MOUNTAIN FIVE

A COLLECTION OF FIVE SHORTER STORIES INVOLVING DIVERSE

PEOPLE IN UNUSUAL SITUATIONS. SEE HOW YOU MAY COPE AS THEY
DID. THERE MAY BE A BOND IN ONE OF THEM.

THE THIRD OF THE “FIVE” SERIES OF SHORTER STORIES.

DUST NEVER SETTLES A vivid dream leads a man to set in

motion, events that could be facts
or fiction.

GREAT DAY FOR A REST Two boys make a grim discovery

and the tangled connections to sort
out, to solve it all.

BIRD OF PREY Nothing is straightforward and the

challenges to find the answers
that needs logic to be put aside.

JUST A FEW BONES Nothing is fixed in history forever.

A discovery that rewrites history for
young and old.

QUEEN CHARLOTTE When things change, as they always

do, a worthwhile deed should never
be delayed.

By Jimmy Brook
3 AUDIOBOOK COLLECTIONS

6 BOOK COLLECTIONS
----------------------------------------------------------------
DUST NEVER SETTLES
----------------------------------------------------------------

By Jimmy Brook

A vivid dream unsettles a man who believes it is a prologue to

something he dreads. The mystery deepens as he and the police,
try to unravel facts from nothing, and race to solve it before it ends
like the dream.

Copy write ©
By Jimmy Brook. A work of fiction.
 Chapter One

The local guardian of the law stopped shuffling papers and looked out the front
window. A day that was new with the smell of freshness and warmth, and
hopefully no dramas. He needed a week to recuperate from the all too
common drink charges and petty larceny that seemed to be an endless cycle.
The town looked quiet, even though he knew it was early still. Maybe on the
properties surrounding town, they got up early but here in the business centre
of the district, they kept more conventional hours.

Widdon’s Crossing grew out of necessity in bygone days. Sheep and some
cattle were being traded and shipped to markets. The junction of two major
highways in the state. Today the pubs were fewer than years back and so was
the policing. Just three of them. Jack Grogan came here fifteen years ago from
Newcastle and just stayed. His kids were now grown and his wife of many
years still as supportive of his job as when they married.

Hundreds of kilometres away, a similar story for another officer of the law. His
day was going to be better when it was over, or so he thought. Now an
inspector, he was due for a holiday and it would start next week. Brendon
Casey and his wife Virginia, had booked a tour to the Top End. They had never
been to Darwin and the city and surrounding area promised a new experience.
The majesty of Kakadu beckoned. Even a brochure was taped to his wall.

Now all that was needed for these two people to be thrust together, was a
catalyst. And that catalyst came in the form of a person who awoke that
morning, rather early. The cause of his early entry to the day was because of a
dream. Not an ordinary dream, but something so pungent, so realistic, that he
remembered it when awake in every detail. He dismissed it but it didn’t go
away. Coffee and his eggs on the veranda still didn’t vanish it. The need to get
his property up and active for the day just put it on hold, and when the two
staff he had were doing what they needed to do, he sat down to look at the
withered grasses and bleating sheep, and it came back still just as vivid.

William Benson ran sheep. Lots of sheep and over many years had built up a
respect from the community. He knew that and never used it to his advantage.
He accepted people for who they are and it worked both ways. Now he knew
he must do something and this might put that respect into doubt. No family
now to talk these types of things over, just himself. He picked up the phone
and entered the number from the small list on his office desk.

“For you Jack.” The young officer held the instrument out towards him, and
the sergeant dropped his gaze from the street and taking the telephone in his
hand, answered the caller.

“Hang on William. Lets get this straight. A man is dead or he might not be yet
dead and you don’t even know his name or where he is.” There was quietness
as he listened and shook his head with a grin. “Alright. I have these dreams too
but usually some reason for them. Anyone else and I would tell them to get
sobered up, but not you. Really nothing I can do without something more
positive.” A pause whilst an embarrassed man apologised and the conversation
seemed to wilt. “You let me know if you can give me something and I will keep
my ears on the bush telegraph and lets hope it was just a dream.”

The police officer sat in his chair for a while, thinking about it and how to
forget it. But that was hard to do. Benson was a solid person and never known
to flights of irrational thought. Still he could do little without some hard
evidence. At lunch break, he phoned Division with the weekly sitrep which was
very lean on crime and more a social catch up with his superior in Area
Command. Why he mentioned it he never really remembered, but it just came
out as something to fill in the time.

The Commander sat for a while and tried to collect a thought that eluded him.
A man who was dead or maybe not dead, yet unknown. This was recently put
into his mind, but not by Jack Grogan. He shrugged and poured a coffee. As he
savoured the break from the paperwork that was mounting day by day, he
tried to think of what was eluding him. Then he had a glimmer of recognition.
Something that happened down in the Riverina a couple of years back.
Someone thought they saw a person’s body and it appeared dead but quick
subsequent investigations showed no body to be found and subsequently no
missing person to fit the criteria. That was it. Maybe.

More on impulse, he phoned Jack back. “Brendon here. That missing body who
may or not be missing is nagging me. There was an incident some time back.
That went no where but just the same, use your nose and have sniff about.
Might be something. And I’m off to Kakadu in a week with Ginny, so no calls to
disturb our long needed holiday after the 17th.”
Jack Grogan sat and looked out at the street. It was half quiet and a bit of a
snoop might get his cob webs sorted. He phoned William Benson’s place but
got no answer, so leaving instructions with his duty officer, he revved up the
Land Cruiser, and headed out of town.

Chapter Two

Benson was giving some purchase requirements to his leading hand but
couldn’t get it sorted in his head. “No, make it ten boxes. Oh I don’t know, you
decide. I’m going over to David’s place.” He turned and headed for the ute. The
foreman shrugged his shoulders and went to the office. At least he could get a
couple of things done without the boss hovering about.

William drove slowly as though with purpose, down the front drive to the town
road then turned the opposite way towards his neighbours. At the big poplars
that marked the front gate, he stopped on the grid and took stock of his
thoughts. ‘I’m stupid’ he thought, ‘let it go’. But he eased off the brake and
headed on. No one appeared at the front veranda and William got out and
mounted the steps. He yelled David’s name out but got no reply. The door was
shut so he went around the back of the building and saw the kitchen door was
open. He yelled again then went inside. All was quiet. Where was the cook,
Alice, or her husband, Hank? The small cottage where they lived was nearby,
adjacent to the stables and store room. He headed there but no one answered
his call. The carport at the back of the kitchen still had the Discovery parked in
it. He looked in the window but it was empty.

Then a voice caught his ear. It seemed to be around the side of the house, and
he took some tentative steps in that direction. Suddenly a figure came around
almost collecting him. It was Jack Grogan, the local police sergeant. “Whoa,”
he said then smiled when he saw William. “Thought I would pop out and have
a look or whatever. Any sign of Batten?”

It took a few seconds to get his mind in gear, but William nodded his head.
“Nothing. No sign of the cook or the offsider, that’s Hank.”
Together they looked in most places together, the barn; the sheds; stable; the
house rooms and even the cottage. All deserted. There were dirty dishes in
Batten’s sink which didn’t sound like Alice. She was pedantic about order,
remembered William. The house was neat and nothing seemed to be disturbed.
On the front veranda, the policeman made a call on his mobile phone whilst
William suddenly went back inside. He had seen something that didn’t register
at first but came to mind when he saw the few cattle down dear the creek. The
last time he came here, about a month ago, he remembered looking at a
painting on the sitting room wall as he finished his whiskey. David told him it
was a Turner. Cost him a fortune years ago. It was gone. In its place was a small
print that was in the hall. William looked in the hall at the blank space of which
the hook still remained.

Grogan came in. “Called Command. A detective team will come up this
afternoon to have a look around. Mobile phone service is a bit iffy. Kept
dropping out but I got there. Anyway what are you looking at?”

William told him. It may be nothing, or it could be something. Bit of a mystery

at the moment. They left at the same time. The policeman to get a bulletin out
on the three missing people, and the property owner to go and check his, in
case something was amiss.

Back home, he quickly found his two hands and explained what had transpired.
Buildings were checked and the employees asked to ride the boundary keeping
their eyes open. Later, the school bus dropped off young Nancy, daughter of
one of the hands, and she was told to keep near the house until her father was
going home. Just after five, William saw her coming across the near paddock
towards the house. ‘So much for staying near’ he thought. When she got to the
back door, her father came out of the store room and noticed her holding
something. He yelled for William and the two men looked at the battered hat
Nancy was holding. “Where did you get this?” asked William. His voice
trembled for he had seen this green felt hat with a daisy motif before. Alice
usually wore it when she was going out anywhere. “I just picked it up down
near the creek. Where you have that hole for paddling and mucking about.”

Benson quickly went inside and rang the police, then both men and the girl
walked quickly down to the creek and along to the pool. Due to the lack of rain
over the last few months, there was not much water and the pool was quite
shallow. No sign of the missing cook, but there was a recent campfire remains
nearby. They walked back and waited for the law. Jack arrived on his own. He
thought it could be just circumstantial, like she lost it whilst walking. Though
why here? The creek was on Benson’s land but that meant little amongst
neighbours who were on good terms. Or it could have been carried here by
someone else, or something else like an animal. That would be up to the
detectives. Actually the sergeant had come with one of his PCs whom he had
left at Batten’s place on the way. His uneasy feeling was now matching that of
William Benson.

A search of the creek and pool revealed nothing new, so the policeman went
back to town to await the plain clothes men. William told the hands to go
home and see what tomorrow brings. He then sat on his front veranda and
chewed over his fears for his neighbour. Could a dream do this? He didn’t
know.

Chapter Three

Two detectives, one an inspector, from Command arrived just on dark and
were immediately taken out to the Batten property. As they had brought their
own car, Jack took the constable back to town with him, after explaining what
he had looked at earlier. “Interesting’ he said to his offsider as they drove back.
“ Brenden Casey came. He was going to the Territory for a holiday. Gets into
your blood I suppose.”

The inspector and his offsider had a look around but anything outside would
have to wait until daylight. They had some items and food in the car and would
stay the night. Jack thought this a good idea and would come tomorrow if they
wanted more men. The night passed slowly for the visiting officers. A more
detailed search of the house yielded nothing and Brendon Casey wished he
had gone on his holiday last month. The occasional bellowing of a cow was the
only noise to join the crickets.

Next morning, Sergeant Jack Grogan stayed around his office in case the phone
rang. There was limited mobile service out at that area so there was incentive
to be available. Things did seem to have an air of mystery, but what? His
offsider went out to the post office to collect mail and some items from the
supermarket. About 11am he came in, dumped his collections and sought out
the boss. “Jack. Funny thing but I was talking to that Mary at the post office
and she reckons that she saw Hank outside a house, whilst she was driving to
work. Didn’t think much about it but it was early for him to be in town. Only
mentioned it to me as I said I had been out to the Batten’s place yesterday on
business.”

Grogan didn’t waste much time in ringing the post office and talking to Mary.
Appears it was in Lester Street, about the end house. He told his junior to keep
close to the phone and headed out to the street. The end house was empty but
the next one was too easy. When he asked the lady could he speak to Hank,
she looked around and then nodded and told him to come in. Hank was in the
kitchen but came in at the sound of voices. “I’m Jack Grogan, you Hank?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I’d like you to come down to the station now.” He turned and waited on the
front veranda, soon to be joined by the supposedly missing man. He wouldn’t
give him any answers to his questions, just drove back to the station. Inside he
asked him to sit down in the small interview room, gave him a cuppa and said
“Right, let’s sort this out.”

“We are not sure anything has happened, but Batten is missing, likewise your
wife, and you seem to be staying in town with someone.”

Hank looked sheepish and stared at the table before answering. “I didn’t know
it was a police matter. Has something happened to Mr. Batten?”

“You tell us. Where is your wife? She also seems to be gone.”

Hank lifted his hands up in resignation. “She’s gone to Sydney to her sisters.
She went about three days back. I was staying to help Mr. Batten and do the
meals. I ….I asked him would it be OK if I went to town to see a mate after tea.
I’d probably have a drink or two, so would be back in the morning. That was
two days back. When I got back next morning he was not around. A note on
the kitchen bench said he had to go away for a few days and look after the
place. I was going back this morning but I got sort of held up.”
“Who is this mate you need to stay with?” Grogan guessed what the answer
would be or should be.

Hank shuffled his feet. “My girlfriend. Called Rebecca. We have been seeing
each other for a few months I guess. Me and Alice don’t get along very well
these days. Too good an opportunity to miss when she had to go to her sister’s
place. Has something happened to the boss? There was a note.”

“Do you have it?”

Hank said he dropped it in the kitchen tidy. He was told to wait whilst the
detectives were informed. Grogan rang the house and no reply but a few
minutes later he tried again and Brendon Casey answered. The Inspector
quickly went to the bin and found the note. It was not written but printed,
which could mean nothing. He told Grogan to get the sister’s address and send
the foreman out to the farm. They may need his help in what was what.

The daylight search yielded nothing of interest.

Back in town, another of those quirks of nature was about to unfold. A million
to one thing. The previous night, Bill Henley had taken his wife to play cards at
a friend of hers. Since he came to town, he was conscious of the need to help
keep his wife interested in staying here as he was. They had baulked at the
idea of a stint which could last for years, here, but it was a career move. One
day he would be a sergeant. Somewhere. After the game, they decided to drive
around and look at the stars from a hill which gave a good view of town in the
daylight. There were a couple of cars already there so they decided to go home.
It wasn’t until the next morning when the boss brought Hank in, that a light
went on in his brain.

“Might be nothing boss, but it just came to me when I saw that bloke.”

“What just came to you. Where our missing farmer is?”

Bill screwed up his nose. “No. Just that me and Jenny went out to Mison’s Hill
last night, for a drive,” emphasising the last bit with a roll of his eyes. “I am
married. Anyway coming back, I now remember seeing a light of some type on
at the old Crump place. You know that empty place near Williams Creek. The
couple split up and walked out.”
Grogan’s eyes narrowed. “Squatters perhaps. Or perhaps not. It is very close to
the Batten property, when you think of it. How about you and me have a quick
lookee and…” The phone rang and that ended the conversation. The other PC
took the call and then cupped the handpiece as he spoke to his senior.
“Burglary boss. A Mrs. Kemp says someone stole her Wing vase.”

“It’s Ming actually. Tell her we are on our way.” Grogan shook his head. Like an
accident waiting to happen, he thought. Iris Kemp was not actually discreet
when it came to extolling her importance. Two months ago she announced
that a great aunt had bequeathed her a Chinese vase. She did this in a piece to
the local paper and then had a supper for CWA friends and others to show it
off when she brought it back from the city. It was bound to happen.

The drive out to Crumps was put aside as he and Henley went around to the
old colonial house at the end of town. Closing his ears to her loud
protestations about not keeping order and protecting poor people’s property,
he managed to size up the incident as best he could. Rear window was forced
and the only thing disturbed or missing was the vase which normally sat in a
prominent position on a table for all to see as you entered the living room.
Now it was gone. Assuring her they would do all they could, they left. “Put out
a bulletin and advise the usual second hand dealers and CID,” as they drove
back. Then changing his mind, turned off and headed for the Crump place.

The place seemed deserted. The front door was shut and locked but there
were recent tyre tracks at the side and rear. The kitchen window was not
locked, and with a nod from his boss, Bill Henley prised it open and crawled in,
knocking over a glass on the sill, before he got to the door and opened it. The
place had been used in the not too distant past and most recent past as the
food scraps and dirty dishes together with discarded wrappers, proclaimed.
The house seemed empty and sort of derelict, and they were about to dismiss
it as vagrants or squatters when Jack noticed a discarded handkerchief on the
floor behind the back door. Not so much the hanky but that it was covered in
blood. Now they were more cautious and looked at the outside shed. Empty
except that a small store room at the back was locked, not with a lock or key
but by a nailed piece of timber. The PC checked the back but no apparent
window, so Grogan knew he had to be at least thorough especially if his
superior was in town. Prising it off with a piece of metal, he pulled the door
open.
 Chapter Four

Within the next hour, the two detectives and an ambulance, were parked on
the parched grass near the back door. The medics were giving treatment to a
bruised and injured David Batten. They said he needed hospital treatment but
in their opinion, would recover. He had a bad head wound and a broken finger.
They did get to talk to him before he was whisked away.

