Copy write ©
By Jimmy Brook. A work of fiction.
THRUST AND PARRY
CHAPTER ONE
It was a pleasant morning with a few wispy clouds and the rest of the sky above, just an azure blue. The quad bike wove its way around patches of light scrub, after leaving the back paddock track, and it came to a standstill near a creek that still had some water, despite the prolonged dry spell.
On board were two people, both young and dressed in casual clothing. Aled and Fiona were happy and they were in love. This decision to get on a bike and ride around, was spontaneous. He lived in town, Donnyville, and had met Fiona at a dance. That was six months back. She was the daughter of Ray Watkins, and she worked in town, but lived with her father, on a property on the outskirts. It was a Saturday, and he had come out for a visit. A spin on the quad just evolved.
Nearby was a gate from the property and a short track led to the road that ran from Donnyville to Kollcum. As they alighted from the small vehicle, a reasonable sized goanna made a bee line from nearby towards a tree.
“Those things are scary,” said Fiona. “Lets move somewhere else.”
Aled grinned. “He’s long gone. But I will take a look”, and with that he walked towards the tree. He was hoping to have some time alone with Fiona. Behind the tree he saw the monitor scurrying off into the distance. However his eye noticed the naturally hollowed out trunk near the base, and he poked a look inside to see how big it was. To his surprise it was tall, and had a stick of some sort sitting upright. He grabbed it and slid it out. It was an old, very old, spear. The bindings were rotting and the shaft was rotting. The shovel nose tip looked in good condition, just stained a little. He called to Fiona, who came reluctantly.
Casting her eyes around for any movement in the grass, despite his assurances that the old lizard had long gone, she eyed the weapon. “Looks a hundred years old. Dad would be interested. Can we carry it back on the quad?”
“You can hold it upright. Be careful, it looks a bit fragile.”
They made their way back to the track and then the farm. When Ray Watkins appeared from behind a shed and saw her with a long object, his interest was spiked. She handed it to him.
“Impressive. To think it was stashed inside a tree for goodness knows how long, is amazing.” Even as he thought of the local museum who might like it, or pass it on to the local native people, he had a vision of the body that was found some twenty years back in the area, and no weapon. ‘I wonder,’ he thought.
The kids had left him with it and disappeared. He went inside and rang the museum. They would be interested as long as the history was sorted. Being a weapon, he should talk to the police first. He did. Shortly afterwards, a police officer drove up and looked at the artifact. The stained barb was a concern so he would need to let the detectives handle the matter.
CHAPTER TWO
Two days later there was a lot of interest created in the spear. A doctor confirmed it was blood on the tip and it didn’t take long for the connection to surface that it could be the weapon that had killed Jerry Heriot. Records had yet to confirm but the spear was pretty degraded for any trace, so it may be not certain. However as these things happen, the media got wind of it, and next day it was on the news that it was. No proof of that, but a story is a story. Even on the national news.
It might have ended there, were it not for an e mail received at the police state headquarters. Because of that communication, a senior detective arrived that afternoon from Sydney, and asked to see the station commander.
“My name is Stephen Lessor, Sir. You should have received a call from my superior that I was coming and what my job would be.”
The local man nodded. “Yes. About an hour ago. Tell me why the big interest in a spear.”
“The e mail received was interesting. This big fruit farmer in the MIA sent it. Noticed the bit on the national news and remembered the name, Heriot. May not be connected. Basically twenty five years ago, he had pickers in doing the back packer thing with his oranges. This Jerry Heriot was employed for about two months and moved on. So many pickers he didn’t connect the name, when his body turned up five years later, in this area.”
“However, what is interesting was that at that time there was a theft from his property of a painting. Everyone was questioned but no suspects, according to the report. It was never recovered. Wasn’t worth a great deal, just a few hundred dollars. Now the interesting bit. It had been handed down in the family for ever, coming out to Australia on a sailing ship in the early days. It was a depiction of St. George slaying the dragon. But it came with a history, or a curse, depending on how you looked at it. Back in England it had a local thing that should it ever leave the family estate, the person who took it, would suffer the same death as the dragon. Just hype to protect it I suppose. Same family who emigrated so the story was almost lost, sort of. Now some one high up in Sydney thinks that it may have substance.”
