaker "I'm sure the relatives of the deceased would have been extremely distressed, and my company's reputation would have been irreparably damaged. I must say I find your light-hearted attitude in such a solemn matter extremely distasteful." I went round to the wheelhouse and asked dad quietly "How much do I charge them?" "Two return tickets for the gentlemen, that's thirty-six dollars, plus twenty dollars return freight for the coffin." "What about the guy inside, five dollars one way?" "Well, true, he did have a one way trip, but since, due to your stupid negligence, he almost got lost overboard, I think we'd better take him free of charge."

******

As we were squaring up for our next mail run a long black car pulled up on the wharf, and the driver got out. He was a monster of a man with a shaved head. He looked around then opened the rear door and a short stocky man got out. They were both wearing black suits, and they both looked tough. No laughs with this pair. They came aboard Annabelle, and the short man, who seemed to be the boss, told dad they wanted to be dropped off at Zilga Marzetsky's place, and picked up again later. "Well I suppose we can manage that" dad said, "we normally come back down the other side of the river, but we could cut back across specially to pick you up." The short guy nodded curtly, but I didn't hear a 'thank you'. We set off on the mail run. "Is Zilga expecting you?" I asked. Neither replied. We tied up at Zilga's place and as I ran out the gangplank Zilga came along the jetty. "G'day Zilga. Got a right couple of jokers for you today" I said. The two men walked down the gangplank and Zilga shook hands with the boss one. They started to talk in some foreign language, and walked off towards the house. "We'll be back in about two and a half hours " dad called after them. Zilga waved his hand. "Wonder what they want?" I said to dad. "None of your business".

We went on with our normal mail run up one side of the river, then turned and came back down the other bank. At we drew level with Zilga's place we cut across to his jetty. Dad honked the foghorn and the three came out of the house. The two men in black suits came aboard, the big one now carrying a wooden box. As we backed away Zilga waved to them, but they ignored him. "Did you have a successful trip?" I asked. They ignored me. "Would you like a glass of water perhaps, or a cup of tea? How about a glass of vodka?" The boss one glowered at me. "Go away" he said. "That's twenty dollars each for your fare please" I said, "and five dollars for the box." The big guy leaned forward to put the box on the deck, and as he did so his coat bulged open a little and I saw a gun holster under his left arm. He gave me a fifty in silence and I gave him his change. "I don't know about where you come from, but in Australia it's illegal to carry guns," I said. The boss one gave me a stony look. "We have diplomatic passports. We can do what we like," he said.

At the wharf they disembarked, got back in their car, turned round and drove off. In the whole trip I hadn't heard the big guy utter a single word. I'd seen Russian mafia types on TV and those two looked exactly like them. I phoned DC John Fowler and told him about the visit of the Russian mafia to Zilga Marzetsky. "I'm sure now there's something shonky going on. The big one had a gun under his jacket but the other one said it was alright 'cos they had diplomatic passports." There was a pause at the other end. Now I'd given him something to think about! "You still haven't given me any evidence of anything illegal. Still the diplomatic passports are interesting. What were their names?" "Dunno. They didn't tell us." "What was the registration number of their car?" I could have kicked myself; I hadn't written it down. "Sorry, I didn't get it." "Pity. Well leave it with me Jack." Jack! That was the first time he'd called me that.

******

Next morning the 'Lady Pelican' came into the harbour. She's a very flash ferryboat that occasionally comes across Broken Bay and up the river. The skipper's a real nice bloke called Barney. The Lady Pelican is a much bigger boat than ours, two decks, painted all white, and it's got radar, and Barney can serve tea and coffee and snacks and stuff. I asked him for a job once, but he didn't seem interested. He obviously didn't realize what an asset I'd be to him. He tied up next to us on the wharf, but only one passenger came ashore. "Not much happening this morning Barney" I called across to him. "Nah, pretty quiet Jack, not worth the trouble really. Tell you what though, Johnny Blackman's going to be real mad, I saw one of his houseboats heading out into Broken Bay."

Johnny Blackman owns a boatyard up the river in Sandy Inlet, and he hires out houseboats by the day or the week. It's always a problem hiring out boats to idiots who've never handled a boat before, and don't know all the rules and regulations. They get a map with a line drawn across the mouth of the river and houseboats aren't supposed to go outside it. If they go out into Broken Bay they might get hit by big waves coming in from the ocean, and houseboats can't handle seas like that. They're likely to get swamped and sink. "I'll let Johnny know." I called across. I phoned Johnny from the phone in our office. "What did the people aboard look like?" he asked. I called across to Barney and asked if he'd noticed. "I seem to remember they looked Asian, but I didn't pass real close", he yelled back. I passed the news on and Johnny cursed. "Those bastards only hired that boat this morning. I thought they weren't listening when I told them the rules. Come to think of it their english wasn't too good neither. Bloody idiots, I wonder sometimes why I bother" "Well let's hope for the best, Johnny, there's not much wind about and it's off-shore so they may be alright."

## A little old lady came aboard that day. She had pure white hair pulled back in an old fashioned bun. She said she had old legs but her brain was still young. Tim helped her up the gangplank, and she smiled at him. As we started the trip she didn't look too good so Tim asked her if she would like some water or a cup of tea. She said a cup of tea would be nice. We've got a gas ring in the back of the wheelhouse that runs off a gas bottle, so although we don't usually serve hot drinks Tim put the kettle on specially for her. She was very grateful, and she chatted to Tim as she drank her tea, and asked all about us, who was in the family, what we all did, where we went to school, and all sorts of other nosey questions. As we tied up she went up to the wheelhouse and said to dad "What a lovely lad your Tim is. Can I adopt him?" Dad smiled. "How much will you give us for him?" "Oh I could never afford him, he's priceless." Dad nodded towards me. "How much for Jack then?" She looked me up and down like I was an old cow at the auction yard, then she said "He looks like he's got a big appetite. You'd probably have to pay me to take him away." She walked off down the gangplank, chuckling to herself, and bloody dad laughed too. "Old bat" I said, "she probably just wanted to fatten Tim up, ready for the oven."

It was about that time that Tim started going out with Rosie, the checkout girl from the supermarket. Tim's not very tall and Rosie was even shorter. I couldn't find anything exciting about her at all. She had a round shiny face with no makeup, brown eyes, curly brown hair and a shapeless figure. She wore clunky black shoes and clothes that went out of fashion a hundred years ago. I couldn't think what they saw in each other, but in one way they were well matched, they were both about as exciting as a plate of cold porridge.

On the other side of the coin, on one run a woman came aboard with several suitcases. I guessed she was in her mid thirties. Obviously she'd been a good looker in her teens, well built, blue eyes, eye-popping boobs, long blonde hair pulled back in a pony-tail, good makeup, smart pants and sandals, a black top, and showing black brassiere straps. She'd obviously been to the gym a lot, and she held herself very straight as she walked up the gangplank. When I glanced at her a bit closer I could see her makeup was covering up the damage of too much time spent sunbaking on the beach. When I collected her fare she looked me up and down, then said in a husky voice "Hi, I'm Marilyn. What's your name?" "Jack" "Jack! Pleased to meet you! You're a good-looking fellow! Do you work on this boat all the time?" "Yeh, I'm just doing it 'til I can find something better." She gave me a big smile, with a row of white teeth that were a great advert for her dentist. "I've just rented a cosy little place on the island and I don't have a boat, so we'll be seeing a lot of each other in the future. I've just separated from my husband, so I'll be living alone." "Well, welcome to Mulloway Island" I said cautiously. "Not many passengers Jack." "No, it's always a bit quiet this time of day." "Why don't you come and sit down here for a bit then. I'd love to have a chat and you can tell me all about yourself." Well, she didn't believe in wasting any time. She patted the seat beside her. Yeh, the next move would be to slide up a little closer, and then her thigh would be rubbing up against mine. That's the trouble with being a good-looking hunk like me. "Sorry lady but I've got more work to do before we tie up."

I couldn't think why she wanted to live on Mulloway Island; it must be the most boring place on earth. It's so quiet, no private cars allowed, people go round on bikes and golf buggies, and the only thing to do at night is watch TV, or go to the bowling club, buy a small beer, and sit feeling bored. They've all got one foot in the grave if you ask me. As we edged in to the Island jetty Marylin gave me a piece of paper with an address and phone number on it. "Why don't you drop in for a drink one evening soon?" She gave me her sexiest smile. "Yeh, ok, thanks very much." She walked off along the gangplank, swaying her bum, which wasn't as slim as it had been. Her pants were so tight you could see the outline of her panties. Dad came over. "Good looking woman! What did she want Jack?" "Bedroom push-ups." "What?" I showed him the paper. "Bedroom push-ups, you know, sex. She'd probably want to go at it all night and then bloody well eat me for breakfast." My kid brother, Tim, had gone off carrying her suitcases along the jetty to Jim Henty's store, and he came back just then. "Here you are Tim," I said, handing him the piece of paper, "why don't you drop in on this chick one evening, Marilyn's her name. She'll certainly improve your education." Dad grabbed the paper and screwed it up. "Don't be disgusting Jack." I walked off, and I couldn't help smiling to myself.

******

Still she did get me thinking that maybe I should get my own place. Ever since I was born I've lived in dad's crappy old house, just as he's lived in it all his life too. In theory it's on the riverfront, but in fact the river is so silted up you could never get a boat in there, and it's next to a stinky mangrove swamp, which isn't the best outlook. It's an ancient house, tin roof, timber cladding, a falling-down verandah and wonky floors. The single bathroom with its single toilet is always causing traffic problems, especially when I want to have a long soak in the shower. The plumbing and electrical bits are old and some are broken. We aren't even on a sewer system, a smelly truck comes along once a week and pumps out our septic tank. Dad said he might get some renovations done, but I told him it would be cheaper and better to knock the house down and get a new one built. He could have an en-suite bathroom off the master bedroom. That made him think. I told mum she could have a brand new kitchen instead of the clapped out one she's got now. That made _her_ think.

I know it's very convenient living at home and having mum cooking my meals and doing the housework and the washing, and I do have my own room, but I can hardly invite a girl there. Mum would be casting an eye over her, wanting to know who she was and were we serious. Mum would never understand that we just wanted to screw all night. In her younger days girls didn't do that sort of thing before they were married. If I had my own pad I could have a girl to stay the night as often as I wanted. I really must find out how much it would cost to rent a place. I could do it all up with posters of rock bands and racing cars. I could have a fridge for the drinks, and I could mix expensive cocktails to impress the girls, and get them pissed. I could have a really powerful hi-fi, and a big bed with black silk sheets for the action. I'd have to learn to cook a bit, but I expect I could still take my washing home to mum.

Our town has only got one lousy pub, the Hawkesbury Arms. It's been tarted up a bit but it's still basically a beer and spit place, with nowhere comfortable to sit. If you order anything more unusual than a gin and orange the barmaid has to look it up in a book of cocktails. I hate to say it but there's not much class in this town. Mind you there is a very flash restaurant up the river a bit. It's got no access by road, so customers usually go there by boat, or they can hire a seaplane from Sydney that lands on the river and drops them off directly on the restaurant jetty. I'm told it's very popular with salesmen who want to impress overseas clients. Mind you I've never eaten there myself, you'd probably have to hand over a week's wages to the headwaiter just as a tip. Maybe one day I'll be rich enough to try it out. Meanwhile I keep trying to think up ways of making a bit of extra money on the side. One time I asked dad if I could sell souvenirs to the tourists on Annabelle. I decided to start out selling postcards, so I got a mate of mine who's got a good camera, to take photos of Annabelle moored at the wharf and coming in to the pier on the Island. Then we borrowed Lizzie and went out early one morning and took photos of Annabelle cruising up the river. The photos were really good, even dad was impressed, but then I found out about how you have to print things in big quantities. Printers aren't interested in printing twenties and fifties; they want to do hundreds or thousands. In the end the whole project fizzled out when I decided the little bit of profit wasn't worth the effort, especially when dad told me I'd have to pay tax on the profit if the tax office found out about it.

Another time I suggested to dad that we could get extra passengers by rigging a string of coloured lights from the masthead to the stern, like the tour boats in Sydney Harbour have. "Don't be daft" he said, "the only time we sail in the dark is in winter when the days are shorter. Who's going to want to go for a trip on a cold winter's night?" "Oh I dunno, we might get parties to hire Annabelle on summer evenings. That's what the Sydney tour boats do." "We don't have a liquor license. Anyway we're working twelve hours a day as it is. I don't want to start working all night as well". I asked Tim if we could rig a string of lights from the masthead. "Does dad know about it?" "Oh yes, he's ok with the idea." Tim had a word with the electrician in the boatyard. Turned out we could run extra lights on our generator if we used low power bulbs. We rigged the lights when dad wasn't around, and at first he didn't even notice till it got dark that evening and he switched on the navigation lights. Tim switched on the coloured lights too. We were all lit up like a Christmas tree. Annabelle looked very cool. "What the hell's going on?" dad asked. "Oh, a little experiment in sales promotion dad." Dad didn't say any more that day, but a couple of weeks later he said, " Your lights are all very pretty Jack, but I don't see any extra money in the cash box yet." "Well perhaps we should get a liquor license then and start running trips like I said. I don't mind being barman." I was thinking of the tips coming my way. "Forget it Jack. I don't want to be taking bunches of drunks up and down the river when I could be home in bed." Miserable old sod.