Whist they awaited the arrival of a crime unit from Newcastle, they sat out on
the front veranda so as not to contaminate the house and shed area. The story
was still sketchy but it appeared that David Batten heard a noise a couple of
nights ago, from his back stable, and knowing that both his staff were gone,
went out with a torch to investigate. He was thinking a fox or some animal,
only to find three men. When challenged, one jumped him and then intense
pain and nothing. He woke up, bound, and bleeding, in a farm house kitchen.
They had a blindfold of some description over his eyes so he couldn’t see them
but he could still hear. Something about his Turner painting should fetch a
good price and one more job. He resisted a bit when they pulled him up and he
remembered the hanky falling off his head when he was manhandled out the
back. The last thing he remembered was something like they will never find
him in this place.

Jack Grogan mentioned the missing vase to his superior, and they assumed
that could be the job that was mentioned. A state wide search would be
conducted and whatever avenues they could, but it often end up a dead end.
However this did have an ending. Television had given coverage of the story
and the missing items a good go, and one motorist remembered a station
wagon next to his when he was getting fuel in Maitland. As he walked in to pay,
a man in the back of that vehicle briefly recovered a big item in the back, and
the observant motorist remembered the top of a big vase. He casually noted
the registration then rang the police. They caught the vehicle with a roadside
camera, and soon many police vehicles converged on it at the Gosford exit.
One Ming vase and one Turner painting were amongst the contents.
William Benson had just returned from the small hospital in town, after visiting
his neighbour. He sat on his kitchen chair with a coffee and reflected on his
vision that started this chain of events. All finished now, he hoped, although
there was the one little thing that niggled him. Maybe two things. What about
the hat that was down by his creek? The other was the vase. That was a bit of
a surreal issue. Especially as he was planning to do something about it! He
disliked that woman but business was business. At the CWA supper, he had
gone and he felt the need to have it. Not to take but to buy or trade. He had a
Tang vase, similar in size, although not the same. He flirted in a verbal sense
with her about selling, and she laughed it off saying he needed a lot of cash or
something appropriate, to do business with her. That meant there was hope
and whilst he didn’t have cash of the sort she would be bound to want, he did
have something else.

Iris Kemp liked things she could show off, and at the supper he noticed a small
sculpture on a table. Pseudo Greek in design of a nymph playing a flute. He
knew and she would know that it was less than 100 years old, not 2,000, but
her friends were never told that. William used to be in antiques in his early
days and he saw many good and many bad items. Somehow he had kept a few
and one in particular was also given to him by a business man for helping
acquire bits and pieces over those early years. It was a small alabaster relief of
a Roman goddess and it was old. Not from the Roman times but probably
Georgian. He had it in a box. It was not his thing and he saw a possible trade. A
matching piece to his vase would be nice.

The night it was stolen was the night he had planned to ring her and ask to
discuss such a transaction. He put off calling that night and then the next day
he heard, the whole town heard, of what had befallen her Ming vase. When
she finally got it back in the weeks ahead, he perhaps would ask her. Not now.
It was all too raw.

The hat was another issue. He didn’t know how it got where it was found, but
he knew it was Alice’s, because she was wearing it when they met at the creek
last week and when they parted. He took a billy can and mugs, and with a
small fire, made a cuppa for them both. If her husband found out that William
had been seeing his wife, it could have been ugly. There was nothing that
wasn’t above board. They just used to talk. She needed someone to talk to and
he just happened to be that person. It waws a platonic friendship, never even
kissed her, just a friendly hug on parting. He would try and ask her one day
about the hat.
Jack told Hank that the reason for him coming to town was not a police
concern and wouldn’t be mentioned to his wife. She came back from her
sister’s place and apart from the distress for her employer, never indicated
anything else amiss. Jack had his feelings about the matter though, and was
sure she knew there was something going on. Maybe Rebecca was one of a
line of many somethings going on. Their problem.

Six months later, Jack’s wife casually mentioned to him that she got out early
from a boring tea party put on by Iris. Pride of place, she saw, was a small
alabaster statuette of some Roman goddess or other. When Jack asked her
about the Chinese vase, he was told it was nowhere to be seen. Last week
something else caught his eye. It was a new painting in the Town Council art
gallery, a Turner, that looked very familiar. A wise move on David Batten’s part.

The town had its limitations and it had its interesting points. Always something
happening. Yes, he thought, dust never settles.

Jimmy Brook
 BIRD OF PREY
__________________________________________________________________________________

By Jimmy Brook

The need to have is a compelling human emotion. Rejection will be even

more compelling to correct, by whatever method is at hand. The human
mind is infinite in its creativity although sadly much is designed to reduce
man to a level that should have long been left behind.

There is nothing like a straight forward crime to one who is charged to

pursue it. When it is not, it either challenges the mind or frustrates it.
 Sometimes logic has to be put aside.

BIRD OF PREY

CHAPTER ONE

Gary parked his bicycle on the bridge and threw stones into the still water
below. It was getting hot and he hoped Michael would be along soon. They had
talked about riding along the river track that skirted the mangroves passing an
old fishing shack. Local gossip at school was that some cranky bloke lived there
and yelled at anyone who ventured too close. Gary didn’t care. His dad yelled
all the time at him. He was used to it.

Dust rose as another bike skidded to a halt next to him. The usual greetings
were exchanged that young teenagers used and without discussing where to
go they just did. The heat would be unpleasant for riding in a couple of hours
and Gary wondered about a swim. Where the tidal river was blocked by some
rocks, water flowed down from above and they had waded here before. They
reached the old shack and kept going. No one challenged them as they rode
past and soon they were in a leafy section of forest as the track meandered
about. They stopped when a wallaby jumped out and just as quickly
disappeared, then decided to go through a thicket onto the creek.

There was a small grassy area and two large lizards were feeding on something
in the grass. They turned their heads when the bikes appeared then scurried
off to ascend a tree. The boys headed for the water but Gary looked over at
what the lizards had been eating and thought it was a large kangaroo. “Look
Michael. Some dead ‘roo over there.” They took some steps towards it and
then stopped. Kangaroos did not have arms and legs or wear clothes. For a few
seconds they just stared then whilst Michael heaved his insides up, Gary used a
word or two his mum would not approve of. Then they high tailed it out of
there.

Peter Bradshaw followed the constable as they alighted from the 4x4 and
walked down to the creek. It was hot and he wished he was in his swimming
pool. But he wasn’t and he would have to do some work instead. Three other
police and a man in white overalls were already there. He put on some
overshoes and gloves that were offered and sauntered towards the body he
could see. It looked a mess. There was blood and strips of dried flesh every
where. Obviously the local animals had been feeding.

“Hello Frederick,” he said to the man in white overalls. “Definitely dead?” It

could have been a statement but either way it was the same result.

“Peter, your perception is amazing. Yes, he is dead. A day or so by the looks.

Can’t find the cause by looking so it may be just natural causes but more
should be revealed back at the mortuary.” Peter nodded and decided that to
keep his lunch he should look around. There were no nice pieces of evidence
apparent, even though the others had fossicked about and it would probably
be some poor person who just came for a walk and had a heart attack or
something. A question to no one in particular confirmed that there was no
wallet and no car or house keys. This was unusual and it was looking
suspiciously like robbery. The deceased was turned and slid into a bag before
being lifted. Bradshaw looked at the ground and something caught his eye next
to where the body lad lain. It wasn’t obvious at first but had been exposed by
the boot of one of the constables as they lifted. He picked it up and would
have chucked it away. Just a very small plastic ring that had split in two. There
was a marking that looked like a star and the letters ‘AND’ but that was all.
Whatever else there may have been to this was missing and although he
looked about, nothing was recovered. He pocketed it and with the thumbs up
sign, they departed after some tape was put around the site. Always a
precaution until they confirmed the cause of death. Peter Bradshaw hoped he
would not have to come back. Holidays were due and he had booked a trip to
the Sunshine Coast. Five glorious days just with sand and sun and cold beers
and hopefully some nice female bodies to admire as he soaked it all up.

Back along the fire trail and almost unnoticeable for it was off in some bushes,
he saw the back of a station wagon and he motioned the constable driving to
pull up. Bradshaw walked to the vehicle and had a look. It was in tact and was
locked. The others had followed him.

“Think it’s his?” The young officer had put his hands on the window to gaze in.
The inspector groaned inwardly. “Hands constable,” came out rather loudly.
The junior realised his transgression and jumped back. “Sorry sir.”

“Someone check the rego and lets just look about.” He thought it may not be
related but then you never knew.

“Sir.” It was the clumsy constable, now with a gleam, probably hoping to
redeem some credit points. “ Keys. On the ground behind the front wheel.”
This time he was definitely not touching them. They were bagged just as the
radio gave them the registered owner’s details.

“Gerald Fullbright. Local address.” Peter made a note of it then asked for
someone to wait by the car until he heard otherwise. If Gerald came to retrieve
his vehicle, he couldn’t. Then they left. It was getting on but the inspector
thought he could at least check out the local address. Fingerprints would be
taken but it was only a slim chance they would be on file. He had sent a
constable to check the old shack but it was empty and seemed disused.

The house was at the end of a quiet lane with lots of bushes and fifty metres or
so past any other residence. He heard kids playing back there but nothing from
this address. He knocked twice then walked around the place. Windows locked
and all serene. There was a big bird aviary at the rear but it was empty.
Unlocked and no seed or water. Peter decided to try the kids up the road.

He knocked on a door and a middle aged woman answered. “Yes?” Yelling

from children echoed from the rear. He introduced himself and enquired about
her neighbour. “Mr. Fullbright? Lives alone I think. Writes and likes birds.
Trevor said he had a hawk once in the cage but now I don’t know. There’s a
lady who comes every couple of days or whatever. Middle aged.”
“Friend? Relative?”

“ Don’t know but she had a vacuum cleaner one day. Might be a cleaner. “ She
turned to the inside and yelled. “Trevor.” A ten year old appeared with mud on
his face. “Trevor, you saw that woman once who comes next door. Where was
it?”
He looked at the stranger and then at his mum, then back to the inspector. “In
the library. Stacking books.”

Peter thanked them and left. The library was closed by now so he went back to
the station and rang the council. Eventually he got the Librarian’s number and
spoke to her at home. From this call he got the name of the assistant and
decided to call around. There was a light on and he felt maybe something
might get done tonight.

“Sit down inspector. Just home so you can have tea. Yes I clean for Gerald. Saw
him four days back.” She identified the car’s description but didn’t have a clue
where he would be. “Normally home each night but he did go to conferences.
On birds.” After a nice cup of black tea, he asked her if she minded going with
him to the house for a quick look about, which she didn’t. She opened the
front door and put on the light and he asked her to wait in the sitting room
whilst he did a quick tour. There was no one and nothing unusual. He looked
about his work desk and noted a brochure on a conference and a letter from
some Ornithological Society. He took the details down.

Finding nothing out of the ordinary, other than someone who should be home
and wasn’t, he rang the station. They reminded him about the man stationed
at the car. ‘Just wanting to get home’, he thought and then he thought about
the mosquitoes that must be out there. Still they could work a bit longer. He
requested a full length photograph to be brought down to the house. Now he
would have a cuppa whilst waiting.

Elsie, that was her name, recognised the clothes. She had picked them up
often enough and washed them from time to time. The inspector carefully hid
the mangled head when showing her. He offered a female constable to come
over for a while but she said she could handle it. He doubted if any one could
handle death easily. Now he had a name to his victim, which could be
confirmed more easily. He also had to move a bit more expeditiously as it
would be public knowledge as soon as Elsie had composed herself.

He told the constable to get back and organise a perimeter around the car and
ask Division for a command vehicle and back up. At first light they would
sweep in detail for clues and examine the car. He would go home and sleep
however. The alarm was set for five AM.
Next morning he went straight to the car and started to potter about. They had
just started and as yet found nothing. Birds were noisy and the day looked
promising. Even a frantic wallaby dashed past as he turned off the main road. A
side trip back to the site where they found the body, yielded nothing more
except animal and bird activity. Technically it was not yet foul play until he had
a cause of death, but he knew. Felt it in his bones. It looked like the Sunshine
Coast may be a little delayed. His mobile phone started annoying him with its
ring but he had to answer it. You couldn’t work these days without it annoying
you. It was the doctor down at the hospital.

“Think you should come over.”

“Right.” That was all Peter said. All he needed to say. It was the sinking feeling
in his stomach that told him this was not going to be a good day.

He hoped the body would be covered but it wasn’t. Not that he had a problem
with deceased persons, just that it meant someone wouldn’t be home for
dinner. Mangled bits didn’t help either. “Well Frederick, tell me it was a heart
attack or snake bite.”

“Wish I could, but not this time. Trauma was severe. His head and upper parts
were literally ripped to pieces and one eye has disappeared, the other I found
in his shirt. Not an animal or goanna to my knowledge. I am still not sure but
whatever it was, knew it’s job. Shock and loss of blood killed him within
minutes I would say.”

Peter winced and thought about it. “Guess?”

“I’d put my money on ripping talons. A bird of prey, eagle maybe.”

“One with a dislike for humans obviously.”

The doctor covered the form that was Trevor Fullbright. “Want me to get
someone from the zoo or museum down?”

“Probably need to. The coroner usually likes to know cause of death.
Misadventure. Could still be a one off attack by some big bird. Protecting its
babies.” But he knew it wouldn’t be that cut and dried. An inner sense told him
man had a hand in this. Time would reveal all. If there was time allowed.
Nothing came with the new search of the crime scene or Fullbright’s house but
as the media was getting on the band wagon, he remembered a brochure on
the victim’s desk. It was a printed programme for a conference last week on
birds or some related topic. A trip back to the house and he found the item still
untouched. On the surface not a clue, but he felt it could be a start. The
organiser was some north Queensland ornithological society and it was three
days at Port Douglas. Visions of sun and sand came floating back to Peter and
he thought about the holiday he had promised himself.

Back at the station, he did some searching and found a telephone number for
the society. He rang it and was told the president and secretary were in
America for a symposium on endangered petrels. Then they were going to
Norway for another one. He thought only birds were migratory, but it seemed
the devotees were also. However the co-ordinator was still in Australia. When
he was told that she was holidaying after the conference at the same hotel, he
felt the sand and surf could wait no longer.

CHAPTER TWO

The plane touched down at Cairns International Airport and the hot air hit him
with a blow as he stepped out. Still it was all in the name of science he thought.
The bus to Port Douglas was comfortable and cool and the scenery was
magnificent. Two hours later he found himself outside the Outrigger in the
Village. These bird people certainly lived a good life, he told himself. He had a
booking for two nights but whether he would need two nights was unknown.
He liked to stay focussed and move on to each aspect of case as soon as he
could. After a shower and some coffee, he asked for Mrs. Broane and was
directed to the garden where he found people relaxing in the shade and taking
in the view with a suitable drink. An attendant pointed her out and he
introduced himself. She was not what he expected. Actually he was not sure
what he expected but a vision of a spinster with white hair and surrounded by
bird books did come to mind. She was actually younger, mid forties he guessed
and well proportioned. Her casual outfit showed off her body to advantage
without being ostentatious. No bird books either.
“What can I do for you, Inspector? Sit down and get yourself a drink.” He did.
He also decided a beer would be in the course of duty, at least in this climate.

“You’re on holidays I take it. The bird society told me you are the only species
from that society left in this country so I flew up, pardon the pun, for some
information. Sorry to be a bit over the top but I really should be on holiday too
but work dictates.”

She smiled. “A sense of humour is a good asset. If it’s information on birds, you
could have tried the library.”

“Now we are equal. No, it’s about the conference last week and perhaps one
of its participants.”

She raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

“The conference. What was it on?”

“Well, it was to do with killing inspector. Birds of prey. Eagles, falcons, hawks
and so on. Maybe that is why you are interested. Killing?”

“Maybe. Anything unusual happen.?”

She signalled a waiter for another drink then looked at him. “Not really. Boring
to tell you the truth. Simmons dominated it as usual. Something overbearing in
that man. Usual stuff. Gerald was the only ray of hope and then that all fell
through. Glad it ended. Much better looking at the suntanned men around the
pool.”

“Tell me about Gerald Fullbright.”

She stiffened and looked hard at him. “You know Gerald?”

“We have met. Sadly I never got to speak to him. That is why I am here. Gerald
died a few days ago.”

She stood up then sat down again, and looked shaken. “What? How? I mean
he was only here last week. He wasn’t ill or anything.” She finished her drink in
one gulp. He was going to say something, but she started talking again, so
being the good policeman he was, he just let it continue. He could learn
something.

“You should know that Gerald and I were close friends. No, more than that. We
were good for each other. We would watch for spotted something or other for
hours then come back and have a good red and make love. We should have
stayed together but this conference…” She lapsed into a silence as her mind
thought about other times.

“What happened this conference?”