The station officer rolled his eyes.
“I know, but we have to check it out. Maybe Heriot did steal the painting and someone took five years to hunt him down. A spear is like a lance. Still you wouldn’t kill someone for that, surely?”
“The media will like this one, Inspector. So I guess you are here to check out Heriot’s background. Probably also anything down in Leeton. Don’t envy you. I remember when he died. Big how do you do, but there was nothing to run with. He was clean as far as we knew.”
“More my friend. We asked for a photo of the painting from records, at the time of the theft, and it was noticed that a blue flower was painted on the side of the dragon’s head. When Heriot was murdered, there was a blue flower found on his head. Appears that was not released to the public, in case it could help the case, but nothing came up.”
The detective took a sip of water from his glass. “An angle we need to check out is where did the spear come from, that was found the other day, I mean not the tree, but originally. Maybe the local elders might know something.”
“Hang on. Something rings a bell. Years ago, maybe twenty odd at least, something happened at our local museum. Break in or something. I’ll get one of my men to dig out the file and see if there is any mention of a spear.” He went outside and came back shortly later. “Some one’s gone down stairs to dig it out”
Some pleasantries were exchanged then a constable came in with a folder. “Thanks, Ron.”
“Ah. Here we are. Only an old spear seemed to be missing but the curator thought it might have been thrown out, pardon the pun, by them sometime before. Put the break in down to kids.”
The detective scratched his face. “There has to be a connection. And the investigating office for Heriot’s murder did mention that the deceased travelled about fruit picking. The officer sadly passed away seven years ago from a stroke. I remember Bill. Nice bloke.”
Stephen Lessor sat with a coffee, trying to find a plan of action in is mind. Scribbling a few notes, he rang his boss in Sydney and said he needed to go to Leeton for a day or two. Poke around. Maybe there was something to find, after twenty five years. Next morning, he drove to the irrigation area, hundreds of kilometres to the south west. It took him most of the day and after booking into a motel, went to find a meal and get some rest.
Next day was bright and fine. Lessor kept his room as he was sure these things take time. Besides, Leeton was looking a nice town. First port of call was the property owner who had the painting stolen and also the fruit picking gang. He rang and was soon at the front gate. The distance up the front drive was considerable, but the size of the house, in old brick and with an upstairs part, was what he expected.
“Harley Dawkins?” It was the words that the inspector said when the door was opened.
“Yes. You would be the policeman who rang earlier. Come in.”
Over a coffee, he found the owner pleasant enough to talk to. It appeared the picking group were not selected by him, but rather supplied by an agency in town. It was the same all those years back. There was some recollection of Heriot, because he seemed to have an interest in Dawkins daughter, whilst he was there. Nothing came of it and he dropped off the radar so to speak. He had no idea if Heriot ever came into the house, and his daughter now lived in Canada.
In town, Lessor sort out the agency, operating from a shop front just off the main street. The only person inside was a middle aged man, tapping away on a laptop. The detective told him he was looking for information on workers some twenty five years ago, and the man just laughed.
“You’d be lucky. No records kept after ten years, and I have only worked here nine of those.” Then he raised a finger and gave a smile.
“At the time you are enquiring about, I was actually a picker employed by this company. So why don’t you pick the picker’s mind.”
Lessor mentioned the property and Heriot. The other’s eyes lit up. “Oh him. I do remember him. Big noting himself, and from memory, a bit of a skirt chaser. Actually, now you mention it, that was the time a painting got nicked from the Dawkins house. Police cleared us but I reckon Heriot was knowing something about it. Nothing said, from memory. That is a long time back.”
“Any friends he might have made?”
“Can’t remember back to then, but, yes, there was someone. There was a fight one night in the hostel. Now I remember. There was this couple that were an item, and Heriot was making a play for the girl. Couple of punches and some threats by the bloke that he would fix Heriot if he didn’t lay off.”
“Names?”
“Come on. I’m not one of those kids that were on the TV and knew everything. But the girl was on TV, when I think about it. She had some cooking show. No, it was selling cheese. Over in Tilba. A tourist promotion, that was about ten years ago. Maddy. That’s it. Maddy.”