I had a bit of bother one day with a guy who fancied himself in the muscle department. He came on board at the Island and I guessed he'd been labouring out there on a building job. He was wearing worn boots, filthy jeans and a torn dark blue singlet. His head was shaved, and his arms had so many tattoos there was hardly any unused space left. He hadn't showered for several days, and trotting behind him was an ugly-looking dog, a bull terrier of some sort, which smelt almost as bad as he did. He was obviously trying to impress on everyone what a tough guy he was, but I could see he had a weak face. I reckoned that inside he was as soft as jelly. He came aboard and sat down. The other passengers looked at him and sniffed, then got up and moved away. A few minutes later I went round collecting the fares. "Like your aftershave mate." "What bloody aftershave?" "Oh, I thought I could smell 'Eau de Chien'" He glowered at me, suspecting I was taking the piss out of him. "Six bucks for you and one for the dog" I said. "A dollar for a bloody dog? You must be joking!" "The fare for a dog is one dollar, whether you like it or not" I said. "Well I don't like it, so fuck off" The other passengers looked alarmed.

Now if anyone tries to get tough with me I don't believe in backing away. I took half a step towards him, and he jumped to his feet. "How would you like my dog to have a piece of your ass?" he snarled in his toughest voice. Just then Tim came up behind me holding a twelve-inch spanner, and the guy sneered at him too. I guess I started to lose my rag just about then. I looked down at the dog, who was sitting there just looking stupid. I grabbed te dog by the collar and tail and heaved him overboard. "No fare no ride" I said, "He can swim the rest of the bloody way". "I don't know if he can swim" said the guy, suddenly all feeble. "Don't worry mate, all dogs can swim". I knew we weren't far from land, but when I looked back the dopey dog was swimming after Annabelle instead of making for the riverbank. "Looks like he's too stupid to head for shore" I said," maybe he'll drown after all." The guy half choked out "I'll get you for this." He ripped off his boots and dived overboard to rescue his dog. "There" I said to Tim "he wasn't so tough after all". Tim looked like he was about to burst into tears. "That poor dog. What a bastard you are." After we tied up at the wharf dad asked what all the fuss had been about. Tim filled him in, and dad was pretty mad with me. "It's about time you learned to control that temper of yours Jack, and it's about time you learned a little diplomacy too. Violence only leads to more violence." Yeh, yeh, I'd heard it all before. I thought I'd handled the situation pretty well.

Half an hour later the guy came striding along the wharf, dripping wet, bare foot, mad as hell, and obviously out for revenge. His wet dog came trotting along behind him. "Here comes trouble" said Tim, and went to fetch his spanner again. The guy started to march up the gangplank, but dad suddenly appeared and barred his way. "We don't want any more trouble from you mate" he said, "why don't you just go home". He held out the guy's boots. The guy had no room to maneuver on the narrow gangplank, the dog was stuck behind him, and dad can look quite tough when he wants to. He stepped back a little, and grabbed his boots. "I could have drowned" he said, "I'm going to get some of my bloody mates and come and sort out you fuckers." "Yeh. I'm sure they'll get a good laugh when they hear how your fierce dog got chucked overboard". Dad reached in his back pocket for his wallet and held out a ten-dollar note. "Here, go along to the pub and have a beer on me." The guy snatched the note, tore it up, threw the pieces into the water, and took off. "At least you smell a bit better after your swim" I called after him. "Shut up Jack, you've had enough to say already. Now you've seen what a little diplomacy can do and I'm going to take my ten dollars out of your wages to help you remember it in future."

******

That evening I was half asleep watching the late night news on television when there was an item about three very valuable paintings stolen from a Sydney art gallery. The announcer said the paintings had been cut from the frames so they could be rolled up and concealed more easily. Next day we delivered three large cardboard tubes to Zilga. As soon as I had a chance I got on the phone to Detective Constable John Fowler again. "G'day John," I said, "It's Jack Farley." "Hullo Jack, what can I do for you?" "I'm phoning about those three paintings that were pinched, have you found 'em yet?" "No, as a matter of fact we've found no trace of them so far. D'you know anything about them?" "Is there any reward being offered for finding 'em?" "Yes, the insurance company is offering fifteen thousand dollars reward for anyone giving information leading to the recovery of all three." Fifteen thousand dollars! What I could spend that on! "Well, I've got information. Be sure to write it down with my name on it so I get the reward." "Ok so what can you tell me?" "Well, remember I told you about the art dealer up here on the river called Zilga Marzetsky? We delivered three big cardboard tubes to him today, and I bet the paintings you're looking for were rolled up inside them." "How d'you know it was the stolen paintings?" "Well I don't, but it would be a hell of a coincidence if they were three other paintings at the same time now wouldn't it?" There was a pause. "Give me your phone number and I'll call you back." I was sure I heard a glimmer of interest in his voice.

******

Most of our passengers are very ordinary, but occasionally we get an oddball. I've always been interested in oddballs, the more oddball the better. One rainy morning for instance we had a sad little man with a droopy moustache and a bowler hat come aboard. He was wearing a black stripe suit and black and white shoes like you usually only see in old movies. I asked him what he did for a living. "I'm a comedian. I'm going to give a show at the bowling club." "A comedian eh?" I said, "Tell us a joke then." "Sure, this one will have you in stitches. What's the difference between a dog and an elephant? Don't know? If they both crap on your front lawn you can easy tell the difference." His face lit up a bit and he chuckled. "I'll tell you another one even better. What did the cockatoo say to the cow with only one back leg? Give up? He looked at the cow and said 'Where's your udder leg? Udder leg! Get it?" He started laughing out loud. I said to dad "That guy's about as funny as a toothache. Does he really get paid for telling hopeless jokes like that?" Dad was in a grumpy mood. "Yes he does Jack, so maybe you're in the wrong job." Just then Annabelle ran into a patch of rough water, and she started to do a bit of rocking and rolling. Next thing I saw the comedian leaning over the rail, telling colorful jokes to the fishes. That sure wiped the smile off his face.

We're lucky our river is usually pretty calm, so we rarely have trouble with a passenger getting seasick, although we sometimes get school kids that have got hideously drunk and want to spew. From my years of observation I reckon there are two classes of seasick passengers, those that are genuinely seasick and those that imagine they are. Some dopey people feel seasick while they're still on the wharf, just from looking at Annabelle. You can always tell when passengers are about to spew; they go white and start to yawn. At that point I steer them to the downwind rail so they can heave their guts into the river. It's a technical point, but you never take them to the upwind rail, because, as the Chinese say, 'He who vomits into the wind gets his own back'. We do have a small marine toilet down in the bows but I don't advertise the fact. If guys knew it was there they'd use it just out of curiosity, and if Annabelle rolled they might miss. Tim has the job of cleaning out the toilet. He tried to say once that we should take it in turns, but I pointed out that I was first mate, and you couldn't expect a first mate to do cleaning jobs like that, it was a job for the crew, namely him. Dopey Tim swallowed what I said; good job he didn't check with dad. Anyway I'm buggered if I'm going to clean up peoples' vomit and other nasties.

We had a bit of fun on the very next trip. A passenger called Phil wanted us to take a pig out to the Island. Nothing unusual about that, we do occasionally carry small livestock. He had the pig in a carry cage like you use to carry a big dog. It was a smallish pink pig but it had ugly yellow tusks sticking up from its bottom jaw. "Isn't he a handsome pig Jack?" asked Phil, "He's got a long line of prize-winning ancestors you know." "The only way I like to see pigs is on a tray of bacon at the butchers." "You've got no appreciation of first class breeding." All went well until half way across when a little kid started messing around with the pig and it got out and went racing round the afterdeck, with Phil and Tim and some of the passengers after it. I've never heard so much squealing. "Come on Jack, help us catch the little bugger" said Tim. I waited very calmly until exactly the right moment, then I fell on the animal, pinning it against the rail, with my arm round its neck in a headlock. It twisted and kicked and squealed and wriggled, but it couldn't get away and it couldn't bite me neither. Phil rushed to get the cage, and we pushed and shoved the pig in. "That was a pretty clever move Jack" he said. I smiled at him. "I learnt it watching World Wrestling on TV."

******

Next day we were running down the river when we spotted Johnny Blackman's straying houseboat, the one that Barney had seen going out into Broken Bay. It was coming back upstream, safe and sound after all. Half an hour later, we saw the same houseboat stuck fast in the middle of one of Bill Evans' oyster beds. Oyster beds have white marker posts around the outsides, but the dickheads steering the boat had gone on the wrong side of the posts, straight into the oyster bed, making a bloody great hole in the wire netting and a real mess of the oyster trays. They were trying to back out, but they had absolutely no idea what they were doing. Dad took Annabelle over to have a look. There was a crowd of Asian-looking guys on board, all waving their arms and jabbering away in some foreign language. Dad called across to them "Need help?" One of them pointed over towards the harbour. "Take us there, please." Dad maneuvered Annabelle as close as he could get and we tied up to a marker pole.

We launched the life raft, and me and Tim paddled through the hole in the netting. Ten Asians climbed into the raft carrying heaps of suitcases and bundles tied up in cloth, and there were more trying to climb in after them. "No more" I said, holding up a hand, "we'll come back again". The geezer who spoke English and seemed to be the boss said something to the others, and they all calmed down. Me and Tim made three trips backwards and forwards, and transferred twenty-six all told onto Annabelle. They were mostly men, but there were some women, and two kids. I noticed the women had to wait till last. Seeing them up close they looked like Afghans or Pakistanis or something, and they all smelt bloody strange. I've heard that comes from eating curry all the time. We headed back to the harbour. "How much do I charge 'em dad?'" Dad smiled. "Well they've had half a ferry trip, so I reckon five dollars each is fair." As we tied up I ran out the gangplank and said to the man who spoke English "Five dollars each please, that's a hundred and forty dollars all together, near enough." One of the men tried to push past me, but I barred the way. I saw a glint of steel, but then the leader said something, and gave me three fifty-dollar bills and I gave him ten bucks change.

"How we go Sydney?" asked the leader. "You want to go to Sydney? Take the bloody train. There's the station, over there." I pointed the way. Dad said "What about your houseboat?" They pretended they didn't understand and hurried off towards the station, loaded up with their baggage; or at least the women seemed to be carrying most of it. I dropped a hundred and thirty dollars fare into the cash box and put the ten dollars excess into my pocket. Well they say opportunity never knocks twice. Tim said "What the hell were all those people doing on one house boat? That size boat is only supposed to carry six." "Search me." "There's something very strange about that lot" I said to dad. "You can say that again. Might be an idea to let the cops know." "Yeh. I'll do that." I went into the office and dialed the emergency number. "... and when I asked for the fare one of them started to pull a knife," I said into the phone. "Yes, right, we'll come now," said the cops. Yes, right, we used to have our own police station here in town but in one of those government 'better efficiency' drives our station got closed down. Now the nearest cops are stationed miles away, and it takes 'em at least half an hour to get here, so I knew by the time they arrived the Asians would be long gone.

Next I phoned Johnny Blackman who owned the houseboat. "Hi Johnny, mate, I've got good news and bad news for you. You know that houseboat you leased to the Asians? Well the good news is it didn't sink out in Broken Bay after all, it came back up the river this morning. The bad news is it's now stuck in the middle of one of Bill Evan's oyster beds, and the Pakis' have all 'opped it." Some rude words came out of the phone. "Well never mind Johnny, your boat didn't look too bad, but the paintwork'll need a bit of touching up. All you have to do now is haul it out of the oyster bed. Why d'you allow so many people aboard?" "What do you mean?" "Well there were twenty six on board. That size houseboat is only supposed to carry six ain't it?" "Twenty-six? There were only two of the bastards when they left here!"

I kept my greatest pleasure till last. Bill Evans the oyster farmer is a real pig-headed, bad tempered old bastard, and I don't just dislike him, I hate him. I gave him a call. "Bill my friend, this is Jack Farley here, nice to talk to you again! Listen, I've got wonderful news for you, one of Johnny Blackman's houseboats is sitting smack in the middle of your oyster bed downstream from the railway bridge. It's made a nice old mess of the netting, and your trays are all bashed up. Better get out there quick before the fish get in and start eating all your bloody oysters." Some extremely vulgar words came out of the phone, one or two I'd never heard before, and he was still swearing when he shot past us along the wharf. He jumped into his workboat, and roared off down the harbour. Even dad was smiling.

In good time two coppers drove up in a white police car. The senior police constable didn't look much older than me, and his uniform looked brand new. He had a little woman constable with him that looked like she couldn't fight her way out of a paper bag yet alone arrest a violent criminal. The senior constable asked us all about the houseboat and the people on board. "I don't understand it" I said, "two Asians went out in the houseboat and twenty six came back." "Yeh?" "I bet they're illegal immigrants being smuggled into Australia. I bet the houseboat picked up all the others from a ship out in Broken Bay, and if they hadn't got stuck in the oyster bed they'd have been dropped off here and caught the train into Sydney, and you guys wouldn't have been any the wiser." He looked at me a bit irritated. "How long is it since they left here?" I looked at my watch. "Well they caught the train forty minutes ago, so they'll get to Central Station in about half an hour." "If we're quick we can round them up when they get off the train. I'll call in straight away."

They hurried round to their car, and had a long conversation on the radio. I strolled over there to hear what happened. "Any good?" I asked "Nah, seems it's a job for the Department of Immigration, They'll look into it maybe tomorrow. They say they've got no manpower available right now, lousy federal public servants." I went back to Annabelle. "What happened?" Tim asked. "Seems like they're going to get clean away, and we bloody well helped 'em."

******

Another interesting passenger we had recently was ordinary in every way, except somehow you could sense from the alert way he looked around that he had brains. "Hi" I said to him, "My name's Jack." "Hullo Jack, pleased to meet you. I'm Arthur Bottomly." From his accent and the way he spoke I reckoned he was an Englishman, middle class. We had a chat about things, and after a bit he started to open up. It turned out he was an author. I must confess I'd never heard of him, but then I don't read much, except the sports pages and the comics. "What are you coming on this trip for?" I asked. "I'm looking around for material for my next book. I travel around a lot, keeping my eyes and ears open and a notebook in my pocket. You never know when you're going to strike lucky." "What's your book about?" "Partly about unusual people, odd people, people with an unusual talent or an unusual lifestyle."