She blew her nose for a long time but he knew it was to cover her shock.
“Second day here we had words. Simmons was the cause. He has been chasing
me and came on to me in the hallway. Don’t you know it but Gerald appeared
and got the wrong impression. Normally he would take what I said as the truth
and that would have been that, but I handled it badly and he had something
else on his mind when he arrived. Didn’t say what, but it was to do with
Simmons. Not me, or it could have been. I felt it was more to do with those
bloody show birds Simmons used to breed.” She started crying and he offered
his handkerchief.

“Sorry Inspector. We never did resolve it. We argued and ended the
conference without even saying goodbye. I was hoping he would get over it. So
you see my holiday got off to a bad start, but I was determined to have a good
time and mend bridges later.” She started crying again and stood up. “Please
excuse me. Meet me in the bistro at six. I should be a little more in control.”
Then she was gone.

Peter Bradshaw had seen grieving ladies many times before, and often it was a
front, but not this time. He felt she was shocked. Anyway, she was here and
Gerald got topped thousands of kilometres away. And by a bird.

She was waiting when he arrived. They took a table and selected the meals and
he got the drinks. At first she ate then halfway through the meal she asked him.
“How did he die?”
“To be honest, we are not sure. Best finish eating then we can talk.”

She shook her head. “Tell me.” He told her with no punches pulled. She was
taken back but finished her meal and her drink. “Why would a bird do that? If
it was a bird. The fact that you are here probably means it was not a natural
misadventure.”

He looked at her. “We’re not sure but we have the feeling it was deliberate.
How? That is the question. Since you know about birds and such, would it be
possible for someone to control this? I mean organise birds with big claws and
beaks to attack a specific person?”

He could see her thinking about it. Then she nodded slowly. “In the Middle
Ages, Inspector, hawks were used to maim opponents and kill if possible.
Wounds would kill a victim anyway as there was little medical help available
then. Today it is unheard of. But there was something Gerald said to me
recently. He felt someone was illegally keeping prey birds and training them.
He didn’t say who or where but it concerned him. We bird lovers have a
standing in the community and that sort of thing gets the wrong publicity.”

“Simmons?”

“I don’t know. Gerald had a thing about the beauty and loving nature of birds.
That dark side was against his ideals.”

“Where does Simmons live? I have to start somewhere.”

She told him the information then shook her head. “Even if you found a cage of
savage eagles, inspector, how could you ever know it was them or even prove
it in court? I want you to succeed. Anything to help Gerald I will do. There’s a
fellow named Blake somewhere in Coffs Harbour who used to train peregrine
falcons. Rumour has it he used them to wipe out racing pigeons for sport and
some farmers complained they had taken a lamb or two.”

“Nice hobby. No one else? What about Simmons?”

“Simmons is a lorikeet man. Still any bird of the human species was of interest
to him. Story was he was sunbaking nude one day and this seagull landed on
his old fellow. He thought all his Christmases had come at once. Probably did.”
She laughed. It was the first time she had smiled since finding out about Gerald.
“I need a swim. The heat does get a little much, even at night.”

Peter thought she was strong, despite the pain. He stood up. “Good idea. I
think there is little more I can ask but if you ever think of anything, please call
me.” He passed a business card over to her and he watched it slip into her
handbag. She didn’t glance at it. This could mean she was wanting to keep the
realisation of Gerald at arms length, for now, or she was one cool lady.

It was a warm evening and after taking in the view of the Coral Sea from the
dining room balcony, he went up and changed into his swim togs and went
looking for the pool. He may as well have at least one swim whilst he was in
the tropics, and he was curious to see how she looked in bathing attire. She
was there, swimming slowly up and down. He sat by the side.

“Don’t look at it, just slip in to the water and really enjoy it.” Her words seem
to echo a little on the building wall. He smiled and did just that. It was not cold,
just mildly warm and he realised the sun up here would do that. He swam for a
bit then decided to do the lap, but had to give up near the end. He was just out
of practice. When he glanced back, she was sitting on the deck chair in a robe.
He swam slowly back and got out to retrieve his towel. “Nice in,” he said.

“It is. Inspector, I did think of something so this could save me ringing you.”
‘Pity’ he thought but kept the word to himself. “Yes?”

“It was a function about six months back. Gerald was there and Simmons was
quite his usual self. He made a pass at me and when I didn’t respond, he
became more aggressive. Gerald was standing with me and just tipped his
drink over the man’s shirt and pants. I was proud of him that night.”

“And what was Simmon’s reaction? As expected?”

“Not pleased Jan! He was angry and would have become physical but Gerald
grabbed my arm and we walked away. Yelled something about we wouldn’t
live past one day if we went to New Zealand.”

“Meaning?”

She shrugged her shoulders, which still glistened from the water. In this
temperature one didn’t need to towel down to keep warm. “I think he comes
from there originally. I heard that he had a mother or aunt still there. Some
property scandal was another rumour. One shouldn’t believe in rumours,
should they? Only the facts.”
“Very true Mrs.Broane. Still a policeman should have an open mind. Most
stories are based on some fact or other.”

She got up and extended her hand. “Well goodnight Inspector and have good
flight back. More importantly, succeed in your task.” He took it and felt a
finality in their meeting.

“Is there a first name? Mine is Peter.”

“There is. Kaye.” Then she walked off and around a corner and was gone. Peter
smiled to himself and decided that just meeting her had been worth it.
Tomorrow he would make some phone calls and head for Coffs Harbour. Time
to get active before the bird flew the coop.

CHAPTER THREE

The phone calls got some wheels in motion and he hoped the one to New
Zealand might yield something on this Simmons. He had no proof that it could
be him, just a gut feeling. If it was confirmed Simmons did get on the plane and
was in the United States, it meant he was back to square one in finding a
suspect. Maybe all this was just an accident anyway. Still.

It was still hot and sticky when he got off the small plane at Coffs Harbour and
picked up his hire car. Thank goodness for air conditioning. Back home at Airlie
Bay on the south coast, humidity was rare. He drove out of town and followed
the directions to a turn off. A gravel road left the highway and seeing a man
pruning some tree or bush nearby, he stopped to confirm he was on track.

“Blake. Reg Blake. Yes, go up the road about a K. Red roofed place. Painted
that when he come years back. We were on the show society together but he
isn’t now. After this hawk business, he didn’t get voted back in.”

“Hawk business?”

“He kept gosh hawks and the like. Used to see them circling up there. Some
farmer lost a cattle dog pup then a lamb was found mutilated and it was on for
young and old. RSPCA told him to get rid of them and he didn’t and then the
council got agro and so on. They are gone now”

Bradshaw thanked him and drove up the road. The roof was obvious and so
was the big aviary at the side. A man came out on to the veranda as he pulled
up.

“You’re a lawyer, aren’t ya?”

“No Mr. Blake. I’m not as bad as that. Just a policeman.”

“Birds are gone so you can’t arrest them.”

Peter put up his hands in mock protest. “Wasn’t going to. Can I sit down?”

He was motioned to a none too clean stool and then he had time to observe
his host closer. Not an older man as he suspected but not young either. About
forty five and roughly dressed but he had a bearing about him. A man who
would be confronted with adversity but would take it with some dignity. He
told him about Fullbright and hoped this direct approach might yield a direct
answer.

“No. My hawks would have never done that. Didn’t even know the bloke.
Anyway the RSPCA came and took them away. Sorry I can’t help. Sorry about
the bloke. Sure it was a bird? I mean birds don’t kill people. Well cassowaries
do. But they only live up in Cape York and that’s all exaggerated by the media.”

“Tell me about your birds.”

He sniffled a bit and looked out across the paddock which fronted his place.
“They was good birds. You know they are hunting birds but except for mice
and the like, they wouldn’t attack anything unless it was….well you know.
Certainly not big things. I never encouraged them. Couldn’t.”

The conversation petered out after that and Peter thanked him, got back into
his car and drove off. He turned to wave but Blake was looking up at the sky.
The trip into Coffs Harbour was quick and Peter found a takeaway. Whilst
there he made some calls on his mobile phone and got a couple of replies back
before he had drunk his coffee.
The Animal Park was just north of town. Zoo he noticed on the sign. The
former sounded more politically correct to him. He sought out the manager
and was shown the birds in question. “As you can see, we took them in from
the RSPCA fellow and they get looked after. Helps our business too.” Harry, the
manager, seemed a genuine sort of fellow.

The inspector was just about to leave when something occurred to him. He
looked at the birds again to be sure. “ Harry. I see three birds. The RSPCA told
me they took four away. Do you have another one somewhere else.”

“Oh. I didn’t mention that cause it didn’t seem important. The mix of sexes was
wrong and we didn’t have a spare cage. They were fighting. You know. Birds
are territorial and protect their partners. Bit like us humans. Anyway we had to
move one on.”

“Move it on?”

“Give it to someone else. We advertised on the net and this private collector
seemed the best at the time. Not too many offers. Hawks are a problem being
so aggressive and unattractive. He was licensed. Why are the police
interested?”

Peter smiled and put up his hands in mock despair. “Paperwork. In case there
is a court case but I doubt it. Better give me the details of this fellow anyway.
Did he pick it up from here?”

“Let me think. Not him. Sent a carrier. Small van with a suitable cage.” He gave
him the date and the other details and went to answer the phone. Peter waved
and left. He had not much time before the afternoon flight to Sydney.

Back in Sydney he made more phone calls and found out a museum curator
was on their way to see Fullbright’s body. It would have to be released for
burial in the next day or two. He caught a train from the airport and changed
for Penrith. It took two hours with bad connections and he introduced himself
to the local commander of the CID squad who offered him a uniformed man
and a car. The private collector of birds, namely one with a new hawk, gave his
address of business as about 25km south of town. It was a nice day, what was
left of it and the younger policeman was chatty. The inspector’s mobile rang
and he took the message. Most interesting, he thought. It was in response to
an enquiry to the New Zealand authorities. ‘Most interesting,’ he thought.
They found the property in a gravel road that serviced four other properties.
Most seem to run horses but the place they were after, Sunnygrove Animal
Logistics, didn’t have the feel of horses. In fact nothing at all, more neglect. The
garbage bins were all out in the road and the council truck was not far behind
the police car.

“Right constable. Lets walk around and check for intruders.”

The younger man smiled. “Yes sir. Can’t be too careful these days.” The noise
of the bin truck came to their ears as it entered the road and started on the
first bin. Peter was a dozen steps up the drive when he suddenly wheeled
around and ran back to the gate. The constable was instantly alarmed and
loosened his pistol. Then he relaxed as he saw the inspector grab the garbage
bin just as the truck pulled up. The truck was waved on and the bin was then
tipped over in the roadway by the inspector. The truck drove away, driver
scratching his head.

Already the inspector was sifting through the small amount of garbage remains.
“Public property out here.” The constable nodded in agreement. Into a large
evidence bag he put some pieces. Cigarette butts; a screwed up letter and an
invoice; some packaging and a few small electronic components and some
food containers. The milk carton had just expired so that meant some one had
been here recently. They walked around the house and back sheds but it had
the air of dereliction. There was a large bird cage, empty, and some recent bird
droppings were bagged. Although he could not use fingerprints taken on the
property as evidence until he had a search warrant, it didn’t stop him from
taking a couple on the bird cage and the shed door, ‘to assist the enquiry’ as he
put it to the other man.

“Anything in the bin of interest?”

“Very much so. An invoice to this address for electronics from the USA and an
empty wallet. Most of all, a letter addressed to a disgruntled lover, who
suddenly becomes a person of great interest. Our Mr. Simmons is back in the
picture. Why here though? We will have to find out more about this property
and it’s owner.”

The picture was starting to take shape but at the same time becoming more
confused. Peter Bradshaw made another call to his office then they went back
to Penrith. His local driver arrived two hours later and they headed south.
Tomorrow he might have some answers or might not, but he wanted another
look at the scene.

CHAPTER FOUR

Next morning he took a man and went to look at the area where Fullbright was
found. The missing wallet had made him curious and he wondered if the wallet
retrieved from the bin could be the same. Probably not but then you never
knew. A search turned up nothing new around the site except two brown bird
feathers. All he needed now was bird to match them to. He knew that was
impossible. As they drove out he stopped the car at the old shack and walked
around it. Nothing caught his eye except dirt and cobwebs and animal
droppings. Not to mention pigeon poo. As he went to walk around the front
again, he saw three cigarette butts in long grass. A smile came across his face.
More diligent searching rewarded something even better. Blown by the wind it
had escaped immediate attention before and would have now, except it was a
piece of packaging. Small and with no identifying marks. But he knew exactly
what to match it to. Then a soiled tissue that had blown under a small log and
was quite dry. Just rubbish but who knows. He would run out of evidence bags
if he was not careful.

When the messages back at headquarters were read, he sat back and relaxed
his mind.

“You look like the cat who swallowed the canary, Peter.”

He turned to the station duty officer. “Indeed. The canary has had its day so to
speak. I knew Simmons was involved but just didn’t know how. That wild card
of talking to the Federal Police has also paid off. Mind you a few gaps but I
think in two days, all will be revealed. Simmons comes back from the States
then and we will be there to arrest him for murder.”

“Deep breaths and memory pills are what you need. Simmons was overseas
when Fullbright was topped.”
“I know. Smart bloke but not smart enough.”

Just then a constable came in and gave him some photo copies. “I checked the
local motels and the like and bingo. He recognised Robinson’s face from the
photos and the date fits.”

The duty officer just shook his head. “Who is this Robinson?”

“A man who also will land from the States in a couple of days time.” The duty
officer just shook his head and walked out.

The next morning Bradshaw and his offsider drove to the outskirts of Sydney
and up the driveway of a property that was bordered by pine trees. The brick
house at the end was surrounded by grevillea trees in bloom and sat on about
a hectare of land. They could just see the neighbour’s roof. Peter rang the bell
on the off chance but he knew no one would be home. They walked around
the back and found a couple of sheds and some empty aviaries. They appeared
not to have been used for some time, except for the large one that still had
water in the containers and lots of white bird droppings. Whilst the assistant
was instructed to ‘by pass the padlock’ and obtain some samples, the inspector
produced some highly illegal keys from his pocket and tried the back door. It
finally yielded and that tense moment when one could expect a warning siren,
passed and he decided that the place was not alarmed, or if back to base, he
could fabricate something. A quick glance didn’t yield an obvious alarm system,
but still you never knew.

He wasn’t sure what he might find in the house. In the room that was
obviously the office and study he looked over the papers and in the drawers,
trying to leave these as he found them. Nothing of interest came to his eye. In
the bookcase he noted that the small shelf held only what appeared to be
fiction with the extensive reference section taking up the three longer shelves.
Amongst the stack of magazines and other brochures on the floor next to the
case, he saw some catalogues including one from some company in the USA.
What was interesting was what had caused his eye to hover on it. The same
logo as on the little piece of packaging in the bin that he was foraging into
recently. It meant nothing but he still smiled inwardly.

On the desk was a photo in a frame. Kaye Broane looked eloquent even in
black and white. He thought about their brief meeting and the body in the
swim suit. Obviously Simmons thought about her too. He moved his eyes on. A
phone number scribbled on the outside of the telephone book. He knew that
number because he had cause to use it earlier this year and the numerals were
the same as his birthday. That was why he remembered it. Looking back at the
bookcase, he saw the reference shelves were a mixture of bird related stuff
and a few other scientific topics but something else caught his eye that he
didn’t see the first time. Two books at the end. It was the title on one that
made him look twice. ‘Master of Falconhurst’. A classic from his teenage days.
Next to it was ‘Black Arrow’. Peter remembered reading that as well when he
was younger. Picking up the latter he saw a couple of folded sheets that had
been downloaded from the internet. It was a paper on bird and animal thought
processes from a study done by some Swedish doctor. It meant nothing but
seeing the small fax machine in the corner, he copied the sheets and replaced
the originals back in the book. May be they could mean something later.
Maybe nothing at all. What was more interesting to him now, was why two
works of fiction were not down on the bottom shelf in this well ordered room.
Particularly those two.

Any further thoughts were swept away when he heard a loud yelling from
outside. He recognised the sergeant’s voice and sensed the urgency in it. He
quickly left and exited the back door. The assistant was standing with a large
lever in his hand outside one of the two sheds and pointing to the window.
Bradshaw ran down to him. “What?”

“In there sir,” pointing through the dirty pane, “a body. I was just putting this
back after opening the cage when I looked through the glass and saw him. Or
her. Can only make out the legs and lower part. A cupboard is hiding the rest.”

The inspector peered through the window and as his eyes adjusted to the
gloom, he focussed on what had just been related to him. “ Use that thing in
your hand sergeant, and get this door open.” Suddenly he had a funny feeling
in his stomach. Not because there was a body inside, but that his perception of
the Fullbright affair had been thrown out the window. The door was jemmied
and they walked slowly in. There was an absence of noise. He had expected
flies but they were absent. Cautiously he advanced around the shelving so as
not to disturb any evidence and stood still as he looked at the form on the
floor.