This was not getting anywhere, thought Lessor, but may as well go visit the coast near Tilba Tilba. You just never know. At least he could get some of their famous cheese.
Next day he took the long drive to the south coast and at the most prominent looking shop in the tourist strip, he got a shock. When he walked in, a nice middle aged lady in smart clothing, only just covered by an apron, welcomed him. “G’day sir. Welcome to The Old Churnery. My name’s Maddy, and what temps you to have a sample?’
“I will buy some cheese, if you will tell me something in return.”
“I will tell all” she said. “I recommend the Bega Valley Vintage.”
He tried a piece and nodded his approval. “Now my question, if I may.”
She smiled and waited.
“I only want five minutes, so can we sit a minute?”
“Sure.” They moved over to a small coffee table for customers who liked to taste the wares.
“Are you the Maddy that was picking fruit at the Dawkins place in Leeton, about 25 years ago?”
She looked at him without expression, then smiled. “You definitely are a vintage cheese man. “Yes, that I was. Suppose it was about that spear they found recently and the connection to it killing Jerry Heriot. I bet you are a policeman and how in heavens name did you ever find me?”
“We just keep plodding. Firstly, there is yet no proof the spear was the one. That’s just the media. Basically all I want is background info on Heriot. I heard there was a fight involving him and a friend of yours.”
She nodded her head. “Bill. We were an item then and for a few years on. Split and haven’t heard from him since. Thought Jerry was trying it on with me and got upset. I liked the attention but never reciprocated. After the season finished, we moved on and I never saw Heriot again. Glad really. Police came about a missing painting and it got all a bit much.”
“About that painting. Any idea what happened?”
“No. Didn’t hear anything and no idea on who might have taken it. Don’t think it was any of the crew and that includes Jerry.”
“What about the owner’s daughter and Mr. Heriot?”
She scratched he neck. “From memory, he was quite keen on her. Saw them once in town at the pub. And a couple of times in the back of the packing shed. Just kissing.”
He thanked her for her time and headed back to his base. There was something in her comments that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but it would come.
CHAPTER THREE
He arrived in the station early next morning and looked at the desk he had been allotted with bits of paper everywhere. One was a memo telling him that a DS was coming to assist him. He gathered it would be job experience and no one else wanted him. The other interesting item he found was the forensics report on the spear. There was human blood. It was also over 100 years old!
It was becoming a dead end and they may have to yet put it in the too hard basket. After being shown a couple of the local sights by a police constable, he awaited his sergeant, who arrived after lunch. New suit and fitting the nerdy category, Lessor decided it could be time to wind up enquiries and head back to Sydney. But his new offsider unwittingly changed that.
“Inspector. I got up to speed on this case. What I don’t understand is the connection to the painting. The newspapers say it is payback in a sense, but if there is no proof that the victim stole it, how does it fit in?”
That was when Lessor connected the loose thought he had going around from his visit to Maddy, to the case. “You know sergeant, you might have just hit the nail on the head. The media told us the St. George and the dragon connection to Heriot’s death and we went down that path. What if they are not connected? The blue flower was a red herring, to use a mixed metaphor.”
“So do we now start where?”
The inspector stood up. “At the beginning. It has to be about people or relationships, and not necessarily anything to do with the fruit picking period. Could have been just a random assault at the time that went wrong, or a planned assault even. We need to dig a bit into his later life, around the time of the murder.” He groaned inwardly. Where to start?
Then something happened that showed him, eventually, the direction. A phone call that afternoon from Harley Dawkins, the property owner in Leeton. Apparently, his daughter had came back from Canada for a visit and if the police were still interested in talking to anyone at the time of the theft, she was happy to do so. She was in Sydney and he was given the address and phone number.
With nothing to lose, he rang her, and she said she was heading back overseas in a week, but if he could come next morning, it would be fine. She was sure she had nothing to add to help with about Jerry’s death, but he was welcome to talk to her.
They headed back to Sydney that night so the visit could be fresh and early. Lessor always thought the morning gave better results. At ten o’clock they knocked on the door of the hotel room where she was staying.