The words 'odd people' triggered my interest. "Well you should work on Annabelle. We regularly get oddballs on board." I told him about the trio of musicians, Charlie, Bill and Puffer; I told him about Mrs. Crabtree and her chicken and lots of other folk. Arthur was making notes all the time, but I had a feeling they weren't really what he was looking for. I pointed out the Trevithick's place we were just passing. It's a creepy place, a black stone wharf along the riverfront, and a few stone houses facing the river, not at all like Australian houses. "What a strange place" said Arthur, "it looks a bit like some of the little fishing villages I've seen in Cornwall." "Well," I said, "It all belongs to one family, the Trevithicks, and I seem to remember they had an ancestor that came from Cornwall. The whole family lives there together. They're a strange bunch, always keep themselves to themselves." The houses are huddled up against a steep part of the riverbank and facing south so they never get any sun. They always look cold, bleak and damp. "What do they do for a living?" asked Arthur. "Dunno, I've often wondered." "Maybe they're smugglers, like the fishermen in Cornwall often were." "Maybe, but I don't know where they'd smuggle from. It's a hell of a long way to any other country from here. No, I think they're more likely to be pirates." I loved the thought of the Trevithicks sailing down the river, waving swords and flying the Skull and Crossbones.

Soon after that we passed the little creek that runs down through the mangroves from Blackman's Swamp. "Now over there up that creek," I said pointing, "is a _very_ odd guy, Bill Campbell. He's a recluse, a hermit almost. He lives in there by himself and hardly ever comes out." "By golly I'd like to meet him. Perhaps I could hire a boat and go and see him." "No way, you'd never find your way in, it's almost a secret passage, and if you did get in he'd just tell you to bugger off." "Well perhaps you could take me then. I'd be happy to pay your expenses." I thought about it. It would be an interesting day. I hadn't set eyes on Bill for many years, and the thought of seeing where he lived intrigued me. I could get time off from dad and I could borrow Lizzie for the day. I wondered how much I could charge Arthur. He didn't look too flush with cash. "Ok" I said, "I'll take you tomorrow. A hundred dollars for the boat and one fifty for my time." "Make it an even two hundred and you've got a deal." "Done." "Splendid." We shook hands. I was very happy with the deal since it wouldn't cost me a cent, and it was fifty dollars more than I was expecting. "Meet me at the wharf tomorrow morning, eight o'clock sharp. Buy some supplies for Bill to encourage him to be friendly; tea, sugar, flour, salt, matches and stuff like that, and a few bottles of beer too. I'll bring a cold bag to keep the beer cold. Oh and wear old clothes." "My, this is starting to sound quite exciting."

The next morning was just about perfect, slightly chilly, with wispy clouds, a gentle easterly breeze with a smell of salt and seaweed, and a slight chop on the water. I met Arthur at the wharf, we climbed into Lizzie, and I went full throttle up the river. I'm not sure if Arthur enjoyed that bit, but I sure as hell did! I slowed down to find the entrance to the creek and steered in. The creek was narrow and hard to follow. The mangroves pressed in on us, dark green and twisted, and we had to push our way through in places. It was quite cold in the shadows under the mangrove, and there was the usual rotting smell from the mud under the mangrove roots. Suddenly at the back of the mangroves the creek went shallow and opened out into a clear space with a patch of wiry grass on the bank and a pile of rusting corrugated iron and old doors that was Bill Campbell's shack. A wisp of smoke twisted up from the rough stone chimney. An old wooden rowboat was pulled up on the grass, all patched and mended and peeling paint. Lizzie touched sandy bottom and I stepped over the side and pulled her in as far as I could. "You'll have to paddle a bit" I said to Arthur. He took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers and stepped into the water. "My goodness, this is the first paddle I've had in years." "Just watch out for the crabs" I said. That made him step lively.

Bill Campbell the hermit came out of his shack. He had bare muddy feet, tattered old trousers and the remains of a blue singlet. His long grey hair hung down his back, and he had a straggly grey beard, watery eyes and only one tooth. Arthur looked at him with interest. "Who are you?" said Bill in a high croaky voice, "Go away, you got no rights coming 'ere." "You know me Bill, I'm Jack Farley. You've known my dad Ted for forty years haven't you? We've brought you some stuff to cheer you up." I held out the cardboard box, so he could see the food inside. He looked at it a bit suspiciously then took it. "Who's he?" he asked, pointing with his nose at Arthur, "Is he from the govermint?" "Oh he's a mate of mine. Don't worry about him, he's all right." "Why're you givin' me this tucker?" he asked suspiciously. "Just thought you might like it. Why don't you put the billy on and we'll all have a mug of tea." "Only got one mug, mine." "Well how about a bottle of beer then?" I pulled three bottles out of the cold bag. "Don't mind if I do" said Bill, relaxing a bit.

We sat down on a log. "Do you live here all alone?" asked Arthur. "Yeh, and I don't like visitors botherin' me, in fact I don't like visitors at all." "Oh well, we just dropped in to give you the groceries in the box. How long have you lived here?" "Dunno. Must be close on fifteen years. Don't even know what month it is any more". "You seem pretty healthy, what do you live on?" "Fish, I eat lots of fish, bream, flathead, mullet, prawns, yabbies, mudcrabs, eels, lots of eels in the creeks around 'ere. Nobody eats 'em these days. They're the best flesh if you know how to skin 'em, and of course you 'ave to catch 'em first, they're pretty crafty." "Do you catch elvers?" asked Arthur. Bill suddenly became more interested in talking to him. "Don't 'ave an elver net. Anyway I can't be bothered. They only run when the tide's comin' in and the moon's full, so you 'ave to stay up half the night, then when you've caught 'em they're so little they're fiddly to fry."

"What are elvers?" I asked. Arthur answered. "Baby eels that come in from the ocean in springtime and migrate up rivers and creeks to grow into adult eels." "'Ow come a city bloke like you knows about elvers?" asked Bill. "When I was a lad I lived near the River Severn in England. Tons of elvers came up the river each spring, and fishermen used to catch them by the bucket full and export them live to eel farms in Germany for growing into adults. They eat lots of eels in Germany and France, but not in England for some reason." "Don't know what they're missing then" said Bill. "I used to eat eels when I was a lad" said Arthur, a bit wistfully, "and I still do when I can get them." Bill got up and went into the shack. "''Ere", he said, "it's a nice big eel I smoked meself. You won't find that in your fancy supermarkets." "Why that's very generous of you Bill, thank you very much."

We drank our beer in silence for a bit, and I could see Arthur glancing round the place. "I see you grow vegetables too." "Yeh, a few, beans, carrots, corn, onions, pumpkin, sweet potato, and I get native fruit from the bush. You can live in the bush ok if you know 'ow. I catch a rabbit or a wallaby now and then, or a pigeon." "D'you catch possums?" "You can't eat bloody possums, They taste 'orrible." "You must have plenty of time to think about things Bill, living here all alone. Do you ever ponder the meaning of life and all that sort of thing?" Bill said wearily "What d'you think I am, a bloody philosopher or somethin'?" I could see he was starting to tire of our company.

"Come on Arthur," I said, "we'd better leave before the tide drops too much or we'll get stuck here." Bill cackled with delight at the thought of that. "See you Bill!" I called out, but he'd already turned and gone back into his shack. We paddled out to Lizzie and threaded our way back through the mangroves to the river. "Pity we had to leave so soon" said Arthur. "I wanted to ask him so many more questions. When can we come again?" "You were starting to outlive your welcome" I said. "He might talk to you in another year or two. Still he gave you a smoked eel so he must think you're all right. He wouldn't do that for many people"

On the trip home I started to pick Arthur's brains about writing books. Perhaps I could write one. "Do authors make much money?" "No. A few successful ones make a lot, but most don't" "How do you write a book?" "Well you have to decide what you want to write about, then you have to collect your material. Some authors travel the world doing that. Somerset Maugham for instance wrote a great many books and plays, and he spent a good part of his life travelling the world. He even came here to Australia." "Did he like it here?" "No, not very much. Still I think he must have been a sour sort of man, I don't think he liked anywhere or anybody very much. Other authors just head for the nearest reference library and find all their material there. Then comes the hard work. You have to sit down for at least four hours a day for months or years and write." I decided that perhaps I wasn't cut out to be an author after all, even though I would probably be one of the famous ones and make lots of money.

When we got back to the wharf Arthur gave me a couple of hundred dollar notes. I glanced round to make sure dad or Tim weren't watching, and put the notes in my wallet. "Thank you very much for your help Jack, It's been a most interesting day." "No worries Arthur, any time." As he walked off dad came over from Annabelle. "What's that he's carrying?" dad asked. "A smoked eel." "What?" "A smoked eel. It's a long story, I'll tell it to you some time. Right now I'm gasping for a beer, can I shout you one?" The two hundred bucks was burning a hole in my pocket.

******

Next day we were just coming in from a ferry run when we saw two police cars round by the police boatshed. A man in a dark suit came round to our wharf and along the gangplank. He had a long-sleeved white shirt with gold cufflinks, a blue striped tie, rimless glasses, and a good haircut, brushed back. "Is one of you Jack Farley?" "That's me." "Oh hullo Jack, I'm Detective Constable Fowler from the fine arts felony squad." He looked more like a businessman than a copper. "You phoned me about the stolen paintings? I want you to show us on the river chart exactly where Zilga Marzetsky lives." "Are you going to arrest him and get the paintings back?" I asked, very excited. "Well not quite. When we asked Interpol about him they told us about several large sales he made recently to people with possible criminal backgrounds in Poland and Russia. The sales might be quite legitimate or they might not. He might or might not be tied up with drug payments or money laundering or half a dozen other illegal activities, or he might be completely straight. We're just going up there now to ask him a few questions and to take a look round."

John had organized the local police to run him up to Zilga's place in the launch they keep in a boatshed next to the marina. It's a fairly fast piece of machinery, when it's working. "I'll tell you what I'll do John," I said, "I'll come with you if you like. I know all the navigation hazards of the river, and it's a bit tricky getting in to Zilga's jetty." DC Fowler looked at me a bit doubtful, then said "All right. Come on then." "I'll meet you round at your boatshed in a minute" I said. Dad asked "What the hell's going on now Jack?". I told him all about my detective work and my passing valuable information on to the police and how I was going to get fifteen thousand dollars reward. "Well I wouldn't count my chickens yet if I was you, I don't like the sound of it at all." Bloody dad, he never did have any faith in my brains.

Round at the boatshed I told John that since I knew the river so well, and since it was so tricky getting in to Marzetsky's jetty, perhaps I should take the helm but he said no, the launch could only be handled by qualified police personnel. I told him about the time Tim piloted it over to Whitebait Bay for DC Greg Bennett when none of the cops knew how to handle a launch. He almost weakened, but then said no, I'd just have to tell their helmsman the best course to take. I helped them put their boat in the water and we started up the river. Their launch is pretty far out, it would run rings round Lizzie, but all the time I was itching to take the wheel.

When we got to Marzetsky's place I pointed out his jetty. Jack told me to wait in the launch while he went ashore with another constable. I saw him knock on the door and when Marzetsky answered he flashed his badge and went inside. Their helmsman was still with me on the launch. "They'll probably be at least an hour" he said. "I think there's some beer in the ice box, but keep your mouth shut about it." He came back with two cold bottles, only low alcohol beer, but still, it was better than nothing. We sat very comfortably in the launch drinking our ice-cold beer and looking out across the river. "This is nice," I said. "perhaps I should join the police force." "It's not all this easy mate." Eventually John came out of the house, empty-handed and not smiling. "What happened?" I asked him, very excited. "Mister Marzetsky turned out to be a straight-forward, perfectly legitimate dealer. He's got documentation and receipts for everything he's bought and sold for the past three years." "What about the three paintings in the cardboard tubes, did you see those?" "Yes we did. They aren't the one's we're looking for. They were three paintings he'd just bought from a collector in Melbourne." "So I don't get any reward then." "No."

When we got back to the harbour John got back into his car. "Sorry you had a wasted trip" I said. He looked at me very coldly, straight in the eye. "Please don't phone me with any more 'information' about Mister Marzetsky. You made us look a right bunch of idiots." I didn't know at the time but Tim had come round to hear the news, and he overheard the conversation. I walked back round to our wharf and tried to avoid dad, but he soon cornered me in the office. "So do you get your fifteen thousand?" he asked. I had to tell him the raid had been a waste of time. "And what did the detective constable have to say about that?" "Oh nothing much, he just thanked me for being so helpful to the police, and said he was sorry I wouldn't be getting the reward I deserved." "You flaming liar!" Tim said quietly, "He said you made the police look like a right bunch of mugs, and would you stop bothering him about Mr. Marzetsky in future." Dad looked at me, a bit angry. "Well that'll teach you to mind your own god-damned business in future."

Part Three, TIM

My father owns the 'Lady Annabelle' and I'm his youngest son, Tim. Dad operates ferry trips and a mail run on the lovely Hawkesbury River. The Lady Annabelle is a beautiful old timber boat, almost historic really. Dad is ferry master and I take care of the maintenance and look after her diesel engine. When I look at the jobs of other blokes I realize what a good life I have, even though we work all hours, seven days a week. I love the river, with the changing seasons, the changing sky bringing changing colors to the water, the varying wind bringing different smells, the tide drifting endlessly in and out, the birds circling, the passengers coming aboard and saying g'day, and Annabelle always chugging quietly along.