He was dead of course but then he had never been alive. It was a tailor’s
dummy dressed in trousers and top. The adrenalin had stopped flowing and
they both laughed lightly at their own mistake. “Looked the real thing from out
there,” said the sergeant.

“I would agree. What is interesting is the head.”

The sergeant knelt to take a closer look. “It’s been mutilated. Knife or
something. Who ever did this was a psycho.”

As instructed, he took a couple of photos and then they left. Nothing could be
done about the door lock but the house door was closed and they left, hoping
they were not seen. ‘What do you make of all that sir?”

The inspector sat back. “Light. Light at the end of the tunnel,” and smiled. Back
at the station another note of interest. All it said was: ‘Need to go out on job
but the Pines had a match. Jamieson.’ It was drawing to a close.

CHAPTER FIVE

As evening fell, Bradshaw and two detectives, plus two Federal Police, were
waiting when Immigration indicated that Simmons had just passed through. He
saw them at the same time they saw him and he faltered before continuing to
walk on. They stepped in front and produced ID.

“John Tobias Simmons?”

“No. I mean yes.”

“Peter smiled at him. “Or is it Raymond Robinson? We have a warrant for your
arrest for accessory to the murder of Gerald Fullbright.”

The newly arrived passenger looked alarmed and dropped his shoulder bag as
he fished out his passport from his coat pocket. “My name is Simmons. See
here. My passport and this is definitely me in the photo. I don’t know a
Robinson or a, who was it, Fullbrighte That’s not my name on the warrant.” He
was becoming quite pale.

“I am sure the passport and the photo are quite genuine,” countered the
inspector. “Just that it is not yours.”

“The photo. That’s me” The passport was pushed in front of them.

“Striking resemblance I admit, but not you. We have proof of your identity. We
both know that Mr. Simmons gave you his passport willingly. When New South
Wales has finished with you, if ever, then I’m sure the Federal Police will be
waiting to discuss that issue. I will join you soon at Central CID. Sergeant.”

As Robinson was led away, Peter Bradshaw and one of his offsiders were
already heading for their own car and a hotel in the city.

Simmons was just leaving the elevator to get his taxi when the two of them
arrived and stopped in front of him. “John Simmons?”

“Yes. I mean no. My name is Robinson. I’m from New Zealand.”

“No sir. You may have Mr. Robinson’s passport with a photograph that looks
like you, but you are not he. In fact the owner of that passport is down at CID
headquarters right now. Funny, he tried to tell us he was you, but we both
know that is not correct. Don’t we?”

“Why are you harassing me? I have a plane to catch.”

Peter Bradshaw smiled. He had a good set of teeth for his age and smiling
showed them off to advantage. Not that he even knew that. “Not today. I have
a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Gerald Fullbright. Sergeant, caution
him. Then we shall join Mr. Robinson and I can think about my holiday.”

At Central CID, Inspector Bradshaw was relaxing with a black coffee. There
were still a couple of guesses but he felt he had the story more or less as it
happened and suspects sometimes helped you out without knowing it.

“Who is first?” It was the duty sergeant.

“I think Robinson. His solicitor has arrived and they have been chatting.
Simmons is still waiting for his but with his connections I imagine it will be
someone we have crossed swords with before. Ah. I see William Pringle has
just glided past the outer office. Smart but is he smart enough. OK. Let’s wind
up Mr. Robinson.”

Robinson was obviously nervous but said nothing. His solicitor started to object
to the charge saying his client was touring in the United States and did not
know the deceased. The passport problem was obviously a mix up and he
didn’t know he had the wrong one until he was there. He felt he should just
use it until he arrived back to avoid immigration problems.

“Let’s be adults here Mr. Smythe,” countered the inspector. “Your client was
using Simmons’s passport to establish an alibi for that person, well in the
knowledge that some serious crime was to be committed.”

“That is rubbish and speculation.”

“Save the protestations for the court room. And the court room it will be.”

Robinson sat still and said nothing. Smythe’s voice had raised a slight octave.
“My client is John Simmons, he has a valid Australian passport and he has just
returned from overseas. As to what crime someone else may or may not have
committed is of no bearing to him.”

The inspector knew that several people were listening to the interview from
the next room as it had stirred up some interest due to its unusual nature. He
wasn’t worried. “Firstly let me dispel the myth of who your client is. Whilst
your client was in the United States, he became intoxicated and was involved
in an altercation in a bar. This escalated and he decked a policeman who came
to sort it out. He was arrested, charged and in the course of that, was
fingerprinted.” Robinson was now looking down at the table. “As he was an
alien, as the Americans term it, his details went to US Immigration to decide on
whether his visa should still stand and then a courtesy call to the Australian
police. Because we had instigated an investigation into both Robinson and
Simmons…”

“Why?” The solicitor had interjected, but Bradshaw continued on. “It came to a
State level and we requested his fingerprints be sent to us. What we received
matched those held by the New Zealand police, as I suspected they would. You
see, your client had been in trouble over a fraud case a while back. Fingerprints
we will take today will further confirm that information”

“Where does New Zealand come into it. Why would you go there?”

“In the investigation into the serious crime, our investigation led us to a
property owned by Bellows Investments. A property used to house wildlife.
Even had a Fauna licence from the State. A business search told us that the
principal shareholder and current director is one Raymond Robinson who is a
citizen and resident of New Zealand. Now we know who this gentleman is and
that he is connected to our other more serious matter”

“I’m gone.” It was the first words Robinson had spoken.

“Quite,” cautioned the solicitor. They have nothing.”

“If I go down, it won’t be for murder.” Now the solicitor faltered before
advising him to say nothing more. Obviously he saw this as going further than
he had been briefed.

Bradshaw continued. “There are three shareholders actually. One is John

Simmons who is the subject of another but related inquiry. You had his
passport, Raymond. The third is Elspice Robinson, who we know to be your
mother and she is in a nursing home in Otago, by the way. You also know, Ray,
but not Mr. Smythe here, that Elspice is also the mother of John Simmons. You
had different fathers but the same mother. That makes him your half brother I
guess. Remarkable facial likeness we were informed. Very easy to see why the
passport photograph could be accepted either way. I have all the paperwork by
the way if you need to peruse it.” Smythe just shook his head.

Robinson looked at him with a kind of innocent face. “Has John been charged?
I told him he was an idiot. Over some woman. I didn’t know he would kill
someone. Just frighten them or something.”

The inspector’s eyes lit up. “Why did you say kill? I don’t believe it or the
related charge has been mentioned yet.”

“Mr. Robinson. Please do not say any more. You are done for passport fraud
but nothing else. Can I ask, Inspector, the nature of the other offence?”
Smythe was looking a bit more concerned now. The reference to the killing had
rattled him.

“You can. We have Mr. Robinson’s half brother in custody and sufficient
evidence to charge him with murder. Your client obviously had known that
that would be the proposed end, so he is facing serious charges. We intend to
prove that Raymond did know a very serious crime was to be committed and
he abetted this crime by taking Simmons’s passport and going to the USA for
the criminal purpose of providing a false alibi. It’s nice to know that when you
do get out of gaol years in the future, the Federal police will be waiting for you.
Raymond Robinson, you are being charged…..” The words were spoken and a
quiet Raymond Robinson was led away, despite the feeble pleas of his attorney.
Already Peter Bradshaw was already thinking about the main culprit.

William Pringle may have appeared calm and too quiet, but Peter Bradshaw
knew better. He had locked horns before. And Peter had won. But there was
no guarantee that he would win again. This was a very unusual case and some
of the evidence was controversial to say the least. As the charges were laid out,
Simmons protested and laughed. He maintained he was in the United States
but the gleam in the inspector’s eye warned him that was not going to last long.
Pringle just sat there until a break in the formal part came then he started.

“You know Inspector, this is all a load of cods wallop. This alleged crime has
nothing what so ever to do with my client. We have two minutes which is all
about the time you would need to lay out any so called evidence.”

“Why are you here, Mr. Pringle? A highly respected lawyer, if there is no case
to answer, would hardly waste his time. Of course the retainer would be worth
your two minutes.”

Pringle just stared at him. “Can we get on with it, or is it all fairy tales?”

After one hour and a bit more, they still were sitting at the table. Simmons was
now a little worried but Pringle just sat with a non descript look on his face.
“We will strongly deny the charges of course. I look forward to our battle, and
victory, in court.” Bradshaw could see he had him thinking. Gone was that
forcefulness of a previous encounter or even an hour ago.

“I also look forward to the battle, Mr. Pringle, but there will be no victory, I
assure you.”
Simmons started to protest but only received a warning to say no more. Then
he was taken away, and it was now over until the remand hearing.

CHAPTER SIX

Inspector Bradshaw and a colleague from Central CID, Charley Brawn, were
sitting in a shaded area at the back of the hotel, away from most of the other
patrons. It was the wind down time. The hearing would not be immediately
and the time to have his holiday was nigh. Charley Brawn went back a long way.
Almost to the academy days. All knew that his name did not preclude him from
not having a searching and enquiring brain as well.

“I missed all the discussions, being in Adelaide, so I know little about the case.
Want to tell me what put you on to him?”

As the inspector was drawing his first taste of the beer, his mobile phone rang
and he just shrugged and pulled it out. “The Station.” He listened and raised his
eyebrows. “Interesting. I’m at the Imperial. Yes.”

“What?” offered Charley. “Don’t tell me that fellow Simmons has confessed or
something. I know, topped himself in a fit of remorse. No, unlikely in custody.”

“No. The woman who got under his skin is here in town and wants to see me. I
interviewed her earlier on. Grab that chair. Melville is bringing her over.”

“What can you tell her? Rather what should you tell her?”

Bradshaw thought about it for a second. “Most I would say. She sort of
deserves it seeing that it was her boyfriend that was bumped off. Nice looker
too.”

They sat for five minutes or so then the bobbing head of the constable
appeared and with him was Kaye Broane. She hadn’t changed. That smile and
poise remained but he felt inside, she was probably still grieving a little.
Introductions were made and after the constable had left and drinks procured,
he asked what he could do for her.

“To be frank, I wondered if you could tell me how John Simmons did it. If you
can.”

“If you would like, I can. The evidence is now a matter of record and now his
attorney has it, very public I would dare say. The why, you probably can guess.
I think he is a very obsessive person. The distinction between what is
acceptable in society and what is not, just did not apply to him. He saw
something and he wanted it.”

“Why me?”

“I don’t think you were the first woman he wanted, whatever the
consequences, but he blurred the edges and didn’t know when to stop, in
you’re case. Sadly Gerald was in his way.”

Brawn put up his finger. “What put you on to him anyway.”

“Like all crimes we need motive; opportunity and evidence. Who had the
motive? Obviously Simmons fitted that bill. There could have been others not
in the frame, but I started with him and tried the other two factors.
Opportunity was masked by him supposed to be overseas, but I wondered
about that. I spoke to the bird society secretary here, and she came back to say
that he had not gone to the American conference but was resting. I thought
that interesting and worked on a theory that maybe he had slipped back
somehow.”

“You guessed right, in a way,” offered Charley.

“Not straight away but once we had the family involved, it slowly came to us.
Then there was evidence. Evidence is the most important thing. Without it you
don’t get convictions. So working on the presumption that we had a prime
suspect with motive and opportunity, I started on the evidence trail.”

Kaye finished her drink and Charley held up his hand to attract a waiter who
came to clear glasses. Kaye was pensive for a moment then asked him. “How
did he do it?”
“Well, I would think this was not done on the spur of the moment because a
lot of pre planning was needed, and preparation. It would have started to
formulate in his mind soon after a so called rejection, and he bided his time.
He needed a murder weapon and since he doesn’t appear to be a hands on
assailant, despite his attitude, he needed to hire one, so to speak. He actually
used a peregrine hawk to do the killing.”

“How? I mean small birds don’t kill humans. Do they?” She was looking puzzled.

“Not normally. No they don’t, but this one had a reason to. You know Simmons
was really clever when you think about it. Lucky too. Sorry, I digress but this
was a quite unique crime. He acquired a bird that was capable of inflicting
serious damage and an electronic transmitter that was available in the United
States originally to bring animals and birds back to base with a gentle homing
signal. But it could be adapted with higher frequencies to confuse or upset the
animal, and make it quite agro. Studies had been done that found if a receiver
was fitted to an animal at certain frequencies, the animal or bird would focus
on following the ever increasing transmission to its source in an effort to stop
the effect.”

Charlie butted in. “Much like a loud ringing in the brain that drives you silly or
better still, a radio that is not tuned in properly and is so loud it causes you to
go bananas until you can get to it and turn it off.”

“Something like that. Apparently the American army was experimenting with
the idea of using it to get messages and data back to base, but abandoned it in
the 1980s and it was then used commercially for enhancing pigeon racing and
so on. Not very legal. Anyway he needed to attach the receiver to his bird, easy,
and the transmitter to Gerald. Not so easy.

“Why not an eagle? It is a bigger predator and seems to me a better choice.”

Peter smiled. “A bird man from the museum told me if you had a choice
between handling a wedge tail and a falcon, he knew what he would not even
attempt to do. Eagles are just too aggressive and big. On the other hand,
falcons were trained hundreds of years ago to be handled and with a bit of 21st
century technology, it would be ideal. I found books on the subject at his house,
including a couple of classics written a long time ago on falconery.”

“So what did he do?” Kaye was itching to know. For that matter so was Charlie.
“Never rush a good story.” He took a long sip to jokingly emphasise his point.
“When Simmons got hold of his hawk he could put his plan into action. He took
it to his brother’s place where he experimented with the device. You should
have seen the dummy he used. Nothing left of the face. Then he went to near
where Gerald lived and booked into a motel, as Robinson of course, and
knowing Gerald’s passion for bird watching most days, he followed him the
next day and found the spot to carry out his plan. We are not sure of the
details but he must have gone to Gerald’s house when he had gone to the
shops or something, and planted the small transmitter in the collar of his
jacket. We found a piece of it at the murder site but not all of it. The next day
Simmons was ahead of the unfortunate man, waiting at a shack nearby. When
Gerald walked past him, he released the bird. It was a wonder no one heard
the screams but that is the luck of the game I suppose.”

“And the bird caused so much injury that Gerald would die?” Charlie was
intrigued.

“Simmons would have known that from his testing. He was at the body
afterwards, probably to make sure but also for something else.”

“What?”

Bradshaw nodded slightly. “The wallet. Something I guessed when I searched

Simmons’s house. A professional card. They all had them for the various
conferences and so on.”

Kaye rummaged in her purse and produced a folder. As she extracted the
contents she gave a gasp. She held up one from Simmons. “I forgot about
these.” Her eyes lingered a second over another one and the inspector
gathered it was Gerald’s.

“Something he may have remembered at the last moment or had no

opportunity to remove.”

“But why take it? Everyone has them.” Kaye was curious.

“Removing himself from the picture. He had gone to a lot of trouble to make
sure his name did not come up and this was a loose end he did not want. It was
really not incriminating as it was quite normal, but then Simmons was not
normal.”

“But you need evidence. You said so yourself. ‘Evidence is the most important
thing in proving a case.’ Where is the bird? It seems without it, this could be
very difficult to prove.” Charlie was thinking like a policeman now.

“True,” Peter replied, “but given time all will come to pass. Simmons would not
kill the bird I feel but probably just let it go. And if my museum friend is right,
one day it will find its way back to where it came from.”

“Not Simmons’s house?”

“No. It originally came from a bird handler, Blake, up in Coffs Harbour. We

have impressed upon him that we need to know if it ever does. Hinted that not
telling us would implicate him in Gerald’s murder. I think he got the message. A
reward was also an incentive. No, he was never involved. When the falcons he
had, got him into strife locally, they were taken to the local fauna park. They
couldn’t accommodate one so they advertised in whatever you advertise in
and that is where Simmons saw his opportunity. Using his brother’s name and
licence, he offered to take it and took it to Robinson’s place. The rest you know.
The alibi of swapping identities was clever, I have to admit. Could have worked
if not for the DUI.”

But Charlie was persistent. “The evidence? What did you have?”

“Bits and pieces but they all fitted once we tied him to Robinson. In the
garbage from Robinsons we had an invoice and packaging from the States and
the wallet. Cigarette butts with his DNA on them. Bird poop which we can
match to other droppings at the crime scene. Identification that he hired a car
and stayed in a motel near the scene at that time. More cigarette butts and
packaging at the cabin. Did you know that Blake had an extensive feather
display? We were able to match feathers from his bird with feathers found
both at Robinson’s place and the actual crime scene. Not to mention the
cabin.”

“Can you do that with feathers?”