“Come in inspector.” She nodded to the sergeant with a smile, and held the door wide open.
After formalities were over, she came to the point. “I cannot add anything to help you, I think. Yes, I was attracted to Jerry at the time, but nothing came of it. He left at the end of the picking, and I moved on with my life. Two years later I went to do some skiing in Canada. Ended up meeting my future husband there. I stayed.”
“It was just a courtesy really. We are trying to get a handle on his death and the connection to your father’s place.” He turned to his offsider.
“Harry. There’s a coffee shop in the main lounge downstairs. Do you mind getting us some lattes. Before you do, check with HQ on any new developments. I can talk about skiing in Canada with Mrs. Collins. A secret dream of mine but a bit past it now I think.”
The sergeant nodded, thinking it odd but he was the boss, and left.
“Now Mrs. Collins, there won’t be much time, but I am just going to speculate, off the record, that there is something you might know. Would I be wrong in saying that you had some continuing contact with Jerry Heriot after you went to Canada. The reason I suggest this, is that I looked at his passport in the chase for clues, and he has an entry stamp to Vancouver, three weeks before he died.”
She looked at him and, letting out a sigh, sat back in her chair. “Yes. I wanted to forget about it all, but probably better coming out. I have a good marriage now, my second, and do not want to jeopardise it.”
“I respect that wish, and unless it relates to actual proof that someone murdered him, you can be assured it is not part of my enquiry. One reason I sent the sergeant away. It is easier for me and for you.”
She sighed again. “We did have a communication. I liked him but I met Kelvin Bantry, my first husband. Then out of the blue, Jerry turned up and, well it got a bit out of control. My husband was away and he stayed the night. Makes me a bad person I suppose.”
Lessor put up his hands. “I don’t judge.”
“Seems somehow Kelvin found out he had been to the house. And being a very jealous man, ranted and raved, threatening to do him in. I thought it was all talk, but he never let it go. He wasn’t physical or hit me, but everything else in the marriage fell apart. No money. Constant checking up on me. It got no better. I was pregnant and it had to be Jerry’s. That was the worse bit. I was a virtual prisoner. Then a couple of weeks later, he disappeared for a week or two. A girl friend told me she saw him at the international terminal. I never asked and he told me nothing about where he had been. Just seemed to be a bit quieter. More smug like. Once he said he had sorted it out, but no details.
Nothing came from home from Jerry any more and a girl friend sent an e-mail for me, but no reply. I felt Kelvin had done something, but I didn’t know what.”
Just then there was a knock and in came his offsider with the coffee.
“Thanks sergeant. Would you do me a favour and go for a walk. Maybe check on the car or the sights.”
The young fellow looked at him strangely, them nodded. He left.
She continued. “Then dad sent me a newspaper with the death of Jerry highlighted. I just knew my husband was involved, but had no proof that it was, or anything. I was going to tell dad and see if we should mention it to the police, but I changed my mind.
Then soon after, Kelvin died in a truck accident. When that settled down, and my life became a bit more settled, I just let it go. Was I wrong? Should I have told you people?”
“As I said before, I don’t judge. Seems an easier path, one I might be tempted to take.” He thought that he probably would not have.
“I have a twenty year old son, Mark, and I can see Jerry in his features. He doesn’t know who his father really was, thinks it was Kelvin. Now I remarried, and Andy is just so wonderful. I never knew what happiness was really like, until now. What are you going to do?”
Her eyes had a sad but pleading quality. “There is no proof that he did kill Jerry, or any indication that should warrant us to investigate this. Today is a just talk, two people supposing at what may or may not have happened. We have nothing to link Kelvin to the crime, no DNA or such, just that he could have been in Australia at the time. Normally I would follow that link with immigration, but given that he has now become deceased, there is little point in pursuing it. Appears Jerry had no family living, other than an elderly mother in a home, who is not doing well. I should speak to her, if possible, and give her some peace of mind. Otherwise, it shall remain on the books as, pending.”
She was crying.
“I’ll let myself out. Thanks for telling me your thoughts, for that is all they are. I will write to you probably next week, and you will know the outcome.”