We were walking past the shops recently when we saw Reg, the local real estate agent. Dad said, "G'day Reg, how's business?" Reg looked round. "Oh, about average Ted, although I've just got a lease signed for the old boat yard over at Bob's Point. Didn't think I'd ever rent out that place." Bob's Point is where Fiddle Creek runs at an angle into the main river, ten kilometers upstream of the freeway bridge. It's a rocky ridge sticking out a bit into the river, and the old boat yard fronts into a deep pool in the mouth of the creek. " Jeez, it's been abandoned for years. Who rented it?" "Two blokes, must be artists. They wanted somewhere quiet to paint." "Quiet's the word. They'll be lucky to see anyone for weeks at a time at that place." "Well you know Ted, one man's hell is another man's heaven."

A couple of days later we saw a barge heading up-river carrying some big baulks of timber, and I noticed something odd. "I wonder what that timber's for dad?" "Probably someone is building a house up the river." "No, the timber's too short and too thick for a house." Barges are big flat-bottomed steel boats that carry heavy stuff like building materials and furniture out to the Island and other places along the river, and some of them have cranes to lift loads on and off. Most barges are owned and operated by men, but this one was owned by a very tough woman called Jessie. She's got the big shoulders and the calf muscles of a wrestler, and she always wears a blue singlet, work shorts and boots. I don't think too many blokes would want to tangle with her! When I saw Jessie again I asked her who the timber was for. "Well you're a nosey little bugger aren't you! As a matter of fact it was for the two guys that rented the old boatyard over at Bob's Point. I suppose they want to repair the slipway." "Repair the slipway? Reg in the real estate office told us they were painters." "Search me, perhaps he got it a bit wrong, perhaps they're going to paint boats, not pictures. They looked pretty sleazy to me. I insisted on cash up front."

Next time we passed Bob's Point I borrowed dad's binoculars to see what was going on. "Jessie was right dad. They're building a cradle for deep keel yachts." Cradles are things that boat yards use on their slipways. The cradle runs down a sort of railway track into the water, then at high tide you can float a cruiser or a yacht into the cradle, and winch it up the rails into the boat yard for repairs. I took another look again later. "Hey dad, they've got the slipway working now. Look, they've winched up a small ketch."

On that trip we had a clergyman aboard. He was a short man with a black suit and dog collar, curly white hair and a sunny smile. If he'd been Irish he could have been a character on TV. I saw that the toes of his shoes were badly rubbed, so he must have been doing a lot of praying on his knees.. As we passed Deepwater Inlet he saw the chapel on the little island in the middle of the inlet. "That seems a very odd place to have built a House of the Lord." he said. I took him round to the wheelhouse to talk to dad. Dad knows all about the history of the river. "Dad" I said, "the Father is wondering why that chapel was built on such a little island?" Dad smiled. "It's a tale of rivalry. At one time there were two congregations on opposite sides of the inlet and they each wanted the chapel built on their side. After a long argument they built it on that island, half way between. That way nobody was happy." The clergyman chuckled "Well that must be a unique compromise." "Oh I don't know" dad said, "in the days of setting up Australia as a nation, Sydney and Melbourne both wanted to be Capital of Australia. In the end they picked an empty valley half way between, and that's where they built a brand new capital city, Canberra. It's pretty much the same thing but on a bigger scale. I've heard a lot of people aren't too happy with _that_ compromise either." "Bless you my friend", said the clergyman, laughing, "You've certainly enlightened my day." I like it when dad tells people things like that. It makes him seem important somehow.

Two days later we passed Bob's Point and the old boatyard again. "Hey look dad, they've painted that ketch white and emerald green. Remember it was ocean blue before? Go in closer, I want to take a good look." "Don't be so nosey." "Well think about it dad, other boat yards on the river are scratching around for work, and these two guys fix up an old yard and straight away they get a nice paint job. How did they get the work so fast?" "Maybe they've got good connections."

Two days later the ketch was gone. "They must be doing a _really_ lousy paint job," I said to Jack, "You have to go flat out to put on just one coat of paint a day, and that's with no scraping back and patching. A decent paint job with patching and undercoats and top coats takes almost two weeks" So that was that, except that soon a sloop was up on the slips being painted. Since the old boat yard seemed to be so busy I wondered if I might get a job over there as a break from working on Annabelle. Dad and Jack could easily manage on their own for a bit. I spoke to dad about it. "Sure", he said," you could do with a change, and it'll be good for your experience."

Next day I borrowed Lizzie, dad's runabout, and went up to Bob's Point. As soon as I tied up two men came over and shouted at me to push off, in a very aggressive way. They looked pretty rough types. "Hold on," I said, "I noticed you had a few paint jobs coming in and I wondered if you needed a painter. "They looked me up and down in silence, then they moved away and talked quietly together so I couldn't hear. "What's your name?" "Tim Farley" "Where you from?" "Over in town. My dad's skipper of the riverboat, the Lady Annabelle. I'm crewing for him at present. You've probably seen us going past." "Had any experience?" "Sure, I've worked casual in the boatyard in town on and off ever since I was a kid. I've done boat painting before, and I'm pretty good with mechanical repairs." They moved away and talked together again. 'We'll give you a trial, fifteen dollars an hour. Start tomorrow at eight. Bring your own tools and overalls." "Thanks very much. See you tomorrow at eight then." They didn't reply, so I headed off in Lizzie.

I had most of the day left with nothing to do. Luckily I had my fishing gear in the boat and the tide was about right, so I headed over to one of my favorite fishing spots up Moon Creek, baited my hook, and dropped the line into the water. The day was hot and humid, but I found a cool spot under an overhanging tree, and here I could see right down through the water to the stones on the bottom. I don't often get the chance to do a little quiet fishing, so this was real luxury for me. I love sitting in the boat, watching the blue-green water drifting past and looking at the riverbank. You might think a spot like that would be quiet, but far from it, the trees and bushes are full of bird life, honeyeaters, kookaburras, magpies, butcher birds, currawongs and finches, and along the water's edge you might see cormorants, darters, gulls or pelicans fishing. I watched a big pelican come gliding in. Pelicans always make me laugh, they're graceful in the air, but they look like learner flyers when they land, with wings arched back and feet stretched forward, crashing down on the water and skidding to a halt, and they're even more awkward when they take off. When they spot someone fishing they come round to see if any fish scraps are being thrown away and often a cormorant will turn up too, but I don't mind, they're gentle friendly birds.

The middle of the day isn't the best time to fish, but after a few hours I'd reeled in a nice catch of bream, which are pretty good eating. I threw the fish heads and guts to the pelican and headed for home. Dad was very pleased; he phoned mum and told her we were bringing home fresh fish for dinner. Jack looked at my catch. "I might take up fishing," he said. "I could buy a big fiberglass rod, yes, and one of those fisherman's jackets with all the pockets for hooks and weights and stuff, and how about a floppy hat with all the lures and badges on it!" Jack's always having these crazes to do something new, but they never last long. Several times he's decided he's not very fit and should do something about it. One time he decided he was going to ride everywhere by bike instead of going in the truck. He bought himself a posh twenty-one-speed bike, rode it for three days, and ever since it's been rusting away in the shed. Another time he thought he'd go jogging. He bought himself an expensive pair of running shoes, plus fancy togs and a sweatband; he really fancied himself with the girls. That time he only lasted two days. Still he might last longer with fishing, as most of the time you're just sitting in the boat doing nothing, and that would suit Jack. We knocked off at seven and went home to a nice dinner of fresh bream fried in lemon butter with peas and chips, followed by mum's homemade apple and blackberry pie with custard. Yum!

******

On the first day at my new job I borrowed Lizzie again and turned up at eight o'clock sharp. There was yet another yacht waiting on the slips. "What do I call you guys?" I asked. "I'm Eric," said the shorter one, "and this is Johno". Eric spoke with an Irish accent. He was a stocky man with a round shaved head and dark eyes buried in a tough face. I shook hands with him. He had soft hands, but his knuckles were hard. He wasn't a boatyard guy. Johno was different; he spoke a bit like the Beatles, Liverpool or something. He was taller than me and thin, with a scarred face and a broken nose. He was wearing industrial boots splashed with paint, and overalls that were a bit too short for him. I guessed he was the one doing most of the work.

Eric said, "Start work on that boat, and put your back into it. Paint it blue above the water line." "Ok, how many coats?" "Coats? One coat, and get it done fast!" "What about below the waterline?" "Leave it." I looked at the hull. "What about the damaged bits? Do you want them scraped back and filled?" "No. Just paint over them." "And no undercoat?" "Just one bloody top coat and get it back in the water as fast as possible." "Ok, if that's what you want, you're the boss." "Yeh, and don't you forget it. How much paint will you need?" "One coat, about three litres." He went to the workshop and brought back a can of topcoat. I got stuck into the job. I hated doing such a lousy job, but that was what I was being paid for. It took me most of the day to roll on one coat and as I was touching it up Eric came round to see what I was doing. "Stop messing around. You've finished this one. Go home." "Ok, the paint should be dry by midday tomorrow." Eric didn't say anything, just sort of glowered at me.

When I got back to the harbour I was cornered by Jessie, the tough barge skipper. "Hey Tim, I hear you got a new job over at the old boat yard." "That's right. How did you know?" "Gossip travels faster than lightning in this town son. So what's going on over there?" "They're doing quick and dirty paint jobs. Don't ask me why." "Yeh, well, make sure you get paid at the end of the week." She gave me a friendly slap on the back that made me stagger. When I got home dad and Jack wanted to know all about my day. "I hate doing such a rotten job", I said. Jack asked, "How much are they paying you?" "Fifteen bucks an hour." "Only fifteen bucks? A skilled man should get twice that. You've let 'em swindle you." "If you ever meet Eric and Johno you'll know why I'm not arguing with 'em."

Next day I got to the boatyard at eight o'clock again. The boat I'd painted was gone. The buggers hadn't even waited for the paint to dry properly. There was another sloop at anchor. "Get that one up on the slips" said Eric, nodding towards the new boat. They'd left the cradle down in the water. "You shouldn't leave the cradle in the water" I said, "it rusts up the wheels in no time." Eric scowled at me. I went out to the sloop in Lizzie, pulled up the anchor, and pushed the bow of the sloop into the cradle. "We've missed high tide, but we should still be able to get her into the cradle." I called across to Eric, "Can you help me pull her in?" Eric came over with a little reluctance. He didn't seem to fancy getting his feet wet. We managed to rock the yacht into the cradle and wedge her in. "Ok, you can winch her up the slipway now" I said. "That's your job." Eric walked away. I shrugged my shoulders and went round to switch on the winch motor. As the yacht rumbled slowly up out of the water I called to Eric "Same finish as yesterday?" "Yes." "What colour?" "Dark blue" I went round to the workshop and found a full can of Midwatch Blue topcoat. "Midwatch Blue ok Eric?" "That'll do."

This yacht was in a worse condition than the one before, but I guess that wasn't my business any more. I spent most of the day rolling paint right over the defects. Johno came over to see my progress. He seemed to be a bit friendlier than before. "You seem to know how to paint." "I'll tell you one thing," I said, "I hate doing such a rubbishy job. Half this paint will come off in a few weeks, and look at these bubbles under the paint. The fiberglass is delaminating. It needs to be repaired straight away before it gets any worse." "Doesn't matter, as long as the paint stays on long enough for us to sell it." I decided to take the plunge. "How come you're getting so many boats to paint?" He paused, and then glanced away. "We've got people buying boats in South-East Asia. We do 'em up, and sell 'em here in Australia where the price is higher." "Oh, I see," I said, but I didn't see, there were too many things didn't add up, but I kept my mouth shut, and lucky I did, because Johno said "Now stop asking questions and mind your own business."

Next day the boat I'd painted midwatch blue the day before was still there, and now there was a girl in the yard. "This is Maria", said Johno, "she's helping us clean up the cabins." "Hi Maria. I'm Tim" "Hi Tim." She smiled at me. She was a slim, dark complexioned girl, a bit taller than me and about my age. She had black eyes, long black hair pulled back, a row of white teeth when she smiled and a short red dress that showed a lot of her legs. I fetched a ladder from the workshop and helped her climb up into the cockpit, turning my head away so I wouldn't see up her dress. Johno came over. "We've been having trouble with the engine in this boat," he said. "Want me to take a look?" I said. "Think you can fix it?" "Probably." The yacht had an inboard engine. I climbed up into the cockpit and unscrewed the engine hatch. It was a conventional marine engine, very neglected. I called down to Johno "Can I have the keys please?" He threw them up to me. I tried the starter; the engine coughed a few times and stopped. I started to check a few things, then I looked in the fuel tank. "There's dirt in the fuel," I called to Johno. "It'll take me an hour or two to clean it all out." "Go ahead"

I fetched my tool kit from Lizzie and started pulling off the fuel lines and the fuel pump, cleaning out as I went. Maria was cleaning and polishing the fittings in the cabin. "You certainly seem to know what you're doing Tim." "Well I've done this job a few times before. I love doing this kind of work. I love machinery. When I was a kid a train came through town pulled by a historic old steam loco, and the stationmaster showed me a book with pictures of how the cylinders and all the valves and stuff worked. That's what really started me off. Until forty years ago all the trains on our line were pulled by steam locomotives. Wish I'd been around then, with all the hissing of steam and the steam whistles and the smell of hot oil! It's funny but when children's books tell stories about trains they still talk about the old steam trains, even though most kids have never seen one. I guess diesel and electric trains are just boring steel boxes on wheels. The nice thing about boats is they're all different and they all have their own personality." "Must be great having an interest like yours," said Maria." "So where do you fit in here? Are you just an employee?" She glanced at me shyly. "No, I'm Eric's girl friend"

Johno came over "Stop chatting. Get on with your work." Maria made a face from inside the cabin. "I'll be finished in about half an hour," I said to him, "but I'll need some clean fuel to refill the engine. Shall I go over the marina and get some?" "No, I'll fetch it. You keep working. Don't want to pay you good money for sitting on your bum in a boat." He took off in their runabout. I kept on working, reassembling the fuel system. Maria climbed out of the yacht and went into the cottage that was part of the boat yard. There was something kept niggling in my mind, something seemed familiar about the way this yacht was built. The same yacht fittings are traded all round the world, so at a quick glance you can't tell where a yacht was built. I looked over the transom at the boat's name. The name was so new you could smell the fresh paint. I looked at the maker's name on the cabin bulkhead. It gave the name of a boatyard in Singapore. While no one was around I slipped into the cabin, took off a seat cushion and lifted the lid of the locker underneath. There on the underside of the plywood was the trademark of a timber yard in West Australia. This boat wasn't built in Singapore at all, it was built here in Australia, probably somewhere around Perth. When Johno came back I filled the fuel tank and pressed the starter button. After a few coughs the engine came to life and started running smoothly. "There you are" I called to Johno, "engine's all fixed." "Good. No more work for you today. You can go home."