“They tell me yes. Also at the scene I found a used tissue with his DNA and bird
lanolin. The same type of lanolin as found on the body and at Robinsons.”
Kaye flexed her fingers. “They get stiff. I think arthritis. Anyway I never knew
about this DNA stuff with bird droppings.”

Peter smiled. “Well to be honest, neither do I. Oh I imagine it will come but it

sure as hell frightened Simmons. Of course if the bird ever comes home to
roost we won’t need to wait for that scientific breakthrough.”

“”You can’t be serious?” Charlie was a bit incredulous. “You told Simmons and
the court you had evidence you don’t have.”

“No. I told them I had bird poop. Not a word about matching it. Imagination
did the rest.”

Kaye was laughing. “You are a sly old fox, if I may use the phrase. What
happens if the actual evidence is not enough in court. It sounds enough but
without the bird?”

“We have his DNA at the site. It should be enough. If he gets off, he gets off.
We will keep tabs on him and one day we will get him. He knows that.”

“She stood up. “I must not keep you. Thanks for everything.” The extended
hand was taken. She said goodbye to Charlie then started to walk off. Then she
turned her head back. “I hope he goes sunbaking in the raw again before the
peregrine is found.”

Peter and she laughed at the irony and then with a gesture she was gone.

“What was that about?” Charlie looked mystified.

“Another time old friend. Time for my holiday before that bird does come
home to roost.”

Jimmy Brook
 JUST A FEW BONES
_____________________________________________________
 by

JIMMY BROOK

“History is never written in stone. Even after

countless ages, it will need to be re written
as our knowledge is challenged."

A story of a discovery that re wrote history. Was it

really true or the imagination going too far?
An archaeologist follows up a find of bones and ends
up with more than he imagines.
 JUST A FEW BONES

The Hi Lux slowed on the highway as the gravel track loomed up in the strong
high beam. "Looks like new tracks. Hope there's not too many down here." The
driver changed down as he hit the first pot hole. "Don't worry Gazo, it's a big
ocean and there's lots of fish. After your effort two weeks ago, probably still be
plenty left after tomorrow."

Gary stuck his finger up in the air and gave a short laugh. "You're on mate. A
case of VB to who catches the most."

"To whom", came a voice from the seat in the back of the twin cab. "Don't you
blokes know any English?" The comments from Ben and Gary made further talk
on this subject unwise, or he would be doing the looking for firewood. Johnno
had learnt the hard way. Not far down the bumpy track, it widened out and
fingers of grassy areas poked out from clumps of paperbark trees that dotted
the area. A tent appeared from one area but that was all. The boys drove to
the far end and pulled up.

"Not as many as I thought," said Ben. "All the more fish for us."

Johnno just grunted. The tent was tossed out and soon erected and a scout
around with torches found some timber, none too dry but with the help of
some kerosene, soon caught. The beer supply was soon down by a few cans
and with talk of the many fish that had got away or shrunk as they were landed,
sleeping bags became refuges from the cool night.

Next morning was overcast and breezy and Ben who had been first up and by
necessity out finding a handy tree, was not optimistic about the weather. With
breakfast over and Johnno forcibly talked out of having a shave, they sorted
the tackle and headed down the sandy track behind the tent, towards the
beach.

"No sign of the other people," ventured Gary as he cast a glance back up the
camping area. "Could be already out fishing."

Ben gave a chuckle. "Might be a bloke with his bird. Doubt if fishing has
entered his mind."
"Why don't we bring along some chicks, then we could have the best of both
worlds. Fishing in the day and company at night." Johnno had a grin from ear
to ear.

Gary gave him a bash with his tackle box. "And what chick would you know let
alone spend a night out here with you? Anyway, fishing is men's business.
Would spoil if you had women along."

Johnno didn't turn around. "Guess who isn't getting any?" then ran a few steps
to avoid any further assaults by the tackle box. But it was all good banter as the
youths had been friends for years, and was soon forgotten as the beach came
into view over a small sandhill. It was a long rugged beach disappearing into
the distance to the north and ending nearby in a rocky headland, the other
way. Behind the beach a long row of small sandhills covered in low vegetation
acted as a barrier, keeping back the bush on one side and the never ceasing
waves on the other. Not a soul was to be seen.

After an hour, the beach rods had produced only three Flathead of medium
size and one large butterfly fish who had strayed from the rock foreshore
nearby. It was tossed back, never really a suitable fish to eat. Ben and Gary
decided to give the rocks a go, but Johnno who actually had a secret fear of
waves sneaking up on you and slippery rocks in general, said he would give it a
miss for a while and walk along the beach. "Might find a bottle with a message,
or something."

"Come and save me from this nasty pirate man. You'll know the island, it has a
big palm tree." The falsetto voice of Ben made Gary crack up and even Johnno
couldn't refrain from smiling.

"If it's stuffed full of money, your loss." Then he turned around and headed
north. The wind that had sprung up, picked up small particles of sand and
stung his legs, and threatened to take his floppy hat at every puff. A big sea a
few days before had scoured depressions in the sand and Johnno even noticed
where some waves had groped at the sandhills then fell back. He walked on.
Looking back his companions were becoming smaller as they stood on the rock
shelf. He often felt the 'junior' member of this group and hoped that maybe he
could boost his status by landing some decent fish. Some driftwood lay as he
sauntered past, like some orphan or beggar in a foreign street, hoping for a
handout or at least a second look. 'Wouldn't it be a laugh if he did find a bottle
with a message. No, such things don't exist. Do they?'
A larger sand dune than the others appeared on his left and finding the eternal
beach starting to lose it's appeal, he turned across the sand and started to
climb over wax plants and salt resistant grass clumps, to the top. If the weather
had been hotter, he would have sat in his shorts and soaked up a few rays, but
today he was glad of his thick coat and beanie. The beach stretched onward to
the north. Somewhere up there was town, but ever so far up there. The other
way the cliffs that rose up to confront the sea were smaller at this distance. It
took a couple of minutes to catch a movement and locate his friends. 'Pulling it
in by the ton.' The thought flickered and then died. In front was the great
ocean. There since the dawn of time almost, and yet no record of what sailed
upon it remained, minutes after the happening. The heyday of coastal shipping
from the big sailing vessels to the coastal steamers. Gone and you never knew
it.

Johnno wondered about how many fish were out there, just beyond the
breakers. Behind the sand hill was a small level patch, protected from the wind
and he wondered what it would be like to be there, to be there with a
girlfriend and only the sea gulls to see them. He'd never had a girl friend.
Something caught his eye in the middle of that wishful spot. Something grey.
He walked down and immediately it was so quiet out of the wind. The grey
object was more white. When he tugged at it, there was resistance then it gave
and he almost recoiled in horror when it became a
bony finger and then a bony hand. He dropped it and took a step back, heart
racing. 'Take a hold boy' he said to himself, 'it's long dead.'

He picked it up and saw how bleached it was. Then kneeling down he started
to scoop away the sand from the spot but nothing else appeared immediately.
He widened the hole a little and felt a stick, only it was a bleached white stick
of bone. Apprehension took the place of exploration and it was time to leave
and get back as soon as he could. At the top of the dune he turned as the
thought struck him that he would need some proof. Removing his coat and t-
shirt, he replaced the coat and went back to wrap the hand in his shirt.
Suddenly this idyllic spot where he may have
created life had become a place where life had been taken. Overhead the dark
clouds gathered and he walked quickly along the beach front to where he
would find comfort.
They were sitting on the sand, beach rods already back probing the waves.
"About time you showed up. We need a beer and some lunch." Ben stood up
and started reeling in.

Johnno lacked colour in his voice when he replied. "I was up behind a sand hill
and found something."

"Lucky you. Want to share it....." Gary didn't finish his sentence for Johnno had
unwrapped his t-shirt and just stood there exposing the bony hand. "Holy
Hell!"

Rain was falling and had been for most of the day. The phone on David
Myfield's desk rang. A balding man in his fifties gave a sigh and decided that it
could continue to ring. The last autopsy had been finalised and the detectives
were hounding him for
results. Then there was that test he needed to finish on that other case. The
life of a forensic officer could be a pain sometimes. The phone continued to
ring. Finally the fingers left the lap top and pressed rather heavily on the phone
console. The noise had lost his train of thought.

An hour later, David Myfield and his younger colleague were in a 4x4 heading
south from the city. The rain continued and both knew they would not be back
until at least tomorrow. By the time they got to wherever this remote place
was, it would be dark and all that could be done would be to rope off the area
and wait for daylight. After all if it was a few bones then another few hours
wouldn't change anything. In town they drove to the local police station, a
small Federation brick building dating back to when robust sergeants kept the
peace and kicked young offenders back into line before the system ruined
them. The rain was still falling and night approaching as they moved quickly
inside to be met by the only occupant, a middle aged woman in civilian clothes.

"Hello. I'm Moya. I'm a volunteer. The officers are down at the site, or scene or
whatever you call it and I'm to tell you that they will stay there overnight. Bill
Guinness has loaned them his off road camper. Wouldn't want to be sleeping
out in this, would you?"

The forensic man nodded. He was dying for a toilet and then a whisky. "Any
point going out tonight? The report said a few bones, a hand probably."
Moya waved her arms about. "No, for sure. If it's bones then a few more hours
won't change anything." Then peering at them, said slowly, "will it?"

"No. If we can get DNA from dinosaur bones then a human bone
won't mind waiting a little longer."

She looked at them and smiled. "Whatever you say, you're the doctor. Room in
the 'Blue Lagoon' reserved for you although at this time of the year why
reserve it. Track into Bungey Beach is about 15km south. Tom left a piece of
police tape on a tree. Not far. He asked the boys who found whatever it was,
to stay. Well if that is all I'll lock up and you have a nice trip. Avoid the chicken
mornay. Word is she uses dead pelicans."

Myfield groaned inwardly and they left. The service station down the road
provided directions and a toilet. Now he could enjoy that whisky. Actually he
didn't know if young Jason was a whisky man, but he seemed pretty normal, if
being a forensic person, you were able to maintain that perception. Next
morning the skies had that leaden look but no rain was falling. Jason had a
liking for Bourbon and Coke which suited Myfield but also a liking for two
hours of rugby on the room's TV which didn't suit Myfield. Still there could be
worse things in life. All this way for a hand! They made sure they had a good
breakfast on the expense account then left, finding the marker tape and a
track full of mud puddles.

The camp complete with Bill's camper was located and three youths sitting
around a very smoky fire, gave a wave. The two policemen had already gone
up to the scene with spades in case any fishermen came along the beach, and a
couple of the boys would take Myfield and his assistant. They were offered a
mug of tea from the billy on the fire and forensic officer thought the police
could wait a little longer. Finally they walked to the beach and then along the
sand that seemed to David Myfield to stretch on forever. Jason carried his
pathology kit and camera, for him. The two policemen were waiting, rugged up
in thick coats for the cold on shore wind had not abated.

Tom, the senior constable, led the way and soon they were all standing around
the long bone that Johnno had started to pull out.

"How'd you come to find the hand?" the forensic officer asked of the young
fisherman.
Johnno coloured a little. "I was sitting on the top up there looking for fish.
Sorry, just sitting there and I looked down here and thought. Anyway I saw
something white. No grey, only it was really white." He coloured more at his
flustering. Authority did that to him. There was silence as everyone waited for
him to continue. A sea gull shrieked overhead. "I pulled it up and it became a
skeleton, well a hand skeleton, if that's what you call it. Then I dug a bit and
found that arm thing and got out of
here. I took the hand and wrapped it my t-shirt. Probably shouldn't have
touched it."

He stuck out his fingers. "You can take my finger prints if you want, for
elimination if it....." He trailed off, lost for words.

"It won't be necessary, John. Johnno. I doubt if there would have been any on
the bones. The corrosive forces of nature have seen to that. Myfield looked at
the policemen. "Well, lets carefully dig and see if the rest of Mr.X is still here.
Or Mrs.X. You look around, senior, for anything of interest. Weapon maybe?
Clothing?"

"Did that last evening when the boys rang in and called us out. And again this
morning, as best we could without trampling everywhere. Nothing caught our
eye. Looks like it could be months or even years ago."

They started digging. Two hours later they had radioed Area for assistance. By
lunch time they had unearthed eight skeletons. Myfield didn't need a degree in
forensic medicine to soon tell him that most, if not all, of the persons whose
bones were now
before them, had died violently. Smashed skulls, broken ribs and other bones
indicated this. They were not spread out too far except for two who were lying
on their fronts. These were only located when Myfield decided to widen the
dig. How long they had been there would need laboratory testing. The fears of
a serial killer's burial or killing ground was foremost in their thoughts.

By afternoon, some twenty people were engaged in various activities,

widening the area of the dig and carefully removing bones and skeletons for
transfer to Sydney. Until the age of the bones could be ascertained, whether it
was a recent crime or not, could not be established. By night, no further
remains could be located and it was assumed that what they had was it. David
Myfield and Jason spent another night at the Blue Lagoon and came back next
morning. More police arrived and they extended the area further, but apart
from lots of old timber and bits of metal, it appeared yesterday's count was all
that the sand would reveal.

A new theory was emerging that if the bones were many years old, these could
be aboriginal, perhaps a battle site. Myfield let it go because none of the skulls
he had seen had that characteristic outline for aboriginals. The wide nose
cavity and high cheek bones were absent. Whether Asian or European, would
only be found back in Sydney. Once before he had made a snap statement at a
crime scene only to be proved wrong. Now he let the facts speak.

Back in Sydney, Jason started laying out the bones as close as he could to
individual skeletons. They had tried to keep each lot of bones in tact when
removing a find from the sand. There wasn't a lot of space in the laboratory,
but a meeting room had been co-opted and with another table, five remains
were laid up here. David Myfield was in early the next morning and nodded
approval at his assistant.

The reference books confirmed that these were not aboriginal nor Asian, but
definitely European. Also seven of them were male, the other only consisted of
a head and the top part of it's spine, so sex could not be determined
immediately. Probably male. The media were having a field day with as many
stories as grains of sand. Missing Person files were being re scrutinised and the
serial killer theory became the hot favourite. Belangalo State Forest and it's
dark past, surfaced from the media vaults and every one wanted results,
whatever they were.

The normal testing of the bones to determine their age was inconclusive. If
anything, it seemed to indicate the bottom end of the scale, that is fifty years
at least, maybe even a hundred. The causes of death were a little more
obvious. Heavy blunt instrument and some sort of thick blade, maybe a
bayonet. The detectives talked to locals including aboriginals, but no one knew
anything about missing people or the site.

The Sydney Maritime Museum was asked about shipwrecks in the area, as far
back as they had records. Any stories of massacres of survivors by local natives,
was eagerly sort, but nothing matched. All that was left was to send down
some university types to start a dig and sieve operation and hope something
turned up. Myfield had little else to go on. The skeletons all had one thing in
common, their size. Most were around the 5' to 5'2" height. As Australians had
now surpassed this mark, it lead to suppose they were European and at least
100 years old. It was now up to longer pathology tests to see what the bones
contained. The next day the results were not encouraging. The limited testing
facilities in this area had found little.

"Jason, my lad, any brain waves?"

"Well they had a lot of salt and iodine in them. Mean anything?"

Myfield rolled his eyes. "Yes. It means they've been buried in a sand dune for a
hundred years, next to the ocean."

Jason gave a sheepish grin. "Of course. Just testing you."

"Well your testing has cost you a malt blend, nay, pure malt, after work and
then you can clean up this museum of bones and...." He stopped talking and
looked into space. Jason felt it wise to keep his lip buttoned.

"Museum. There's a try. No my lad, leave all as it is today. I think we just might
pass all this lot on," then with a grin, he turned away.

Jean Silvers smiled that smile of a contented and happy woman. It probably
had something to do with the bare chest of the person lying next to her and
upon which she had her head. Life was good. Another year's funding from the
Faculty to continue her archaeology post graduate work. A soul mate in Ray
who shared her zeal and passion for work, although his was in other directions,
and somewhere decent, for a change, to live. Actually it was Ray's place
originally, but after six months of going together, he just said one night that if
she wanted to stay permanently, she could. No strings. She needed some time
to think about this development. After all it was like, well like a commitment.
And there was her life in archaeology. Admittedly this was people but old
people and old animals and she needed also to have a life with living people.
She rang his door bell at nine one night and with nothing but a toothbrush in
her hand, asked if the offer still stood. That was four months ago.

He stirred and she knew it was time to get up and go to work. The hot shower
refreshed her skin and then a vague outline outside the screen door. She
smiled but she needed to get an early start today.

"Phone call. Don't rush, he's gone."

Jean turned off the water and opened the door. "Who was it?"

Ray smiled. "It will come to me. You could help me to remember."