She thanked him and put a slip of paper with an e-mail address, into his hand. Then he left. Outside his offsider looked at him and waited for some explanation.
“She just wanted to talk to an older person, Harry. Nothing to add to the case. Had a hard time with first husband and she needs a shoulder. I have a feeling this case is just a bit too old to finalise.”
He got into the car and started to drive. “Actually there was something we could check.” He went silent. It could come back to bite him if he didn’t follow it up. “Her first husband. He died about six months after Heriot did. Motor vehicle accident, so no suspicions there. He travelled a lot with his job, in the States and Canada. She never knew where he went. We could ask immigration if they had records back 20 years, to see if he was in Australia at the time. Its just a thought I had.”
“Sounds a waste of time really, Sir. Wouldn’t think he ever knew Heriot. Besides, the husbands dead, as you just mentioned. Anyway, even if he was here in Australia, is there any proof that he killed our fellow?”
Lessor regretted mentioning it, but sometimes things never died completely. It was a piece he should, as a professional, follow up. It would prove nothing of course. “We will check anyway. If he was, it proves nothing, and, the man is no longer with us. Then the case becomes ‘pending’, as it was for the last twenty years. And probably will for the next twenty. Back to the city, I think. I’ll ask the local station to bundle up my papers and send them to me.”
They drove in silence. The detective thought about the conversation with Melody Collins. It could have been as she felt, and now he felt, or it could be just wild speculation. The one nagging thought was the blue flower. Why did the killer put one on the body? Was there a connection to the theft, after all? If it was Bantry, he might have seen some photo his wife had of the theft. They were married not long after. The placing of a flower could have been to divert suspicion back to the theft. Then you would have to carry one around until you did the deed. All guesses.
That night, at home, he thought some more. What if Melody Collins was not as honest as she seemed. I have a devious mind, he thought. What if she knew before hand? Could Bantry and her be in it together, to get rid of an unwanted problem? No. She carried a torch for Heriot. Maybe she thought Bantry may have done it, as she said, and hoped he would get caught. Too many ideas, and only one, or even none would be true.
The case was at an end, morally. Justice has been done, in whatever scenario he thought of. Time to move on. Without a murder weapon, it would be all uphill. Lessor thought he would see if he could talk to Heriot’s mother. He would tell her that the case was almost finalised and a suspect was in the frame. No details and no names. She would like to have some closure, he thought, given her end was fast approaching.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Come on Arthur. Let’s get out of this forsaken motel and find some breakfast. This place is so old, it must have been here before the British landed.”
“Yes dear.” The brow beaten husband thought why did they come on this holiday. They could have stayed in Los Angeles, and gone to Palm Springs instead.
She went on. “I thought the Australian outback was going to be prairies and cattlemen and kangaroos. Oh, and find my brooch will you, it seems to have fallen off my coat into this monster of a cavernous wardrobe.”
He mused that this was only a hundred miles or so from the coast and far from being the outback. “Yes dear.” He struggled to salvage the morning. “The manager said there was a native spear found near here not so long ago, and it was a murder weapon of a man slain a long time back.”
“All fascinating, for you. For me, breakfast.”
He grabbed his phone and using the torch app, spied the brooch in the back corner, along with heaps of dust and a small scrap of paper. Retrieving both jewellery and the paper, he unfolded the paper and noted that it was very old. A newspaper photo that was yellow and falling apart.
“Come on Arthur. I’m hungry and need to get out of this place.”
He sighed. Smoothing out the crumpled piece, he saw it was a photograph of a knight on a horse, putting a lance into a beast. “A dragon,” he thought. “One day I could be tempted.”
“Just an old photo of St. George slaying the Dragon, my dear. Some one had a satirical mind. They have drawn a talk balloon coming out of the knight’s mouth. Very faded, but it looks like ‘I’ve sorted you. That will teach you to mess with my wife.’ Sounds noble.”
She was at the door with her purse. “Whatever you think, dear. Now grab my bag and let’s find something to eat. I hope there is not dragon on the breakfast menu.”
He sighed, tore up the piece of paper and tossed the pieces into the waste bin. “She would know” he said to himself quietly, “family resemblance.”
Jimmy Brook