Next day as soon as I turned up Eric came over and said "We've decided to add a doghouse over the companionway on that boat. Do you know about boat building?" "Sure" I said, "have you got the timber?" "It's stacked up in the shed." The companionway on a yacht is a set of steps from the cabin up into the cockpit. Usually the cabin overhead is cut away so you don't bang your head as you come up the steps, but some bigger yachts instead have a raised bit of the overhead over the steps, high enough to give head room. It's called a doghouse, and I always think that's what it looks like, a dog kennel stuck on the back of the cabin trunk.

I was pretty excited about doing this job. I'd often repaired yachts but I'd never modified one before. I looked in the shed. There was some lengths of meranti and some sheets of marine plywood. Meranti isn't the best timber for the job, but it's easy to work with, and there were some tools there I could use. I climbed up into the cockpit, took some measurements, and sketched out a plan on a piece of paper I found. I showed it to Johno. "This is what I reckon." Johno glanced at it. "Looks all right. Get on with it." I worked fast all day making a framework and fixing it in place. I found some primer in the shed and brushed on a coat. By now it was getting late. " I'll have to knock off now" I called to Johno, "I'll finish it tomorrow." "No, I'll finish it. No work for you tomorrow." As I walked across to the jetty he called after me "We'll let you know when we need you again."

I didn't go home with dad and Jack that evening; I had a date with my girlfriend Rosie. I picked her up from the supermarket where she works and we hurried round to the fish co-op before they closed, to get some fish and chips, juicy flathead tails deep fried in batter. It was getting dark, and a mob of lorikeets were rocketing in to roost in the palm trees, screeching and pushing and shoving for the best places. We walked along the riverfront a bit, and we sat on a rock as it got dark, eating the fish with our fingers. I told Rosie about Maria turning up at the boatyard. "What does she look like?" I described here as best I could. "She sounds really beautiful." "Yeh, I suppose so, if you like Spanish-looking girls" People sometimes say I'm a bit slow, but even I could see a loaded question coming. "She is pretty Rosie, but in a different way to you. You attract me much more than she does." "You aren't going to ask her for a date then?" "I've already got a girl friend, and in any case she's Eric's girlfriend. Any bloke asking her for a date would be as good as cutting his own throat."

******

I've lived with mum and dad and Jack in our house on the riverbank all my life, and I've always been pretty happy. Dad's been skipper of Annabelle all that time, and mum's always looked after us. All I can remember of going to school is waiting for the bell to ring at 3.30 so we could all go home. I did my best at school, but I think dad and mum were disappointed in my reports; they never said so, but I could tell. After school I usually mucked around with my brother Jack and his gang, playing games in the bush and swimming in the river, but I was littler than them so they mostly just ignored me. When I was ten I started hanging around the boatyards, with the lovely smell of sawn wood and fresh paint, and the sound of hammering and electric motors and the yard hands joking around, and by the time I was twelve I was doing odd jobs and cleaning up for the boat builders. They didn't seem to mind me being there watching, they said I was always well behaved, not like other boys. They started showing me how to do repair jobs on the boats, and all about marine painting, and after a bit I started earning a bit of pocket money for my work. I've never been to technical college or anything, but I reckon I'm as good as a lot of the blokes that have.

Dad's always encouraged me to learn new things. He was reading the adverts in the paper one evening when he said "Here you are Tim, this should interest you, an auction of a deceased estate over at Black Mountain. There's a grandfather clock going, and it's marked 'not in working order'. I don't expect they'll get much for it. Why don't you take tomorrow off and go and bid for it? If you get it you can try and fix it up." "I don't know anything about clocks" I said. "Well here's a good chance to learn. There's a fellow up at Warrabi that's a retired clockmaker, what's his name now, Bert something. If I ask him he'll help you get started." Wow! I'd never thought about fixing a clock. "How d'you buy anything at an auction dad?" "It's pretty simple. When the auctioneer announces the clock is the next item you call out a low price to him, and if somebody else makes a higher bid than yours you call out a higher bid again. If you've made the highest bid when the bidding stops then the clock is yours. Make sure you take your money with you, because you have to pay the auctioneer straight away." It all sounded pretty complicated to me. Pity Jack couldn't come with me, he could have done the bidding for me.

Next day I went over to Black Mountain on my motorbike for the auction. I was pretty nervous. There were a lot of people there, so I didn't expect to get the clock anyway. I took a look at it. It was a bit knocked around, looked as if it had been stored in a shed somewhere. There was a door on the back with a key, so I looked in. The inside was full of cobwebs, and I could see the brass works and a big pendulum hanging down, and weights on pulleys. It looked very complicated. A fellow came over. "I'm the auctioneer today. You interested in the clock?" "Maybe. I wouldn't mind trying to fix it up. How much d'you think it'll sell for?" "In good working condition and fully restored it would probably fetch a couple of thousand, but this one's a bit of an old wreck, round about two or three hundred I would guess. Depends how many bidders there are." All I had was two hundred dollars. "I've never been to an auction before," I said. "Don't worry, I'll look out for you."

I waited as the auction got started, and saw how the bidding worked, although sometimes I couldn't see who was bidding, it all seemed to be done with a wink or a nod. Then the auctioneer said, "Lot ninety-five, one grandfather clock, Westminster chime, needs some repairs. What am I bid?" He looked at me. I summed up all my courage and said "One hundred dollars." "One hundred dollars I am bid by the gentleman at the back. Come on now, it's probably worth more than that as firewood. One hundred and twenty anyone?" Someone at the front must have nodded. "One twenty I am bid. One fifty anyone?" I put my hand up again. "One fifty I am bid at the back, two hundred anyone? It's against you sir," he said, looking at the bidder at the front. "Going, going, gone, to you sir at the back." I couldn't believe it; I'd bought the clock for a hundred and fifty dollars, and I had fifty dollars left over! I found a phone and called Nickie at the office. "Tell dad I bought the clock. Can he come and pick it up in the truck please?" After the auction I went to see the auctioneer and gave him three fifty-dollar notes. "You got a real bargain there son," he said, "if there'd been any antique dealers here today you'd have had to pay a lot more than that for it. Get it going and clean it up and you'll make a very nice profit." He gave me a business card. "Give me a call when you want to sell it." Dad and Jack turned up an hour later in the truck. "Can you carry it in the cab? It'll get too shaken about in the back." "Don't worry Tim, I'll nurse it like a new born baby "said Jack.

They took off, and I followed on my motorbike. We carried the clock into the house and stood it in the family room. Mum immediately went at it with the vacuum cleaner. "Looks a bit of an old wreck to me" said Jack, "reckon you can get it going?" "If I can't it's a hundred and fifty dollars down the drain." Next day dad phoned Bert Williams, the retired clock maker. "G'day Bert, this is Ted Farley, you know, skipper of the Lady Annabelle..... Yeh, that's right, it _is_ a long time. Anyway, my youngest son Tim's got hold of an old grandfather clock that needs a few repairs and he wants to get it going. He's real good with anything mechanical but he doesn't know where to start. I wondered if you could give him a few pointers on what to do. Yeh, sure, he could bring it to your place. Next Friday? Good. About nine o'clock then? Thanks Bert. I owe you one." Dad turned to me. "Borrow the truck next Friday and take the clock to his house. He said he'd take a look at it, as a favour to me."

After four days in my job at the old boatyard I now had nothing much to do so I went back working on Annabelle. The engine needed attention so I had plenty to do catching up with the maintenance. I went round to the ships chandlers at the marina to get a few bits and pieces. While I was at the marina I saw the owner of the boatyard next door that I'd done odd jobs for many times. "Hi Tim, hear you're learning how to paint properly over at the old boatyard." "Don't ask me about it. I'm just doing what I'm told. If it's a crappy job they want it's a crappy job they'll get, but I hate doing it." "If you wanted a proper job why didn't you ask me?" He seemed a bit hurt.

I told Jack about the arrival of Maria at the boatyard. "Here comes trouble," he said. "Why's that?" "Well haven't you noticed? In films, everything goes smoothly while it's just blokes in the story, but then a girl turns up and that's when everything starts getting buggered up. Take us for instance, me, dad, and you. We've got everything on Annabelle running real smooth, but imagine if a good looking blonde started to work with us, everything would get screwed up almost straight away, and we'd all be miserable instead of happy." I was a bit stunned. We were always so happy on Annabelle, I didn't want anything to go wrong like that.

On the mail run next day we had a well-dressed man and his smartly dressed wife aboard. She had an expensive hair-do, expensive overcoat and high-heeled boots, and she was weighed down with so many earrings, necklaces, rings and broaches it struck me that if she fell overboard she'd sink like a stone. Her husband was talking to dad through the wheelhouse door. "So what do you do for a crust?" dad asked him. "I'm a doctor, a specialist, but please don't start telling me about all your medical problems. I don't give free consultations." I told Jack about it. "Snooty bastard" he said, "I hate people like that, think they're so blood superior." Towards the end of the trip the sky went dark and the first few spits of rain came down. As the passengers disembarked it started to rain harder. Me and Jack happened to be crossing the car park when we saw the doctor with his new Mercedes sports car with a fold-down roof. He was trying to get the roof up to keep the rain out but it kept jamming half way. "Don't keep doing that" I said, "you might burn out the motor." "Do you know about cars?" he asked "Yeh, sure. Want me to take a look at it?" I felt in among the levers that unfold the roof. There was something jammed in there; it felt like a soft toy. Jack asked quietly in my ear "Can you fix it?." "No trouble." "Hold on a minute." He turned to the doctor. "Excuse me sir, that'll be forty dollars please, in advance." "Oh, I didn't realize you were going to charge me." "Sorry sir but we don't give free consultations. Don't worry though, we're only charging you the minimum professional fee." Jack gave me twenty dollars and kept the other twenty. "Shouldn't I get the forty? I did the work!" "Tim, Tim, if I'd left it to you you'd have done the job for nothing. My twenty is a kind of management fee." I had a feeling I'd just been swindled.

******

It was still raining quite heavily as we started the next ferry run, so we rigged the blue canvas awning over the passenger seats. Way out in the middle of the river we saw a woman stopped in a motorboat and waving for help. She looked a bit wet. Dad slowed down alongside her. It was a rental boat from the marina. "What's the problem?" dad asked. "The motor's stopped and I can't get it started again." "Jump in Tim and take a look, we'll leave you to it. Run the lady back to the marina afterwards." I fetched my toolbox. Jack held the motorboat steady with the boathook while I stepped in, then Annabelle pulled away.

"Hi, I'm Tim" I said. "I'm Eleanor. Thanks for helping. Do you think you can fix the motor?" "Probably." "I like your confidence." I took a look at the engine. It was a common type of four stroke that I'd worked on before. I did all the usual quick checks; spark plug, carburetor and so on, but I couldn't see anything wrong. Then I put a dipstick in the fuel tank; it was empty. "You've run out of fuel," I said, "did you rent this boat this morning?" "No, yesterday." "Did you do much running around yesterday?" "Yes, quite a lot." "Well that's it, you should have taken a spare can of petrol with you to refill the tank when you ran out." "So what do we do now?" "Don't worry, Annabelle will be back this way in about half an hour. She can give us a tow back to the wharf."

We sat there in the middle of the river in the rain, the boat rocking gently in the chop. "Gosh you're getting wet Tim. Hold on, I've got a plastic sheet in my backpack." She pulled out the sheet and we spread it over our heads, sitting close together on the thwart. Usually I'm too embarrassed to look at a girl but this time I could steal a look at Eleanor from close up while she was peering at the riverbank through her binoculars. I guessed she was in her early twenties, tan spray jacket, slacks and flat leather shoes. Her hair was brown and wavy, her glasses were rimless, and she had very little makeup. Fine rain drifted down, muffling the usual sounds of the river. In the distance a dog howled sadly as if his heart was broken. It felt very cosy under the sheet. I could smell her perfume. She turned to me and smiled. "Is that your father driving Annabelle?" "Yes, he's the skipper. What are you doing out here in a boat on your own?" "Taking photographs of birds." "Birds? Do you study them?" "Sort of. I did a B.Sc. in zoology, but I had trouble finding a job so I thought I'd try taking photos for books and calendars, and film for wildlife programs on TV. I've done alright with animals, but birds are a bit new to me." I saw she had several camera bags in the boat. "Are you interested in all birds?" "I've taken a lot of photos of birds along the river, look, I've just taken one of a pale yellow robin." I glanced at the picture on her camera screen. "That's not a pale yellow robin it's an eastern yellow robin. They're fairly common around here, but the pale yellows don't come this far south. Pale yellows are smaller than eastern yellows, and more of a pale lemon colour." "Oh, I see, I didn't know that."