But she was out and towelling herself. "Some of us have to work for a living,
unlike the History Department. It amazes me how you people can get any
money each year to do what ever you do."

"Talent my dear. Said his name was Myfield and to ring him when you got in."

'Now what would the police forensic poo bah want me for? Interesting.'

At the university, she checked her programme for the day and asked her
assistant about research data that had been promised from Birmingham
University two weeks ago. Then she fished out David Myfield's telephone
number and gave him a ring. It was an interesting 15 minutes. She had
naturally heard about the skeletons found on the south coast but like most, it
was an item to take in then move on.

"Ange," she yelled. A head popped around the corner of the partition that
separated her cluttered desk from the rest of the small research area. "You
rang?"

“No, I yelled actually. There's some bones coming by courier from Sydney. A
whole skeleton in fact. New South Wales Police want our help. Should be here
late today, We need to do some testing including a CD and maybe a profile.
Organise a String
Analysis as well."

Ange raised her eyebrows. "I hope they are paying."

"They are. On another direction, what have we got on that fire place dig from
Mungo?"

"On your desk, somewhere, if you didn't stop covering it with more junk."

The phone rang and ignoring the laconic remarks from her offsider, Jean picked
it up. "Hello. Bones are us."

"Great advertisement." It was Ray's voice. "You alone?"

"No, there's this weirdo on the phone. I'm about to be verbally molested." She
saw Ange stick her tongue out at her then walk away.

"This could go on forever, but I'm actually working. A seminar on Greek

cultural diversity in the 2nd century BC awaits me."

"Fascinating I'm sure. Any thing else while I have ten seconds?"

"Yes. Billy and Doreen want us over for dinner Saturday night. Yes? No? Hope
it's yes 'cause they have a pool."

"I know they have a pool and yes. Now go away, I have work to do."

"Love you," and he was gone.

She mused for a minute and thought, 'yes life was good.'

The activity at the that lonely beach hill had now moved from one of major
frenzy to one of quiet pecking. Only one policeman remained, mostly sitting in
a chair or occasionally walking along the beach. His job was to give an official
presence to the work of the three others from one of the Sydney universities
who were meticulously turning over small areas with short spades and sieving
through a rectangular mesh screen. A camp had been set up back at the end
of the track from the highway including Bill's camper which was the official
residence of whatever policeman was on duty.

Public interest had slightly waned as the days wore on and even a reference in
the newspapers was limited to a couple of lines. Until something major like,
more bodies or a sensational capture of the perpetrator in a Kings Cross hotel,
it would remain this
way. There was so little evidence, other than the bones, that the police soon
exhausted avenues of exploration and it became a case 'under investigation'.
There were more recent cases of bones, with flesh still attached, in other
places that required a more urgent presence. Sadly the act of killing still
happened in human society.

David Myfield had organised his only remaining examination of the remains,
that of determining if the bones had their present corrosion accelerated due
to the presence of wind and sand blasting and the dozens of minerals found in
sea water. Maybe they were not that old and only gave an appearance of such.
A private laboratory did this and returned his specimen, along with a hefty bill,
a few days later. No. If the external forces of nature had sped up the process,
the core was already old. He was back to 50 year old, plus, bones.

The wait for the ANU team to finish their stuff was forgotten as other work
crowded the daily schedule. Then he had to fly to Adelaide for a three day
seminar on cell regeneration under changed lymphatic conditions, and the
bones were put out of sight as the on board whisky came in view. On the way
to the dinner party, Jean mentioned about the bones, to Ray, who politely
replied that without some decent meat attached and well marinated, he had
no interest. Still, from an historical point of view, if they were shipwrecked
sailors of a coastal vessel, it became historical, and therefore meat of a
different kind to him. Still his current work was on the Sumerians and hence
just a little before Australian history.

On Monday, Jean Silvers found the results of the CD testing on her desk,
prominently displayed.

"Thought you might miss them," said Ange. "I think something is not au fait in
what they say." Her sense of humour sometimes just had to be ignored.

"Why?" There was no reply and Jean scanned to the relevant parts, then slowly
went over them again. "These can't be right. Settings must be wrong or
something. Did you check the input parameters?"

"Yep. And the co-ordination logs. Either we have a serious equipment

condition or the theory of 50% in carbon dating has just gone out the window."

Jean sighed. "Unlikely. The government is paying, so lets do it all again and we
both check each other all the way. Do we have access?"

Two days later, the revised results were laying on the table. The faculty head
stood with his hands behind his back looking at the spectrograph equipment.
He turned around. "Beats me, Jean. If all is as it should be, and you assure me
it is, them you have some meat on your plate that needs some thought. Or
more accurately, a lack of meat on your plate. "

She gave a limp smile.

"Your baby. Best of luck when you talk to that forensic fellow." Then he gave a
wave to both of them and strode out of the room.

There was silence for a while, then Jean picked up the phone as her assistant
discreetly made herself absent. Myfield was out but was expected back in a
few minutes so she hung up and waited, turning the papers around in front of
her. The String analysis had to go to Britain but she expected something in the
next day or two by fax.

The coffee had barely been sipped when the phone buzzed. She picked it up.
"Yes, Doctor, thanks for calling back. I guess you are waiting on some results.
Not that they may help. The String is due in two or three days but the CD has
been finalised. We actually had to do it twice, but I'm sure the New South
Wales government has some spare money." There was a pause. "No, it was
necessary." Another pause then, "How old? Well according to modern science,
your bones are not very old, that is in archaeological terms. CD analysis puts
them at between two and three......thousand years." She waited.

The conversation went on and a confused Myfield said he would wait until she
had the String. Jean made another coffee.

Ange poked her head around the partition. "Not happy, was he?"

"What do you think. Ring Birmingham and hurry them along."

Ange looked at the clock. "It's dark over there." The look on her boss's face was
enough. "OK. OK. I ring," and she disappeared.

Ray's interest was captured as she talked over a glass or red that night. "Very
odd. Definitely not aboriginal you say?"

"No. It seems all wrong. DNA will be in tomorrow. How you placed for this
weekend?"

"He drained his glass and looked at her. "I'm doing reserves for our match
against Medicine on Saturday. Some papers to finish whenever. More?" He
offered the bottle.
"No thanks. Get someone else on the reserve list. How about a dirty weekend
away?"

"He blinked. "We don't have to go away, remember. We live here."

"No, I mean dirty as in digging up the South Coast. I want to have a nose about.
I thought it would be right up your ally."

Ray sucked his breath. "Actually it has interested me. Two thousand year old
bones in our own backyard and not indigenous. Or so they say. Could be some
a historical link here that just might....."

"What? Might be what?"

"Just a wild theory. We go. I'll ring Bennsy and ask him to stand in for me on
Saturday. Now, any immediate plans?"

"Yes, the dishes."

The String Analysis arrived by fax on Friday and confirmed that the bones were
over one thousand years old. Not as exact as Dating but the two together
would seal the age. However DNA could do other things. It could give the
medical condition of the owner and to some degree, his ancestry. Amino acids
etc. indicated a long diet of fish based meals without much greenery. Vitamin C
deficiency was in the infant stages. Iodine content of the bone was high and
some traces of palaeolithic residue, also linoleic. Jean was no medical person,
but the report contained a suggestion. An early diet of wheat or barley, but
more recently a prolonged diet of fish products and no vegetables of note. The
person could have been a sailor on an extended sea voyage.

It also told her that the owner had black hair from his, yes it was a male,
genetic make up, and with that type of hair structure and the bone structure,
definitely was European. More precisely, southern European or Mediterranean.

She rang Myfield but he was out, so she left a brief summary with his offsider,
and more confused then ever, got back to more regular and known fields of
endeavour. On Friday night, she and Ray headed south and stopped after a
long trip at a motel who still had some lights on. Ray had gone quiet when she
told him about the String analysis earlier.
"Just thinking," he replied. "What about Maoris?"

"I doubt it. Must be different in bone structure. I'm not sure to be honest.
Anyway the DNA said Mediterranean."

Only the odd passing truck, and a persistent cricket, disturbed the night. "Still,"
Ray continued," it's all an inexact science. After all, a big war canoe could make
the twelve hundred miles across the Tasman. They found New Zealand all that
way from
Hawaii so Australia would be easy. Can't be any other answer. Blast."

"What?"

"Nothing. What I was thinking the other day, is further away. Give me a cuddle
and think about digging. Might find some buried pirate treasure."

"You seem," she murmured," to have forgotten about pirate treasure pretty
quickly."

They found the beach site next morning and after introducing themselves and
convincing the team that they had some 'official status' by a liberal use of
David Myfield's name, took stock of the situation. The coast looked pretty from
the top of the sand hill. The relentless waves and an unending procession of
yellow sand that seemed to go on until it ran out. The headland to the south
dropped sharply into the sea and was covered with some low bushes and one
solitary tree. A pair of sea eagles soared overhead, emitting their distinctive
shrill cry.

Jean held on to Ray's arm. "Nice isn't it? So remote. Yet behind us, so sad.
What happened Ray? We have to find out."

Her passion was expected. It was in her make up. He nodded. 'We must try' he
thought. They looked at what was turned over. Bits of natural items, sticks and
pebbles and old plant life. Unrecognisable bits of old flotsam. A plastic bottle
top and some metal pieces, two or three about 15cm long. These had been
discarded, but Ray held them for some time, turning them over and over, then
put them aside. More digging produced more metal and two spear heads.
Some sort of stone. Then another spear head with a very short shaft still
attached, about three inches at that. The digger who located it, brought it over
to Jean and looked puzzled. "Another spear top but the others were stone or
petrified wood. This is bendable almost. Looks like metal." He gave it to her.

Jean looked for Ray and attracted his attention. He came over with something
in his hand. She showed him the last spear head and he felt it's texture.
"Brass."

"Is that possible?" said the young worker, "I thought the blacks were stone
people."

"You're right. No metal." He took Jean's arm and led her away. "My cuckoo
idea has just come to roost. See these bits of metal. Some sort of brass also but
I know what they're off. I'm not a member of the History department for
nothing."

She noticed his hands had a slight tremble.

"Spill it."

"Both these pieces, which I'm sure of, are parts of armour, a breast plate to be
exact. And all these other bits and ends...." Before he could finish, a yell and
someone had a small bowl or dish in their hand. It was brought over and Ray
looked at it.

"Funny shaped dish," said the boy and Ray gave a sort of shrug and took it. The
lad returned to where he unearthed it. Jean looked at Ray's face for the dish
and Ray's hand was shaking slightly.

"What's wrong?"

"Not a dish. It's the top part of a helmet. Jean, all this stuff is Phoenician."

She looked at him and blinked her eyes. "You're joking?"

"No."

They didn't let on to the others but went to sit on the beach, the artefacts left
wrapped up in his gear. "It fits. A pet theory of mine and it's true."
"But no one before the Portuguese ever travelled further than Africa. That's a
long time after the Phoenicians. A thousand years at least."

"Not quite true, my dear. People from Crete were sailing the Atlantic long
before the Romans could make mud brick houses. Probably the greatest
mariners of all time were the Phoenicians. They helped King David and King
Solomon build that famous Temple of Jerusalem. One of their great satellite
colonies was Carthage. You've heard of it?"

She nodded. "It was in Africa, near Libya, wasn't it?"

"That's right. Prime time was about 850 BC, which is getting close to 3,000
years ago. They had already sailed to Britain by then. Ever heard of King
Necho?"

"No. But you're about to tell me." She little doubted his knowledge and now
she was seeing it in action. He was as passionate about history as she was
about her profession.

Jean didn't know what to say. He was so certain but she, with a life in material
facts, needed a little more than just metal bits that could be construed as
something else. Still Ray was a part of her and whilst she would not be
backward to tell him what was on her mind or the truth as she perceived it, he
could just be right. Just could be. Still a note of other paths, other conclusions
needed to be aired.

"You're on to shattering stuff here but you need to be sure, really sure. There
may be another explanation. You need more artefacts, clothing, whatever we
can find."

He looked away from her, out beyond the waves that were breaking. "You
think I'm nuts. I don't want that big break to re write history, taken away from
me."

She could feel his hurt and suddenly felt it might get between them.

"There is no doubt in what you say, Ray. I just don't want to see you get hurt.
I've seen archaeologists build up their hopes and have them crumbled. Always
some one out there to cut your legs off. You confirmed today what these
bones are. I have the bones and you have the artefacts."
"You are absolutely correct. One step at a time."

She put her arm around his waist, felt him soften. Then his arm was around
hers. "Don't leave me. Ever. I need pulling into line once in a while."

"No you don't. Trust your heart and your head. It's me that needs a kick up the
backside sometimes."

They turned and smiled at each other, then with a kiss, headed back down the
dune. Nothing was said to the others about what they had found. They helped
check the debris and spread the area outwards. Some more pieces were found,
all innocuous to the casual observer, but Jean knew from Ray's slight smile,
that it was more proof for his theory. The daylight started to fade and with
commitments in Sydney to keep them away from this new field of dreams,
they gathered their gear and left. The team would finish the next day and all
that would be left of a distant battle, would be a fluttering white tape and a
sign that said 'keep out'. Soon the forces of nature would take this and the
sand would return to lie for another two thousand years or so until the next
chance encounter.

David Myfield was informed that the tests on the bones were conclusive and
when he protested that the coroner might take a dim view of such findings, all
Jean could do was suggest an open verdict. The public would have to make up
their own minds why they were European. In the end, the police 'finalised' the
matter as beyond their jurisdiction and the true origin was deliberately made
vague by references to non indigenous ancestry. No items had been located at
the site that were deemed significant. Some metal fragments were identified
by a university academic as from a number of cultures probably traded for
many years from Europe and ending up in the
Pacific basin.

Ray's pieces were kept outside the inquest, as sufficient pieces had been found
to satisfy the court. The helmet was never mentioned by the dig team so he
never mentioned it. Too precious to be just stored in some forgotten cupboard
then turfed in a few years. It was Ray who broached the subject to Jean about
the possibility of the artefacts being the result of many hundreds of years of
trade and not direct transfer.
"I don't want to believe in a trade cycle. I feel it in my bones that these people
were the real McCoy."

She refilled his glass and sat down. "I'm with you. It is a possibility though, and
we need to keep that in mind. Still, I prefer your idea to them."

She stretched out her hand and stroked his arm. He gently took hold of it and
gave her fingers a small kiss.

She inwardly glowed. "Like to walk up to the top of the street and take in the
city lights?"

"The view from here is quite fine." He did not move his eyes off hers.

"Is it just my old bones that hold your interest?"

"Care to find out?"

The following Sunday they decided on a lazy yuppy day. Coffee and croissants
on the outside tables of a small but obviously very popular cafe in Paddington,
where everyone read newspapers larger than the tables they sat at or just and
held hands under the table with someone else. Then a stroll through the pond
areas of Centennial Park, nearby. They sat near the edge of a large pond,
where enthusiasts of all ages, sailed boats. The radio controlled model sailing
skiffs were sent in all directions and responded as if by magic, to the owner
who stood on the bank with his little black box. It was a restful activity for
some and feverish for others. One magnificent boat, about 60cm long , heeled
over as a small gust of wind came and too late the master found himself taking
the right tact. It lay flat on the water and no amount of jiggling could upright it.
Fore ward movement was laborious as the small engine tried to drag a
lopsided keel and wet sails.

"Now what's he do?" asked Jean, staring out to the craft.

"Suppose it will finally make it home to the owner," replied Ray. "Otherwise he
gets his feet wet. Still the water is not deep so either way it gets beached and
emptied out."

She stood up. "Not much of a day for swimming. Come on," putting her hand
down to him, "I'm hungry."
They started to walk away, when Jean realised that Ray had suddenly stopped
and was looking at a Bunya Pine ahead.

"What do you see that I can't?" Jean squinted her eyes but nothing caught her
attention.
"There is a way to prove it."

"What are you on about now?" she asked.

"Nothing. Can you get a couple of days off this week. We need to go back to
the south coast. We missed it and it just struck me why."

"What." But he was pulling her gently along, so she didn't argue. Ray would
tell her in his own time. 'So much for a care free Sunday,' she thought to
herself.

As it turned out, Jean had a work load over the top but agreed to take two
days out at the end of the week. His infectious vibes spread to her and she had
to admit to herself that now this thing had started, she would like to see some
logical conclusion. He was stuck with a presentation on Wednesday, as it
turned out, so Thursday saw them streaking south even before the sun had
cast a searching ray of light over the horizon. Ray had relented a day after their
outing in the park, and explained in a fashion, his thoughts. At first she just
listened then realised he probably was right but had Buckley's chance of
finding any item in all that sand.