We went on chatting about the birds along the river; then we got on to fish and the effects of the seasons and the tides, and I didn't feel stupid talking about these things. In no time I saw Annabelle coming back, and I stood up and waved to dad. He stopped alongside. "Can't you fix it?" he asked. "Run out of petrol. Can you give us a tow?" Jack passed me the end of a towline, I dropped a rolling hitch over the stem, and dad headed for the harbour. We tied up at the wharf and Eleanor walked round to the marina for a can of petrol. Jack looked at me with a curious look on his face. "I saw you two all snug out there under the sheet. What a girlfriend she'd make! Did you have your arm round her?" "Forget it Jack," I said, "she's much too intelligent for either of us." When Eleanor came back I refilled the petrol tank on her boat and started the engine. "Thanks Tim, I think I learned more from you in half an hour than from hours of reading books." I felt very proud of myself, but Jack had to get his piece in. "If you like you can hire Tim as a guide, only thirty bucks an hour. Pay me, I'm his booking agent." I got out my motorbike and headed home for a dry shirt.

******

We were still tied up at the wharf when an unfamiliar police launch came up the river and moored at the marina, a big ocean-going boat with radar and lots of radio aerials, and 'WATER POLICE' painted on the side. We saw the cops talking to the manager, and then the manager pointed over towards us. The cops walked round to our wharf, a sergeant and a constable in smart blue jackets and caps covered in badges. The sergeant walked with a slight limp. "I'm Sergeant McFarlane, and this is Constable Walker.. We're told you know this river pretty well." "Well Sergeant, I'm Ted Farley. I've worked on this river for over forty years, so you could say I know it quite well. What can we do for you?" "We're looking for some stolen yachts. Someone is pinching boats up around Brisbane and the Gold Coast, and they're disappearing somewhere. We're searching the rivers along the coast looking for them." The sergeant looked in his late thirties. He seemed to be a straightforward guy. He had a bushy brown moustache and sideburns, just like an old-fashioned policeman, and he had a habit of brushing his moustache left and right with his finger. Dad said, "What can we call you Sergeant?" "Angus." He pulled out some photo of the stolen boats. "Have you seen any of these?" "Well Angus, can't say I know anything about them. What about you Tim?" He passed the photographs to me and I took a look. "Yes I've seen this one," I said " 'cept it's been painted emerald green and white. I've seen this one too, but it's oyster white now. This one's midwatch blue now and it's had a doghouse added to the cabin trunk so it looks a different shape." Angus seemed a bit startled. "So where are they?" he asked. "Well you're too late to find 'em now. They've been done up by the two guys at the old boat yard over at Bob's Point, but they're not there any longer. They said they were going to sell 'em, but I don't know where"

"Where's Bob's Point?" Dad fetched a river chart from the office and pointed out the place. "Please, don't mention we told you about this." said dad, "Tim says they're a pretty rough pair. We don't want any trouble." "Two of 'em are there?" "Two blokes and a girl" I said, "but she'll give you no trouble." The cops went round to their launch and took off at high speed up the river. 'This used to be such a peaceful place" dad said, sadly, "but now the police seem to be round here all the time." The cops came back after a couple of hours. "Are you sure about what you told us?" Angus McFarlane asked me. "Sure I'm sure. I repainted a couple of the yachts myself." "Well they showed us the paperwork for every one of the yachts they've bought. Seemed to be all legal to me." He gave dad a business card. "Keep in touch with us. Anything else suspicious, give us a call."

After the cops had left Dad said to me "Are you quite sure about what you told them Tim? You have to be a bit careful about accusing other people of being criminals." "Well think about it dad. There's been several yachts turn up at that boat yard, you've seen 'em yourself, and then they've gone again. Have you seen any of 'em come up the river or go out? No! A crew must bring 'em in at night and take the repainted ones away again in the dark. They don't want anyone to see 'em coming and going! If it was a legal operation and all above board, why would they be doing that?" "Good question. Maybe you're right." "I know I'm right. They're altering 'em just enough so they won't be recognized."

Next day I wasn't sure if I had any work at the yard, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to work there anymore, but I hadn't been paid yet, so I thought I'd go over there and find out what was happening. I arrived there at eight o'clock, but as I tied up I heard Johno and Eric inside the house shouting at each other, very loud. Maria was outside, looking very worried, and she hurried over to me. "Go home Tim and stay away." "What's going on?" I said. "Don't ask, just a big fight between those two. Go home, please" "Oh, ok. What about tomorrow?" "I don't know, just go." I headed home. Dad and Jack were surprised to see me back so soon. "What happened?" asked dad. I told them about the big fight. "I told you so," said Jack "as soon as a girl gets mixed up in things trouble starts." "Well I don't know if it's anything to do with Maria." "'Course it is." "More likely it was something to do with the cops paying 'em a visit yesterday and asking questions."

I didn't really want to go back working on Annabelle that day, but then I remembered that my girl, Rosie, had never been out to Mulloway Island, even though she'd lived in the town all her life. I knew she had a day off from her job at the supermarket that day, so I phoned her at home and asked if she'd like a trip out to the Island with me. I told her Annabelle would be leaving in twenty minutes and she came round to the wharf quick as a flash and came aboard. She'd never really met dad and Jack properly, except to say "hullo". She was a bit shy at first, but dad chatted to her and soon put her at her ease. Dad had known her mum and dad for ages of course. Jack started to tell her his latest rude joke but I interrupted him. "Rosie isn't interested in that kind of joke, thank you Jack." Jack looked at me a bit annoyed, and walked off. Rosie and me landed on the Island jetty and walked along past Jim Henty's store. Jim saw us coming. "Morning Tim, who's this pretty girl then?" He knew perfectly well who she was, he was just trying to embarrass us. "Rosie, meet Jim, Jim, this is Rosie." "Going for a walk in the bushes are you? You just watch out for Tim then Rosie, he'll have your knickers off before you can blink." We hurried past. Why was everyone being so rude? "Don't take any notice of him Rosie, he's just kidding." She looked up at me with a little smile that made me melt inside.

On the Island most of the houses are built on the riverbank, with private jetties for the owners' boats sticking out into the water. There are all sorts of houses there, from simple weekender shacks to posh modern two-story brick places. A dirt road behind the houses runs right round the island in a loop. The air was cool and it was very peaceful. We walked along the road, looking at the houses and the flowers, and listening to all the birds singing. Here and there were pools of perfume from honeysuckle and orange-perfumed jasmine. Rosie put her hand into mine. Strange feelings stirred in my tummy. We turned onto a little headland that looked out across the river. "Look" I said, pointing to three godwits probing into the sand with their long curved beaks, "they're looking for worms." Rosie put her arms round my neck and kissed me. We didn't say anything; words weren't needed. We walked on and I put my arm around her waist. It felt very good. When we came back to the store we ordered milkshakes, and sat looking happily at each other. Annabelle came in on her next trip thirty minutes later. We went aboard and held hands. Jack looked at us a bit startled, as if he'd never seen me before. That evening our neighbor looked over the fence and asked if it was true Rosie and me were getting serious.

******

The next day I still didn't know if I had any more work at the boatyard, but I went over there anyway. The yacht I'd been working on was gone. The place seemed very quiet. I went ashore and called out "Hullo? Johno? Eric? Maria? Hullo?" There was no answer. I looked in the workshop but there was nobody there. I went over to the house and listened. There wasn't a sound. I summed up my courage and knocked on the door. No answer. I didn't dare try the knob. I got back into Lizzie and headed for home. Jack was intrigued when I told him about the deserted boatyard, and came up with half a dozen explanations as to what had happened, but that was anybody's guess.

I worked the next trip on Annabelle. The tide was running out fast but the wind was blowing hard the opposite way, sucking the water up into little peaks. It looked as if the whole river was covered in shark teeth. Jack nudged me and said, "Look at those two." He tipped his head towards a young couple in the stern. They were wrapped around each other, with hands going everywhere, and they gave each other a long passionate kiss. Jack walked over there. "Have you got a big kiss for me too?" The girl glared at him, "You must be joking!" "I'm not asking you dingbat, I'm asking him." The couple sat there looking a bit shocked, as Jack walked off grinning. I couldn't figure out what he was on about at the time, although I figured it out later.

Straight away we had just the opposite sort of couple come aboard. He was a skinny little man, looking very miserable, with a big straw hat, tan shorts down to his knees, and white socks up to his knees. In the gap between shorts and socks was a pair of scrawny lilywhite knees, peeping out, a little surprised at being able to see the outside world. His wife was a big beefy woman wearing a pink two-piece suit and pink hat. The husband said to Jack "We want to take a trip to the Island please." "Single or return?" "Return of course" she said in a loud sandpapery voice, "do you think we want to stay there forever?" "Don't ask me lady, I just collect the fares." The man asked Jack "Can we get lunch on the Island?" "We won't be paying good money for expensive food Cecil, I've brought our own sandwiches" she said. "Perhaps we could get a cup of coffee then dear." "You know coffee's not good for you. I've brought a flask of cold lemonade, and for heaven's sake pull your socks up." Jack said "That's eighteen dollars please." The woman pulled a purse out of her bag and thrust a twenty-dollar note at Jack. "Here, and don't think you can cheat me. That's two dollars change if you don't mind, and I don't want it all in small coins." Later we watched the woman stride off down the gangplank, with Cecil trotting along behind. "Poor bugger," Jack said to me, "his missus reminds me of a rose bush in winter." "What d'you mean?" "Ugly and very prickly."

******

All day my thoughts kept returning to the empty boatyard. What had happened to Eric and Johno and Maria? In the end I decided to go back over there again to see if I was going to get any more work or if I was going to get paid. Dad was a bit worried. "Still," he said "You're a big lad now, but just be careful, those people sound like a pretty violent lot. Better take Jack with you to watch your back." Jack laughed. "You mean _I_ should go over there and Tim should watch _my_ back!" Jack started up Lizzie and we ran full throttle up the river. When we got to Bob's Point I told him to slow down so we didn't make so much noise, but I needn't have been so cautious. There was still nobody there and the whole boatyard was completely silent. "No one here." Jack said "Come on, let's take a look around."

We tied up and walked very quietly along the jetty, looking cautiously around all the time. Quite frankly I was feeling shit-scared and wishing I hadn't started all this. If those guys caught us here we could be in big trouble. We walked round to the workshop. There was the smell of fresh paint but nothing else. We went over to the cottage and Jack peered in the windows. "Nobody in." he said. He knocked loudly on the door while I prepared to sprint back to the boat, but nobody answered. Jack tried the knob and the door opened. "Come on" he said, "let's look inside." "Perhaps I should wait out here in case somebody comes," I said. "You bloody coward, come on." I looked carefully back at the river, and then went in, leaving the door open, ready for a quick exit if needed. In the kitchen there was a half-eaten tin of spaghetti on the table, and dirty dishes in the sink. Just to be on the safe side I took another look out the window. We went into the bedroom. There was a double bed with the blankets thrown off. Jack looked in the wardrobe. "There's hardly any clothes in here," he said "and look, there's no women's clothes at all. They've shot through." We made another quick tour of the boatyard. They'd left the cradle down the slipway in the river again. "Bloody hell " I said, "I've told them not to do that. It rusts up the wheels in no time" I went to winch the cradle back up the slipway, but a big cast iron gear wheel on the winch was missing. "That's funny Jack, I wonder why they took that off?" "Dunno. Well, not much else to see here. That's a disappointment; I was hoping we'd discover bodies or something. Might as well go home."

We stepped back into Lizzie and headed off, and I felt very relieved to be safely out of the place. A couple of minutes out from the boatyard we noticed a cloudy patch in the water, and a bit of splashing on the surface. Jack stopped Lizzie and we peered down into the water. There was a shark circling round and lunging at something. I was a bit surprised; we don't often see sharks well up the river; they prefer salt water, not the brackish water further up. This one must've come in on the big tide we'd just had, but what was the attraction now? We got out the emergency paddles to beat off the shark and he swam away down river. As the water cleared we could see a partly eaten body of a man a couple of metres down, with his feet tied to a big iron gearwheel on the bottom. The cloudy stuff in the water was blood. "There you are, that's what they wanted the gear wheel for, to stop the body from floating up to the surface" said Jack. I wanted to vomit. Jack isn't turned off by dead bodies like me, just the opposite in fact. "Well" he said cheerfully, "that looks like one missing person found and two to go." We headed back to the harbour, and Jack phoned the water police. They said they'd come as soon as they could raise some divers. There was another trip due for Annabelle, but dad said I'd better wait in the office for the cops; him and Jack could handle Annabelle.

The water police came up the river in their launch and tied up. Sergeant Angus McFarlane was in charge again. "You'll have to show us where you found the body" he said. Their launch was a beautiful boat, a big white fiberglass catamaran with a spacious cabin, comfortable seats, a galley, all sorts of electronic gear and two computers. On top of the cabin were radio whip masts, a radar scanner, and two big spotlights. At the stern were two huge Yamaha outboards. The constable at the helm started the outboards, backed around, and headed off down the harbour. "Don't forget there's a four knot speed limit in the harbour," I said. "Mind your own fucking business," he said, but I noticed he kept the speed down till we were clear of the entrance markers. "Which way now son?" he asked. I pointed the way to go. He opened the twin throttles, and we took off up-river.

I've never been on a boat so fast. The twin hulls left deep furrows behind in the curling wake, and I could feel the wind rushing through my hair. As we got close to Bob's Point I asked him to slow right down, then I directed him over to the murky patch in the water and we dropped anchor. The cops peered down into the water, then two of them put on black wet suits, orange flippers and scuba gear. "Watch out for the bloody shark" said the helmsman, with a big grin on his face. One diver picked up an underwater camera and the other picked up a spear gun, just in case. They did a back flip over the side into the river. We could see them swimming around the corpse taking photos, with strings of air bubbles coming up, then one of them pulled a diver's knife out of his boot and cut the rope holding the corpse down. It floated to the surface, and the two divers came up and towed it to the side of the launch. The other cops pulled it aboard. The shark had bitten off big chunks, but I could see it was Johno from the boatyard. I felt sick again. "It's Johno. He was working at the boatyard, 'till yesterday," I said. "What's his second name?" "Dunno." "Well, looks like somebody's stuck a knife into him between then and now." The cops wrapped the corpse in a big plastic bag with a zip fastener. "Better leave a marker buoy here." I said, "You might want to find this spot again." I had a reason for suggesting this, but I kept it to myself. The divers came back on board over the stern counter.