In the small town that had not so long ago, became famous for it's notorious
find, he purchased a couple of topographical maps and with some fish and
chips, they sat at one of those beach side concrete tables and plotted a course
of action. Never eat take away or anything for that matter next to the coast,
was an axiom they soon learnt. Soon the squawking of hundreds of silver gulls,
forced them to eat and tidy up first. With no visible food, the birds soon
dispersed and it was back to the map. To the south of the find was a rocky
headland then predominantly cliff lines for some distance before any beach
made it's presence. the other way, back toward town, was a long, long stretch
of sand ending in a small headland.
It was at the base of this headland and just behind it, that a lake lay. Isolated
and not very deep, it went by the name of Lever's Lake. It was here that Ray
stabbed his finger down on the map. "Here is where we dig."

"Why there? All up and down the coast are lakes and inlets. Even a swamp, by
the look of it, just north of the lake."

He shrugged his hands in a gesture that could mean anything. "Got to start
somewhere. My thoughts are that they were shipwrecked and swam or waded
ashore. Could have been hit upon as soon as they reached the beach, but why
not give them some luck."

She looked out to sea for a minute then into his eyes. "There are two options
as I see it. One is they struggled ashore and were attacked, or they swam
ashore and started walking. Whether it was one kilometre or one hundred
kilometres , we don't know. Come to think of it, it wouldn't make any
difference, because where we found their remains would be what they had."

"Unless they stashed it."

She emptied the dregs of her coffee and looked at the car. Then a grin in her
eye. "Nothing to stash. If I swam ashore from a sinking boat, I would have
minimum gear. They were all in loin cloths or naked, probably."

"You forgot about the breast plate bits and the helmet. One point for the
History Department."
She poked out her tongue at him. "Smarty. So what does that mean?"

"It's obvious. They waded ashore with clothing and whatever, and maybe
buried some of it. Then started walking."

They had now moved off in the car and heading south.

"Darling. Do you expect me to dig up half of the south coast beaches, because
you have a supposition that some people just might have buried something. I
dig up bones because I know they are there." She was silent for a moment.
"Anyway why the lake or the swamp?"

"Fresh water. That's where I would rest up and stay and recognise if I had to
walk back later."
She was about to give up against this endless supply of logical explanations
when one more objection came to mind. "Three thousand years ago. Right?"

He nodded. "Give or take."

"I'm generous. I bet three thousand years ago there was no lake or swamp.
Coastlines change and rivers come and go. Wind. Rain. Whatever. Could have
been just open savannah then."

"About here," was all he replied, and turned off the highway onto a fire trail.
"Hope my map reading is accurate."

"If it's like your Phoenician theory then we should end up in Melbourne."

A huge bump sent unsecured items on the back seat, sprawling.

"Sorry. You might be correct about the lake, but like I said before, one has to
start somewhere."

The trail twisted and turned through low bushes and scrub, then some white
banksias came into view and finally a small turning area behind a sand dune.

"Must be here, " uttered Ray as he switched off the motor and got out. With
some talk on the condition of the track and the vegetation, they climbed up as
the sound of surf rose to meet their ears and then they were abreast the dune
and overlooking the beach. To the south it stretched and became hazy. Down
that direction was where they had found their wanderers. They looked the
other way and saw the rock headland was quite close. The small lake behind it,
separated from the sea by a strip of sand, was just visible.

"Come on," yelled Ray.

He was off before she could say anything. his enthusiasm was becoming one
tracked. She stood her ground and yelled. "Hey."

He turned his head and seeing she had not moved, stopped and turned around.
"What's up?"
"Whatever it is you're looking for, I ain't going anywhere today. How about
waiting for me."

"Sorry," and came back. "Just got carried away. I can feel we are so close."

Jean put a hand on his shoulder. "Just as long as you stay close, dearest. To
me."

He gave her a peck on the cheek and taking her hand, moved towards the
headland. Shortly they were at the base. Some seaweed and an ice cream
container lay on the sand just before a small shelf where they could start to
climb up sandstone folds and into some hakia scrub. At the top the view was
unfolding before their eyes. They found a small cleared area and sat looking
out to sea.

"This is beautiful, Ray. Give me an apple. I need sustenance."

He fished one out from the small day pack he had and tilted his head onto her
shoulder. The very faint smell of perfume reached his nostrils. A high pitched
shriek made them look up and a sea eagle swooped overhead and disappeared
behind them. Jean stood up but could not see where it had gone to. Ray
stretched his hands and stood beside her. Then their eyes met and their hands
encompassed each other and a thousand sea eagles could have shrieked and
they would not have heard them.

"Come on," she said stepping away and taking his hand. "We came to look at a
lake."

" What lake?" and smiled. "OK."

They walked to the back of the small headland and viewed the lake. It was not
large but then again, no pond. Lots of grass sedges and small bushes with
occasional small beaches. Some tea tree behind one beach. No obvious
campsites from here, not even recent ones. Once down on the edge, they did
find a campsite. Charred sticks and a small ring of rocks. Inside two rusty food
cans.

"Sad. Why can't people take their rubbish with them, or at least bury it?" Jean
was already picking up the debris as she spoke and kicking a hole in the sand
with her heel.
Ray looked at her actions and waved a finger at her. "Helping your future
friends, I see."

No words but that condescending look over her sunglasses.

"I can see it all," said Ray. "In a thousand years an archeologist will dig up this
site and find your cans and say 'I told you so. Remains of a meal from a
shipwrecked sailor.'"

"Don't laugh, frizzy features. That's exactly how it happens. Mind you, the bean
cans would have long rusted away, but the beans are so tough, any spilt are
sure to be still there."

He bared his teeth and made a growling sound. Then with a swaggering
approach, gently grabbed her and gave her a kiss. Flowers had bloomed and
wilted before they started having a detailed look around the foreshores. As the
sun started to drop to the western sky line, a disappointed couple, grimy with
sand and the toils of scratching, decided to give it away.

"I was so sure we would find something. Still a most pleasant day," and smiled
at her.

"Either the camp is down twenty feet below the sand by now or this is just not
the spot." Jean picked up the small spade and her hat. "I wanted it to be here
but not to be. at least we tried."

They gave a last look and started back to the car. Low black clouds were
appearing on the horizon and the late afternoon had turned chilly. That night
the wind started and by 10pm it was starting to rain. In the motel, it didn't
matter if a gale was blowing. By morning it was a gale and sheets of rain falling
like a silver veil, reducing visibility to a couple of hundred metres. The wind
was coming in strong gusts and already leaves and small branches were being
whipped along the roadway outside their window. There was no chance of
going out today.

Ray looked out the window and gave a sigh. "Even if it stopped, that road in
would be hopeless in our car."
Jean stood next to him looking at the rain hitting the window of the room.
"There'll be another opportunity, Ray. This isn't the first storm in the last two
thousand years. Nor the last."

The gale lasted some three days but Ray and Jean had braved the road and
headed home that day. They had lives to lead and jobs to do. All up and down
the coast, tremendous seas had taken their toll on small boats and beaches
and harbours. Then it all went away, and the clear skies returned, and the sea
went back to sleep. In New Zealand, a Maori village site had been discovered
on the North Island by a building construction crew putting in a resort. Jean
was asked if she wanted to help the Auckland University team. It appeared
that this site could be several hundred years old, even older than the one at
Gisborne where axes and part of a flaxen head dress had survived, wrapped in
black mud. Two days later she was on a plane.

As if in a master plan of higher authority, the entire floor of Ray's department

was suddenly engulfed in workmen who had orders to move partitions and
repaint. He knew it was happening sometime, and not before time, but
communication had obviously fallen by the way side, and many of the
occupiers, like himself, suddenly found they had to vacate for a few days. He
could have spent it researching at the State Library or doing some work at
home, but couldn't motivate himself. He enjoyed the house before Jean came,
but now she was not there, felt it lacked her presence. Still, it was only a week
or two.

The first day at home he hadn't even stirred from bed when the phone rang.
He knew it wasn't her as she had rang the night before. Still. It wasn't.
"Ray?"

Ray didn't need to ask who it was. He recognised Benny's voice straight off..

"Yep, and do you know what time it is?"

And so the conversation went on. Benny was a good friend of his from first
year at university and beyond. Their academic paths divulged and whilst Ray
ended up in Literature and History, Benny had gone on to Science but never
finished. After some interesting and some not so interesting jobs, he had
settled into photo graphics, graphic designs and photography in general. He
had made quite a bit of money from taking photos and selling the mounted
prints. His weddings and functions were not so good, not for the quality of the
product, but for his personality that tended to be anything in a short time span.
Dozens of photos of the bride and then the bride's aunty and then whatever,
bored him to tears and he often just walked out. Hence his reputation in this
field was not high.

He was touching bases, so to speak, and when he was told by Ray that Jean
was away in New Zealand, told Ray to get his backside over to his studio that
afternoon and 'kill a few brain cells'. Ray groaned inwardly, as experience had
shown he could not keep up. Still he was a friend of long standing and he
needed a diversion, so he agreed.

The studio was a mess in one way, but to any practical person, everything was
in a place that made retrieval quick. Dozens of framed prints of Benny's various
trips stood against walls and dozens more not yet frames, lay on benches.
Many from overseas trips to wild and remote places, and others of people. A
man herding alpacas in Ecuador, his weather beaten face carving an indelible
impression on you. Two children in bright clothing, sitting astride a horse. The
background taken diffused by being out of the depth of field, thus focusing
attention on the children themselves. One smiling, the other apprehensive.

"Nice work Benny." Ray was hanging onto his second stubbie or he would be
history.

"Year. Thanks. Gotta do some coastlines and oceans and that. Distributor I
sometimes go through says that what is fashionable at the moment. Another?"

"Not yet. Had a heavy night so I need to go easy," he replied. "Jean and I were
down the south coast not so long back. Nice stuff down there."

"Of course, the dead people. I read about it. Did sort of dominate the news a
while back. Saw Jean's name somewhere. They were really old or something."

"A few thousand years to be more definitive." He finished his drink but wasn't
subtle enough for his host who already had a can thrust out towards him.
"Cripes. I'll need to catch a taxi home."

"How many fingers do I have?"

"Ten."
"You're sober, replied his host.

A thought crossed Ray's mind at that moment as he scanned the prints. "Benny.
Got a day or two free? Want to see that coastline and smell the salt air?"

"Can do two days. Should be just what I need for this current order. Why do
you want to go back? More bones?"

Ray went to the window and took some deep breaths. "More than bones is
what I'm after. Jean and I went looking for bits and pieces. Iron implements,
whatever. My theory is there was a camp and there could be a lot of
interesting stuff. Even a cooking pot would be satisfying."

"So you dig up the beach around that macabre site and I take lots of good pics
nearby. Sounds a fair trip to me. We go tonight?"

Ray groaned aloud. "No Benny. I need lots of food and some sleep. But
tomorrow, yes."

"OK. We go out and have a pizza, I drive, and then drop you off home. Your car
can go in the garage here. Tomorrow be ready out front, nice and early. You
alright for tenting or had Jean made you soft and I'll have to rough it in some
hotel with frilly sheets?"

Camping out was fine by Ray. He used to do a lot but a few wet nights and wet
gear had not inspired him to do more. The night finished early and Ray was
glad he didn't have to drive. He left a note on the table in case Jean magically
appeared, which he knew was not going to happen, then with gear and spade
and camera, waited at the front door. Thirty seconds later, Benny pulled up.

At the end of the track to the location was a Hi Lux. They set up the tent and
table then with gear in back packs, headed for the sound of the surf. Benny
must have had about four cameras and countless rolls of film. He also had
stashed some cans of KB in the side pockets. "Should be still cold at lunch
time."

Ray smiled. All they had were bananas and muesli bars. They broached the
sand hill and strode down onto the beach. Two other people were there at the
water's edge, beach fishing. Ray waved back to theirs and he and Benny
sauntered down to them.
"Gooday," said one, who was about twenty. Not much running at the moment.
You obviously not fishing. Just checking it out or looking for the bone site?"

"Both actually. Benny here is after photographs of waves and headlands and
whatever turns him on. I want to go back to the dig and potter around."

The other fellow spoke. "I think I saw you when the police were here. We
found them. Or I should say Johnno here, did. Me and Ben were here trying to
get some flathead. "

"Trying again today," chipped in Johnno. "Quicker to buy them. Still, can't
waste a day."

"Well have a good one," and with a wave moved off up the beach. Benny was
already snapping everything in sight. The dig had that desolate air. The blue
and white police tape that once had been strung around the area, was all but
missing. The recent gale had seen to that, and only a short piece, draped over a
tea tree bush, was left. The actual site was wind scoured and Ray even saw
where some waves had channeled in around the sand dune to briefly cover the
area with foam, then retreat. The shape, as he remembered it, had changed
slightly, and whilst Benny took some photos and then wandered away, Ray
took a careful look and dug holes where new depressions had appeared.

Half an hour later, he had uncovered nothing of importance. No bones. No

artifacts other than another metal spear tip. Benny returned, moving fast
down the dune and beaming.

"Great scenery, my friend. Should make a fortune with this stuff. By the way,
this was down near the water line, sticking out about two inches above the
sand. Strange what people leave around."

Ray's eyes nearly popped out of his head. It was a small metal dagger.
Encrusted with some marine growth and depleted by time and salt, it still had
shape.

He gave an exclamation that his mother would not have approved of, and took
it in his hand. "Benny. This is brilliant. I could kiss you."
"Steady on. Settle for a KB instead," and tossed him one. It wasn't ice cold, but
ray didn't care. The style of the weapon was enough for him. It was definitely
ancient Mediterranean . They poked around then decided to go back and find
some afternoon tea. Back at the tent, the other two lads were sitting down,
with cans in their hands.

"Any more bones?'' asked Johnno.

Ray shook his head and then produced the knife. "Only this."

Ben gave it a cursory look. "Old fishing knife by the looks. Some fisherman
probably dropped it. "

Ray went to correct him but changed his mind. Again that feeling of being not
one hundred percent sure and having to back down. "Probably."

Benny dropped all his gear and stored the cameras in the tent. Then he went
to the Esky and with a drink, settled into a folding chair. "How come you guys
have time to fish in the middle of the week?"

Johnno gave a wide grin. "Don't work, at least yet. I'm at TAFE. On my no class
days, I come home if there's a couple together. Beats sitting around in a room.
Ben here works but his boss gave him the day off for some reason."

"Stocktaking or something," chipped in the older one. "Said I'd be a pain in the
a..backside and if I could land a few, he wanted a couple."

Somehow the day wore on and after the boys had left, Ray thought about a
fire and some food for dinner. He checked his mobile phone in case Jean had
rung, but there was no signal in this area. The food they brought was basic, out
of a can but filling. The fire was comforting and the amount of warmth it gave,
plus some Tawny Port, made for an enjoyable evening. Benny's jokes were
really bad. More corny or in bad taste, rather than crude. Still a couple were
worth remembering, thought Ray, that is if he could. He walked down to the
beach and listened to the sound of the waves hitting the shore and the nearby
rocks. The silver phosphorescence gleaming on the water's edge as each wave
broke, only to be washed away and then repeated.

Overhead a clear sky was filled with uncountable numbers of stars. The
Southern Cross hanging to the south, with it's nearby Pointers. The stars
seemed to tumble into the ocean. He wished Jean was here to share this.
Maybe she was sitting on some tribal fire place on a hill doing the same thing
right at this moment. He turned and with his torch, retraced his steps to the
camp. Benny was asleep in his chair. Ray woke him and with some water on
the flames, crawled into their sleeping bags to dream of whatever their minds
could conjure up.

Next morning was overcast and Benny grumbled about the light being difficult.
Ray suggested they go have a look at the lake, that he and Jean had stopped at.
Benny agreed saying that it was an aspect he should have a picture or two of.
Coastal lagoons flanked with sand hills appealed to a number of people. They
zipped up the tent and drove back to the highway. Ray nearly missed the track
in, as coming from the opposite direction made it difficult to spot. But a neat
sharp turn and the vehicle was bumping down to the coast again.

""This is a bum raiser of a road," remarked Benny as he swung the wheel

constantly and braked repeatedly. Ray thought it had deteriorated in such a
short time, then reaslised that the recent gale had probably something to do
with it. Still the end was reached, and with cameras and more muesli bars,
they walked to the beach and up to the lake. Benny was impressed, even
though he thought the light was all wrong for the best contrast. On the lake
floated about ten black swans. Graceful and elegant, they would duck their
long necks under the water and appear to be lumps of floating black feathers.
Then the red beak would appear and the bird would just seem to move along
as if by some unseen force.