We cruised over to the boatyard jetty and the cops went ashore. They tried the front door and it opened, so they went in. Later Angus McFarlane came out with some papers and came back aboard the launch. "Looks like you were right Tim, these receipts for the yachts are all forgeries when you look really closely. I wonder where the other two suspects are? What were their names again?" "Eric, and his girlfriend is Maria." "They probably shot off in that last yacht they had here. If we look up and down the river we might find them. You know what the yacht looks like Tim, keep a sharp lookout for it." We headed up one side of the river and down the other, but we were really going too fast for a careful look; anyway we didn't find them. They dropped me back at the marina and took off at high speed.

I borrowed a long boat hook from the marina and headed over to Bob's Point again. Using the cops' marker buoy I found the gear wheel on the bottom and pulled it up with the boat hook. I went over to the boat yard and fitted it back on the slipway winch, and then I was able to winch the cradle back up out of the water. I hate to see perfectly good piece of machinery rusting away for the sake of a little bit of attention.

******

Next day was the day I was going to visit the old clockmaker with my grandfather clock. I was pretty excited about it. I wrapped the clock in an old blanket and fixed it firmly into the cab of dad's truck with elastic straps. When I arrived at the house the old clockmaker was waiting for me. Bert Williams was a little old guy with white hair and knuckles swollen with arthritis. He was wearing carpet slippers, and his clothes looked worn with many washings. "Let's see what you've got there," he said. We carried the clock into his lounge room and unwrapped it. Bert looked at the dial, then opened the back and looked in. "Nice clock," he said, "made somewhere near London about 1920, German movement, oak case, a bit the worse for neglect, side panel of the case is cracked. Must have been quite expensive when it was new. You got the key?" "What key?" I asked. "The key to wind it up. Must have got lost. Never mind, I've probably got a spare one in the odds and ends box." He opened a cupboard. "Here, lift this box up on the table." I lifted it up. It was full of all sorts of little gears and clock bits and pieces. Bert routed around and pulled out a key. "Now, let's see if it's in working order." He put the key through a hole in the dial and started to wind, then he pushed the pendulum. Nothing happened. "I'll have to take the movement out." He fetched a roll of small tools from a drawer, pulled off the hands on the face and unhooked the weights and the pendulum. "Here Tim, undo these nuts and lift out the movement." I lifted the whole brass machinery out onto the table. Bert started taking it all apart, laying the bits out on a cloth.

"Here's the trouble" he said, "bent pinion shaft. I'll have to make a new one. Here, help me lift out my lathe." The lathes I had seen in the boatyard were very heavy pieces of machinery, but this was a baby one, only about half a metre long, and it bolted onto the workbench and plugged into a power socket on the wall. "What a small lathe," I said. "It's a watchmakers lathe. Haven't used it for years." He put on a pair of magnifiers over his glasses, scratched around in the oddments box and pulled out a little steel piece. He measured the old part with calipers, then machined the new part to the same size. "There we are" he said, "let's try it." He started to reassemble the movement. I watched with astonishment as he put all the dozens of parts back into place in the correct order without ever hesitating. "I'm cleaning out the bearings and lubricating as I go," he said, "you have to use very thin oil or the clock won't run." He eventually had the whole movement reassembled. "Put it back in the case Tim." I put it back in and did up the nuts, and Bert hooked the weights and the pendulum back on. He wound up the clock and pushed the pendulum, and I heard a slow ticking sound. "There, should be fine now." "What are the weights for?" "Well they drive the clock as they gradually fall. You have to wind 'em back up once a week." "Why does it have three weights?" "One for the clock, one for the strike, and one for the chime." "What are the strike and chime?" Bert looked at me a bit surprised. "Strikes the hours and chimes the quarters. Here, I'll show you." He moved the hands a little and suddenly the sound of bells came from the clock. "You never heard one before? Westminster chimes, the same as Big Ben at the Houses of Commons in London."

I stood there enchanted, watching the pendulum slowly swinging and all the gears going round. "It's beautiful, but I'll never be able to fix it myself." Bert looked at me, with a smile on his lined old face. "Ah well, clock repairing is a very skilled trade, takes you years to learn." He took a book down off the shelf and showed me a photo of a pocket watch. "Look at this watch, it's a wealthy gentleman's repeater watch. Press a button on the side and it chimes the hours, quarters and minutes. Not more than half a dozen people in the whole world can repair those fellows. Clock and watch repairing is a dying trade these days, with all new clocks being electronic and plastic gears and made in China. Only job left for watchmakers these days is changing batteries. No, you stick to boat repairing. Still, you should be able to do a good job re-varnishing the case; it's pretty much like varnishing a boat. Here, I'll lend you a book on how to do it." He pulled another book down off the shelf and handed it to me.

"You can adjust it to keep perfect time by turning this nut on the bottom of the pendulum; screw it up to go faster and down to go slower. Wind the weights up at the same time each week and keep it in a cool dry room and it'll outlast your lifetime. "What does this writing on the dial mean Mr. Williams?" "'Tempus Fugit', it's Latin, it means 'Time Flies', which reminds me, it's three o'clock and I haven't had my lunch yet." "I'm surprised your missus hasn't been in to hassle you." "Oh she died three years ago. I live on my own now," he said sadly. "It's been wonderful watching you work Mr. Williams, how much do I owe you?" "Oh don't worry about that, it's been a pleasure working on a nice clock again. Off you go now and take your clock home, and give my regards to your dad." He seemed a lonely man.

I wrapped up the clock again, stowed it in the front seat of the truck, and drove home slowly so as not to jar it. When I got home I stood the clock in the lounge, installed the pendulum and wound up all the weights. I gave the pendulum a push and the clock started a slow ticking. At four o'clock the clock chimed four quarters, then struck the hour four times. Mum came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Got it going then Tim! What a lovely sound! I haven't heard that since I was a young girl." "Going to take up clock repairing now Tim?" Jack asked when he came home. "No, Mr. Williams says it's a dying trade, no call for it any more. He told me to stick to boat maintenance. Anyway, it's a very skilled trade, takes years to learn, although I did learn quite a lot today. I'm glad I went." "What this on the dial?" "'Tempus Fugit', it's Latin. It means 'Time Flies'." "Well you _are_ a clever little bugger aren't you!"

******

My job at the old boatyard was over, Four days work and I hadn't been paid a single cent, and now I was back working on Annabelle again. What was worse, after working at the boatyard and helping the police I just couldn't settle down. We did our usual runs, out to the island, and up and down the river once a day, but instead of enjoying every minute like I used to, I felt a bit bored. Every time we passed Bob's Point I looked across at the silent boatyard with its slipway and jetty and workshop and its little cottage, and I felt a funny kind of yearning.

Occasionally we divert from our usual mail route to make a special delivery up a side arm of the river, and a few days later in fact we went up Burton Waters, to where there's another boat yard and a small marina. The riverbanks up there are much closer together and there are all sorts of pretty little coves along the way. Lots of boat owners keep their boats moored at the marina, tied up to mooring buoys, all jostling together, masts swaying and dancing together in the breeze. We don't go up Burton Waters very often, and I was leaning on the rail looking at the scenery gliding past and listening to the sizzle of the water running along the sides of Annabelle. I was pondering how wealthy people pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for a beautiful boat, then keep it moored and corroding away most of the time, going nowhere and doing nothing. There, hidden in among all the other yachts, was the last yacht I'd painted. "Dad," I said, "look, over there, that's the yacht Eric and Maria ran off in. Better not let 'em know we've seen 'em." "We'll call in and let the cops take care of it." Dad said. We continued on our normal course, and dad turned on the CB radio. "Hi Nicky, can you find that business card Sergeant McFarlane gave me?" After a pause Nicky came back on. "Yes Ted, found it." "Phone him up and tell him Tim's seen the missing yacht he's looking for." "Ok."

When we got back to the wharf Nicky said the water police were coming and they wanted me to meet them at their boatshed. "I don't like this at all Tim" dad said. "If you go with 'em and they arrest this Eric and Maria, they're going to recognize you for sure, and there could be a nasty payback later on." "Well" said Jack, "in that case what Tim should do is to get the cops to tow Lizzie up there, and after he's pointed out the stolen yacht he can take off in Lizzie, and the cops can do the rest." "Yeh, I suppose so" said dad, a bit reluctantly. I took Lizzie over to the police boatshed and waited for the cops to arrive. It was Angus McFarlane again, with three constables. We took off up the river with Lizzie bouncing along behind us on the end of a long towrope. We turned east into Burton Waters, and very soon came up to the marina. "Stop by that big schooner a minute" I said. As we stopped I pointed "Look, that's the one, the one with the midwatch blue hull and the white decks over there."

I climbed into Lizzie and ducked behind the schooner, out of sight but able to see what happened. The cops cruised over to the yacht I'd pointed out. They used a loudhailer to tell Eric and Maria they were coming aboard. There was silence from the yacht. The three constables jumped over the rail into the cockpit and banged on the cabin door. Still no answer. One of the policemen drew his pistol, kicked in the cabin door and stuck his gun inside. I saw them all go into the cabin, then after a few minutes they came out again, holstering their pistols. I started up Lizzie and went over there. "What happened?" I asked Angus. "Nobody there, they're long gone." "So what happens to the yacht now?" "We'll leave it here for the time being" said Angus, "D'you want us to tow your tinny back to the harbour?" "No thanks, I'll come back on my own later." They took off in their launch.

I cruised in Lizzie over to the marina and called in at the owner's office. He's a tough guy called Bill James, but I've always got on well with him. "G'day Bill." "Oh hullo Tim, what the hell was going on out there? I saw the water police turn up and lots of action." I explained to him about the stolen yacht racket, and how he had a stolen yacht moored in his marina. "So what happens to it now?" "Dunno, you'll have to ask the cops about that. Where did the couple go that brought it in? He's a tough Irish bloke about my height, and she's a Spanish looking girl, slim build, a bit taller than me, long black hair." "Yeh, I remember them. They came in and booked a mooring for a week, then they took off in a taxi." "You'd better tell the cops that. If they can trace the taxi they can find out where they went next." "Do I have to get mixed up in this?" "'Fraid so, they're wanted on a murder charge." I told him about Johno's body being dumped in the river. "Well that's different, I'll give 'em a call."

We talked about what I'd been doing over at the old boatyard. "So what are you going to do now Tim, go back working for your dad?" "Yeh, I guess so." "The reason I asked is I'm a bloke short in the boatyard, and I'm having trouble finding an experienced man. Want a job?" "What working up here for you?" "That's the general idea." "I couldn't do that Bill, I wouldn't want to travel all the way up here each day." "You wouldn't have to. I've got a spare room over the boatshed. You could sleep up there and pay me a bit of rent. You could still go home each weekend to see your mum and dad. Come on, I'll show you the room." We went up some rickety stairs at the back of the workshop. There was a nice room at the front with a view that holiday makers would love, looking out across the marina and the river, but Bill took me to a small room at the back with a small bed and not much else, looking out over an assortment of rusty tanks and old junk to the cliff at the rear, and the smell of fried chips and stale cooking oil coming up from downstairs. "There you are Tim, you can have it for thirty bucks a week plus board. What d'you say?" "It would be a big jump for me, I've always lived at home 'till now." "Well, perhaps it's about time you got out on your own: saw a bit more of the world. You're a big lad now. I'll tell you what; you can have the room for free. I can't do better then that now can I?" "I'll have to think it over. Thanks for the offer Bill; I'll get back to you."

I walked back to Lizzie and headed for home. My brain was full of new thoughts, and I couldn't even muster up any interest in fishing. When I saw Jack again he said, "So what was the big fight about between Eric and Johno?" "Dunno. I never found out."

******

The only real break we have from working on Annabelle is when Annabelle is up on the slips for a day or two for maintenance. Mind you I do like to help scrape off the barnacles and check the hull for damage and marine borers, and to make sure she gets painted properly below the waterline. A marine inspector from the Maritime Services Board comes round once a year to check her seaworthiness before he renews her survey certificate, and I want to make sure she's immaculate before that happens. When I do have a proper day off I usually get out my trail bike and go riding in the bush. I love riding through the trees, scrambling up and down dirt trails, and splashing through creeks. I usually stop for a chicken sandwich and a piece of cake at some high point with a nice view. I like sitting quietly on my own, away from everybody. On the old Pacific Highway there's a roadhouse used by bikies. The expensive machinery parked out the front is mind-blowing, massive Kawasakis, Hondas, BMWs, Ducatis, Harley Davidsons and so on, all covered in sparkling chrome. The guys wear spectacular leathers and helmets covered in logos. I went in there once for a cup of coffee but I felt out of place with just a trail bike covered in mud.

I was glad the whole nasty business at the old boatyard was over. I went back working with dad and Jack again, but I just couldn't concentrate on what I was doing. The offer of a job from Bill James had put an exciting idea into my head. I decided to have a word with dad. I waited until Jack wasn't around, then I summed up my courage. "Dad, do you think I could rent the old boatyard at Bob's Point and set myself up repairing yachts?" He looked at me for a long time without speaking. "Well," he said at last, "I remember when I was your age and I started out full of self-confidence, and I took a gamble and bought Annabelle. I guess you deserve the same opportunity, and there's no doubt you're a bloody good all-round boat repairer. However, we might be able to do better than renting. Let's go round and see Reg. Let's find out how much it would cost to buy the place." I couldn't believe my ears! Reg was very pleased to see us and the price he gave us wasn't very high. "Tim'll need to raise a mortgage to buy the place," dad told him. I was going to buy it? It was going to be _mine_? Dad said he would go as guarantor, whatever that means, and he lent me the money for the deposit.

******

I'd never really thought about dad being young once just like me. He's always seemed the same, at the wheel of Annabelle cruising up and down the river. Dad and Annabelle, they never seemed to alter. I suppose they've both aged very gradually so you don't notice, like the tide creeping quietly out. The town has changed too, but in jumps that you can't miss. We used to have a butcher, baker, dairy, and two general stores in town, but they were all put out of business one after another by the supermarket down at Hornsby. Each shop that had always been there suddenly had a 'CLOSED' sign in the window, the empty shop looking all sad and forlorn. The road from our house to the wharf used to be a bumpy dirt road that doglegged across the railway at a level crossing, but suddenly a concrete bridge was built over the railway and the road is now all smooth bitumen. Then the old wooden boatshed on the harbour was sold to a developer, and now it's a posh marina, with pontoons for rental boats and visiting yachts and holiday flats for rent. One thing that has crept in almost unnoticed is the rising flood of cars bringing in more and more visitors, which is good for dad's income, but the town is now congested on weekends and public holidays. I preferred it like it was.

A few days after applying for my mortgage, and signing tons of papers I became the proud owner of my own boatyard! As soon as I'd signed the contract I couldn't wait to walk around _my_ boatyard again. I grabbed Lizzie and tore over there at top speed. I'd never been so excited before. My balloon burst as I came up to Bob's Point and I saw a strange yacht tied up to the jetty. I slowed down. There was nobody on the yacht, and I couldn't see anybody in the yard. I tied up to the jetty too and went ashore. Suddenly two men came out of the house. They looked Chinese or Vietnamese or something, both short, with black clothes, black greasy hair, mean faces, and lots of tattoos on their arms. "What you want?" one of them said. "This is my boatyard. I just bought it." "Get lost." "Are you looking for Eric and Johno?" I asked. "Where are they?" "Well Johno's dead. The police fished his corpse out of the river a few days ago. Someone had stuck a knife into him." They talked together in a foreign language, Chinese or something. "Where is Eric?" one of them asked. "Him and Maria went off in that last yacht that was here. I heard the cops found the yacht later and Eric and Maria had disappeared." I was careful not to mention my involvement in the affair. "Where is yacht now?" "As far as I know it's up at Burton Waters where the cops left it".

The two talked together again; well it was more of an argument really. Suddenly they closed in on me, one grabbed my arm, and the other one pulled out a knife. "Take us there in your boat." They pushed me into Lizzie and stepped in behind me. I nearly filled my pants, my knees felt like jelly, I didn't know what the hell to do. For once I wished Jack was there to help. "Get going. No tricks or we kill you." I had no option but to head up the river and along Burton Waters to the marina. I stopped by the stolen yacht. "This is it," I said. The one with the knife stuck it in my back said, "Get in", and half shoved me over into the cockpit. They came onboard behind me. The one with the knife guarded me while the other one went into the cabin. I heard him searching around. After a time he came out again. He said to me "Where is key to engine?" "I don't know, Eric probably took it with him."

The two had another long argument. "Get back in boat" they said. "Take us back to other yacht. " I had no choice but to take them back to Bob's Point. They were obviously planning to get away on the yacht they'd come in on, and I had a sickening feeling my life was about to end with a quick slash of the knife. I cruised down the river, desperately trying to think how to get away. Then a miracle happened, I saw Annabelle coming round the bend on our side of the river. These Asians didn't know about her! I set a course so we would go close by but on the wrong side for passing, like a bunch of amateurs, so I knew dad would be keeping a close eye on us. At the last moment I opened the throttle wide and swerved towards Annabelle to put the Asians off balance. I yelled out "Dad! Jack!" and dived into the river. Dad and Jack had been watching us. Dad reversed the propeller to slow Annabelle down fast, and Jack grabbed my arm and pulled me up over the rail. The two Asians had got Lizzie back under control and they were coming back towards us. "Quick," I yelled to dad, "they're going to cut my throat!" Dad opened the throttle wide and the engine roared into action. Jack ran to the hold and came back with a cricket bat and a piece of wood. "If they try to come aboard don't mess about," he said, " just hit them as hard as you can before they have a chance to get over the rail." The two Asians saw we were moving fast and we were armed and waiting for them. They turned Lizzie around and shot off back towards the boatyard.

There were some white-faced passengers looking at us. "Sorry folks", said Jack cheerfully, "the entertainment's over. We will now resume our normal cruise". I sat down on a bench. I couldn't stand up anymore. Dad called Nicky on the CB radio, "Nicky, can you find that business card Sergeant McFarlane gave me again please." "Oh no! Not again Ted!"

As we went back down river we saw the water police coming fast upstream in their launch. "Slow down dad" I called out, then I waved to the police to slow down too, and I saw Angus McFarlane. I called across to Angus "I know the yacht you're after, better take me with you." He thought about it for a minute. "Good, that'll save us a lot of mucking around." They turned the police launch around and came alongside and I jumped across from Annabelle. I checked my watch and thought about it. I reckoned the Asians would be just about passing the Island. "Ok" I said," if you hurry you can just catch 'em round the other side of the Island." The police didn't waste any time, they went full throttle round the Island. I kept a sharp lookout forward, but there was no sign of the yacht. Angus said "The must have slipped past us. Still, we'll soon catch up with 'em." The launch ran fast down the river. We got right down to the mouth of the river but there was no sign of the stolen yacht. They scanned Broken Bay with their radar but no yacht showed up. "That's impossible" I said. "Maybe they're slower than we though. We'll go back up the river for another look." We raced back up the river, but I couldn't see the Asians anywhere. then as we came up to the old boatyard I saw the stolen yacht still moored at the end of the jetty. "There they are" I said, "they haven't moved yet." The two Asians were in the cockpit, and they looked pretty desperate when they saw the police coming. Angus said, "Prepare to board constables. Stay out the way Tim" The police stopped alongside and grabbed the yacht with a boathook. Four constables went over the side, and after a brief scuffle they had the Asians in handcuffs and bundled into the police launch.

"Leave me behind" I said to Angus, "That's my dad's runabout tied up to the yacht. I'll take it home." "Ok Tim, thanks for helping out." I climbed across onto the yacht and the police took off at high speed. The engine key was still in the lock. I tried the starter but the engine wouldn't start. That's why the Asians hadn't been able to escape, the engine was out of action! Out of curiosity I went into the cabin for a look round. The logbook was still there, and I saw the owner's name and phone number in it. He was a Hugh Mortimer of Ballina. I noticed a mobile phone on the galley table. I fiddled with it and it seemed to be working, so I dialed the number in the logbook and a man answered. "Hullo, Mr. Mortimer? I'm Tim Farley. I'm calling from my boatyard on the Hawkesbury River. I just wanted to let you know that your yacht's turned up here safe and sound, and the police have just arrested the thieves." Mr. Mortimer was _very_ pleased. "The engine on your boat won't start so it'll have to be fixed before you can come and collect it. I can take a look at it if you like. I'm very good and cheap." "That's a good idea. I can't come down for several weeks to get her. It's a bit of a nuisance, I was about to put her in for a repaint when she was stolen." "Well, if you like, I'll winch her up on my slips and give you a quote for doing the job. That way when you come down she'll be all perfectly painted ready for you." "Well that sounds very convenient. Why don't you do that, and phone me with your price?"

I ran the cradle down into the water, I used Lizzie to maneuver the yacht into the cradle, and winched her up the slipway. Good job I'd taken the trouble to repair the winch! Dad isn't going to believe this, I thought, but on my first day as a boatyard owner I've got a customer's yacht up on the slips! It was getting late so I headed for home in Lizzie, but I couldn't resist stopping and looking back, nearly bursting with pride. "So," Jack said, "one dead body found, Tim gets kidnapped and would have got his throat cut but for a miraculous rescue by the alert crew of Lady Annabelle, two criminals arrested, and two stolen yachts found. Tim buys his own boatyard and gets a nice paint job on the first day. Not bad for a week's work Tim! Come round the pub and I'll buy you a beer. You must be thirsty after all that!"

******

I was still having trouble believing I owned my own boatyard. Jack helped me advertise for repair work in the yachting magazines, and I guess the word spread, especially among Sydney boat owners, that I was good and cheap. Within a few months I was getting enough jobs to pay the mortgage, and dad got his accountant to help me set up the books and deal with the tax office. He also helped me with insurance, superannuation, the electricity account, the phone account, and all the other things I didn't know anything about. At first I lived at home, but it seemed a waste of time going up the river every morning when there was a perfectly good cottage at the boatyard, so, as dad put it, I left the nest, and moved into my own home. I raised a personal loan to buy my own runabout, plus a few bits of furniture and some pots and pans. Dad ran the furniture over in Annabelle for me, plus my grandfather clock, carefully wrapped in bubble wrap. Mum came over for a couple of days to help me fix the place up; she loved doing that! I still went home every Sunday for family dinner, and mum always had pre-cooked meals ready to take back to my place, just to make sure I didn't die of starvation! I went over to town once or twice a week to do a bit of shopping, and to see my girl Rosie. She was very proud of me, buying my own boatyard. Once I took her over there for a picnic lunch. As usual Jack teased me about this and made some very vulgar remarks, but I ignored him.

I'll always love the peace and quiet of the boatyard. It sits on the bank of the river on a flat rocky area between the water and the rise of the cliff behind. Coming in by boat the slipway is on the left, often with a customer's yacht winched up on it. At the top of the slipway there's the workshop made of corrugated iron. It's a bit rusty but it'll do. I've got a workbench in there for carpentry and mechanical repairs, a drill press, and shelves to store paint. On the right of the slipway is a jetty, usually with my tinny tied up there, and behind that is the cottage. It's a one-bedroom place with fibro walls and a tin roof. It's not very new but it's very cozy, with a lounge and the bedroom at the front, and a big kitchen and a bathroom at the back. It's twisted round almost sideways on to the river so the front faces across the yard to the slipway and the kitchen gets the morning sun in the back windows. I think it's pretty near perfect. My grandfather clock slowly tick-tocks away and gently chimes the quarters. In the winter there's a wood stove in the kitchen to keep the house warm and cosy, and you can smell the wood smoke.

I was happy to let things go on like they were for a while, while I built up my business, but one day Rosie put her arms round me and said, "Tim, I think it's time I moved in with you", and that was that. I didn't have a chance to say yes or no. She packed in her job at the supermarket, but I had a fairly steady income by then, and two can live almost as cheaply as one. I only had a single bed, but Rosie said she didn't mind squeezing in with me for the time being. She said she'd buy us a double bed, but she didn't seem in too much of a hurry to get it. When Jack found out about that I had to tell him to shut up and mind his own business. Rosie certainly made some changes to our house, new curtains, bright red geraniums out the front, a repainted kitchen, and all sorts of electrical gadgets. I taught her how to handle our tinny so any time she wants to she can go over to town to do some shopping or see her mum. She says the girls in the supermarket are always full of questions about how we're getting on, and what we're doing. She laughs and says they're green with envy, and then she gives me a big hug.

Years ago when I was a kid we had a puppy called Charlie, a cocker spaniel with long ears. He was a wonderful dog and him and me and Jack grew up together. He loved riding in dad's truck with his head out the side window and his long ears flying back. We used to go for walks together along the riverbank, and Charlie would go running and exploring and sniffing new smells. Charlie's got old now and only goes for slow walks. Still he's company for mum when she's home on her own, which is most days. Then one day Rosie came home with a new puppy for _us_ , a crossbreed short-nosed collie as far as I can tell. We call him 'Ruff'. He's black and white with short hair, and he has the run of the house and the boatyard and often comes out on the river with us. He's just as much fun as Charlie used to be. Another time Rosie found a white cockatoo with a broken wing that couldn't fly so she brought him home too. He squawks very loudly and he has the run of the place as well. He can say, "What's the matter" and "Time for bed." When he gets bored he beats up the puppy, so we call him 'Agro'. We all have a very happy time together.

Mum didn't really approve of me and Rosie living together without being married, and it didn't help when Jack told her she was just being old fashioned and how everybody was doing it these days. Still, one weekend we invited mum and dad and Jack over to the boatyard for Sunday dinner . Me and dad and Jack had a beer while Rosie finished cooking a real old-fashioned country meal, roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, roast parsnips, sugar peas and beans, followed by steamed suet pudding with brandy sauce. Dad was delighted. Mum decided that perhaps she might approve of Rosie after all. They washed up the dishes together and I heard them chatting away in the kitchen like old friends. Jack was very quiet, except to say he could see why I was putting on weight, and that every time he looked at Rosie all he could see was a younger version of mum. Perhaps that's why I love Rosie so much. Dad told me the house seemed a bit empty without me, but at least it was less work for mum, and he wished Jack would move out into his own place as well. Jack said he might move out, when he could find a girl willing to do _his_ housework. He's organized a woman cleaner to help clean Annabelle, including the marine toilet down in the heads! It's funny, but since I left home, mum and dad seem older and a bit slower somehow, and Annabelle and her diesel engine seem older and slower too. I guess I'm seeing them from further away now. Jack doesn't seem to worry at all about his future, he just drifts along, crewing on Annabelle and hoping for the best. Now I sleep every night in my own cottage in my own boatyard with Rosie in my arms. I have everything I could ever hope for in life, except Rosie keeps dropping hints about babies.

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If you have enjoyed this book please recommend it to all your friends and acquaintances. If you wish to send me any comments you can email me at michaelwhite417@ymail.com