Overhead, some wispy clouds were trailing across the sky, the forebears of a
change in the next day or two. Benny had taken several shots of the lake and
it's attendants, and had moved off to the headland. Ray poked around the
water's edge and wistfully stopped a few seconds at one spot. 'Wish you were
here' , he thought to himself. The gale had been vicious here as well. Sand had
been moved about and waves had breached the bar at the end of the lake and
opened it up. Water had obviously poured across the sand into the ocean until
the level had dropped and the flow stemmed. It appeared to be some half a
metre lower in height. At the far end he found the wind had knocked down
some small trees and they had flattened scrub. One small tree had fallen into
the water and rather than crawl around it in the thick hakia, he waded into the
lake around the fallen tree. A yell from Benny, stopped him and he turned to
just make out his friend waving something in the air. It sounded important, and
then he recognised the beer can in his hand. Already his body was keying up to
something important, although it was only a couple of seconds between the
yell and his recognition. The let down was exasperating. "One track mind," he
said aloud and turned around to continue on around the tree.

The distraction had put Ray's co-ordination just that slightly out of sync. and he
tripped on a branch under the water, falling fore ward into the leaves and lake.
Swearing, he stood up and as he went to lift his soggy boot and leg over the
obstruction he froze. There was no snake in the water to bite him. There was
some timber that wasn't a tree, because it had that unmistakable shape of
man's hand. Too straight for nature. He ignored his dripping clothes and pulled
away as much foliage as he could. Two pieces, well worn, but hard as steel,
joined together with a wooden pin driven into each. Not much to see as they
protruded upwards from the sandy bottom. Ray let out a satisfied 'at last' and
tried to scoop more sand from the bottom, but it was not easy under the water,
even if it was only about 12 inches deep.

He made his way quickly back around the shore to the beach and met Benny
who was sitting down sorting some filters.

"Not so bad after all, Ray. Good value here. What's up with you?"

Ray's face was flushed. "Benny. I've got something. Under the water. Wood."

Benny looked at him and could feet his elation. "What do you recon it is?"

"I 'm sure it's what's left of a dwelling. Shelter or even a small hut. Can we get
this water down lower?" and was striding across to look at the bar between
the lake and the beach. In fact it wasn't that difficult. The sand was low and
just held the lake back, or at least some of the lake. One of those quirks of
nature where the waves had not scooped up a hill of sand to trap the lake but
had done the opposite. The water had run out and stopped when the level had
dropped. Half an hour of alternate digging by the two men had produced a
small trench in the sand a few inches wide but some one and a half metres
deep. The slope of the beach meant it didn't need to be more than twenty foot
long before the level dropped. Finally the last connection was dug into the
lake's edge and water started to move into the channel. Ray worked on
deepening the entrance and soon the force of water took over the job. A surge
ran down and across the beach. It didn't last long and soon stopped when the
lake level was the same as the bottom of the trench entrance. But it had
dropped the water by about a metre and a half.
"We need some more out," said Ray. "Can you go back to town and get a
couple of spades?"

"You're a tyrant, Bryson. Still I know it means a lot and you are close to
something. Dig on and I shall return. Cold beers as well?"

"Lots."

The photographer gave him a look of disbelief. "Wonderful." Then he was

trudging across the sand to the car. Ray worked for the next hour, not wanting
to go back up the lake to see what had happened. He rather knew that the
water would be hopefully gone, but there would be the sand and without a
decent spade, it was a waste of time. The trench slowly got a few inches
deeper and as he stopped to take a rest and a swig of lake water, he heard
Benny's yell and saw him approaching with two long handled spades and a bag.

"You didn't take long," said Ray as the spades were dumped and cans of VB
appeared from the bag.

"The spades were not priority, friend. I realised we were down to our last six
and feared the pub might shut or something."

They sat on the sand and drunk. Ray needed the drink for both the work had
been exhausting and the brackish water, a bit salty.

"By the way, sandwiches. I hope you eat tuna and lettuce."

It went down well. Then with renewed vigor they started digging and it now
became easier as more sand was shoveled away in no time. Again the lake was
breached and a tide of brownish water flower across the beach. They had
dropped the water level between two and three metres and unable to face any
more, Ray led Benny around the lake shore to the fallen trees. It was easier
walking for a large beach had been now exposed to walk on. The fallen tree
and the wooden pieces were now well above water mark, and although very
sloppy, Ray started to dig with vigor. When the sun had started to dip towards
the west, enough had been exposed to make Ray just stand there and let the
tears flow down his cheeks. Even Benny was subdued.
Ray had hoped to find some remnant of a shelter under the wet sand. There
was no shelter. No hut even. But there was something else. Preserved for
three thousand years, the wood from Crete was riddled with rot but still in
shape. A Phoenician sailing galley was slowly seeing daylight for the first time
for many, many years. Ray was in some sort of jubilant shock. He had not even
imagined this. Winning a million dollars in the lottery would have had less
effect on him. He wanted Jean to be here but it was not to be. Still he could
hardly drag himself away to go back and find some signal so he could ring her.

She cancelled her field trip mid stream and took the first plane back. Ray and
convinced Benny that the world could wait a few days more. Still he had all the
photos he needed and it really was an excavation job that required more than
he and his friend could provide. He could piece together an acceptable
scenario in his mind. The galley landing, probably damaged in a storm, and the
need to find a place to beach it and effect repairs. The surf beach would be
exposed to swell but a creek running in under the headland would allow them
to drag the craft out of harm’s way. Perhaps then there was more water
coming out. maybe no lake, just a creek. It could have been a storm and they
were washed ashore, to be swept into the creek. Who knows?

What happened then would be a guess also. Unable to repair the ship, they left
her and walked along the beach, hoping to find natives to obtain food. Instead
they found spears and clubs and outnumbered, valiantly ended their epic
journey from the other side of the world on a windswept sand hill.

Ray wanted to make his mark in some small fashion, but it turned out a bigger
mark than he ever imagined. Nothing is ever written in stone.

The End

Jimmy Brook
___________________________________________________________

QUEEN CHARLOTTE

____________________________________________________________

By Jimmy Brook

When you feel the need to do something worthwhile, don’t hesitate.

Queen Charlotte didn’t.
It’s been a few years now since Queen Charlotte has been mentioned on these
parts of the coast, but very few know the true story. Sure, many have guessed
and many have just added ideas that appealed to them, thus shrouding the
real story even further. If you’re a local and around at the time, you would
have heard and said nought, for this may bring a heap of trouble on to
someone. The district looks after its own. But as I said, very few in this area
know what happened way back then.

Up in the centre of our island nation there are also just a few who were privy
to the saga, and they were keeping quiet, because they had more to lose. So
why now? Why am I telling the tale to you now? Well, I think as time goes on,
the mind has to struggle with the details and that is where it could get lost to
the world forever. I read in the Times recently a small article and in a way, it is
related, so since I’ve started so I may as well continue.

I’ve spent the last few years and probably the rest of my mortal life, at
Burnham on Sea, a modest town in Somerset. The cottage overlooking
Bridgwater Bay and the start of the Severn River, originally belonged to my
sister and when I retired from the quarry in the Brendon Hills, she asked me to
stay with her. Some days I have good views of Wales across the water and
some day I have none. The weather can be quite fickle. When my sister moved
to a more modern cottage, I took it over. Anyway, my domestic arrangements
are dull compared to those of Queen Charlotte. So I should get on with it.

The Brendon Hills in the west of the County is scenic and a drawcard for nature
lovers and photographers. And on its northern edge where limestone ridges
protrude above the grass, you will find the abandoned remains of the area’s
only limestone quarry. Pressure from conservation groups and falling mineral
prices finally spelt the death knoll about twenty years ago. I was the last quarry
manager and the last employee. By then it was just a part of a large
conglomerate based in London and we were an insignificant operation to be
closed down. I stayed on for a few weeks as caretaker until the pen pushers
came down and did a stock take and a scrap merchant came with his motor
lorries and took anything worth salvaging. Then the big wire gates were locked
and I walked away from 35 years of service. Tilson’s Quarry became just a
memory. In its time it was productive and the limestone dug from its confines
was put into hoppers and taken by the quarry’s own railway to Minehead, on
the Bristol Channel. There it was stockpiled and loaded into coastal barges or
cargo ships destined for the cement works or stone masons.

So, you may ask what has this to do with a lady called Queen Charlotte? Since
1924 the rail hoppers were all attached behind a diminutive steam locomotive,
to be taken down to the coast, and her name was proudly displayed by two
brass plates on her cab. ‘Queen Charlotte’ gave faithful service until the
closure of the quarry. Everyone liked her, even the drivers and the firemen.
When she came along the tidal creek on the western side of town and ran into
the storage area, her clipped steam whistle brought children running and
working men to a momentary pause in their labours.

She was a 2-6-2T tank locomotive built by Beyer Peacock in 1902 for the
Cambrian Railways. When the Great Western took over this operation in 1923,
they found that the boiler needed attention and rather than fix it, sold the
engine to the only buyer, Tilson and Son, for use on their limestone operations
in Somerset. The horse and wagon days had come to an end. The boiler was
repaired and the rails on the ten mile journey, strengthened. They were
originally laid at 2’6” gauge for the horse wagons so didn’t need adjusting.
Apart from being painted black, there is nothing to add. I should mention that
she was always a shiny black. There was pride in her crew.

We should now come to the players in this episode. Not many. Bernie Appleby
probably started it off and he never saw it finished. Good bloke that Bernie.
Left when we knew the quarry was facing a bleak future, and went to help on a
fishing boat. Fell overboard and… Anyway I digress. In 1970 the Tilson family
sold out to this international group and suddenly we had paperwork to fill in
and send off every three months. One of those bits of paper was a stock take
of all our equipment and we naturally listed the Queen Charlotte. In the
column that asked for the item’s condition, it was Bernie who not being a
paper work man, suggested we put “old and rusty”. This was more in the hope
of getting a second engine and perhaps thumbing his nose at the ivory tower
mob. And so it was each time. We never got a second engine and the Queen
got “rustier” as the years rolled on. In fact, if anyone ever came down, they
would find a shiny, well oiled and working machine. In the ten years that
followed, we never had one visit. I tell a lie. One year, a man in a bowler hat
did come down and spent two minutes at the front gate. Never even came in.
Just commented that he was checking that the quarry existed, gave a laugh
and went back to the Golden Cockerill for the night.
The next player could be Ted Cord. Now Ted is sort of related. My sister’s
husband’s brother. We got on well because we just did. We loved machines
and machinery and boats and when we met it was always pleasant and the
excuse for a glass if we weren’t working. Ted worked as yard foreman at
Petersons, which was an iron foundry and associated yard situated next to the
wharf at Minehead. It had been there for donks and we had used them to
repair equipment on and off. They also did some major work on the Queen,
like when the frame cracked and that time when the boiler had to be done
again. Did the boiler twice come to think of it. A short rail line was laid from
just before we entered the wharf area, down along some marshy ground and
into the foundry yard through a side gate to connect to their internal tracks.
Wouldn’t have happened in more modern times but pre war were different
times. They had an old Bo Bo diesel shunter to move equipment around and
load motor lorries. The gauge was the same as ours and it was with a bit of
pride we would see Queen Charlotte steam her way out of the shop and
through the yard each time, like a lady who has had a new hair style or a new
dress.

The last two characters in our story were a young West country lad, George
Simmons, and a local man, Gerald Hollister. Both worked at the quarry up to
the day we closed. In fact I employed both men. Gerald hated the name and
just went by Holly from his junior school days. I should know because we grew
up together. Both George and Holly worked the Queen, George usually as the
fireman and offsider, and Holly as the driver. Once the people in London sent
us a memo that said he had to be qualified to drive. He learnt to handle Queen
Charlotte on the job till he knew it better than itself. Often he would put his
ear to the old lady’s side and listen. A sort of rapport that each knew what
each was happening. I wrote back and said he was a qualified engine ear. They
obviously thought I couldn’t spell and never raised the matter again.

With George, it was the movement that motivated him. That opportunity to
move though the countryside and feel the wind (and cinders) in his face. So the
Queen became to him an object of affection where both needed each other to
obtain what they both seeked. With Holly, it was love. The Queen was a lady
and all ladies needed tender love.

Now I should stop meandering and get into the real reason I started on this.
Two weeks before the end of May, the registered letter arrived from London,
to tell me the board had downsized or something and Tilsons would be closed.
We were not a profitable business for the 1980s. At the end of the month we
would make our last shipment to Minehead wharf and the quarry was to be
closed down and locked when the train returned that day. The men were to be
made redundant and except for the weekly wage packet, would receive their
entitlements by mail the following month. During next month a ‘delegation’
from London would visit to see what would be salvaged, and they would bring
a scrap merchant for his opinion. Would I stay on as caretaker until this was all
settled?

It was still a shock to all of us, including me. I mean, we weren’t thick enough
to think the quarry would go on forever, but when it came it still took the wind
out of our sails. Anyway we are all fairly fatalistic about life down here in
Somerset and Devon, so we would just move on to something else. I found
Holly with a tear or two in his eye one day as he pretended to look at gauges.
Said it was soot, but I knew. And George went quiet in that last week.
Everything on the locomotive was polished. As for me, it was a heavy heart
that I pushed aside as I busied myself with the close down.

Then the day before, Thursday, it came to me what had to be done. Now the
real story unfolds. I rang my cousin in law, Ted, at Petersons Foundry on an
impulse.

Myself: “’Day Ted. Andrew here. How’s it going?”

Ted: “Fine. Must be pretty sad up there for everyone. When’s your last
shipment?”
Myself: “Tomorrow morning. Rake of eight hoppers. (Pause) I need a favour
from you.”
Ted (after a pause): “Should be able to within reason. What is it?”
Myself: “I need to borrow that old scrapped Hunslet engine for a couple of
hours on Saturday morning.”
Ted: “It’s just a pile of rusting metal. Boiler’s collapsed. You know Mr.
Montgomery {foundry manager} has promised it to some
Preservation group when they can come up with £200.”
Myself: “I know. Just want to borrow it. Can you push it out onto our siding
just outside the gate. We’ll be down about ten o’clock. It’ll be back
by midday.”
Ted: “I guess that can be done. Montgomery’s not in on Saturdays. Very
few are but I can be here. Don’t see a problem. Whatever you are
doing, I wish you luck. Anything else?”
Myself: “No thanks. Talk to you on Sunday at dinner.”
And that was that. Well not quite. I had to have my two enginemen to assist in
my plan, so when they came back, I asked them could they help for an hour or
two on Saturday, cleaning up the Queen and draining the boiler. They’d get
overtime and they agreed. Friday was mostly stacking equipment and an easy
day for the lads. The rake came back by lunch and I blew the whistle for the
last time. We all washed up and headed for the ‘Black Boar’ in nearby
Washford. Everyone lived around this area. I knew with some regret, that
some would be moving away. To find work. The silvertails in London never
offered any money for a final drink, so the stores I bought two or three weeks
back were juggled a bit and we had enough for sandwiches and a couple of
pints each. For years of service for many, all they got as a memento were
sandwiches and beer. Didn’t seem fair. Still a gold watch wouldn’t have been
appropriate I suppose.

A good afternoon if not a bit of a sad afternoon. But life has many twists and
turns and we move on. Even with a hangover. Next morning would be the final
chapter in Tilsons. Just a couple of loose ends to tidy up.

I arrived at the quarry about eight and lit the boiler on the Queen. It takes her
a couple of hours to raise enough working steam. Then I walked around and
sat in the wintry morning sun until the other two arrived. They were a bit
surprised to see steam drifting out of the escape valve and the piston cases
and even a bit more surprised when I said we three were taking a quick ride
down to the coast to Petersons Foundry. They looked at each other and I saw
the smile on Holly’s face. All he said, winding off the screw brake in the half
cabin was “let’s do it.”

We made it in half the time without loaded hoppers and an anxious moment
followed when the points to the foundry wouldn’t move. They hadn’t been
used for years. But with two of us and a hammer, they moved. Weeds and
rubbish were on the small spur but we managed and there were the remains
of the Hunslet just outside the side gate. Ted was inside and gave a wave
before boarding his Bo Bo shunter and disappearing into the depths of the
foundry. My instructions were simple. Use the piece of chain I had placed in
the tender to secure the Hunslet and tow her as quickly as we could back to
the quarry. Whether they guessed, they didn’t say. Queen Charlotte went up
the hills as though she was on a mission. And indeed she was. Luckily the old
engine we were pulling didn’t derail. That would have been a nuisance.

Once in the quarry, we detached her over the ash pit and ran the Queen
around her. Then I dived into the small hut we kept equipment and hammers
in and emerged with a gallon tin of black paint and a white wash brush which I
presented to young George and told him he had fifteen minutes to tart up the
relic. “Holly” I said, “wire that metal scoop to the top of the boiler where the
old funnel used to be.” He caught on fast, but Simmons was shaking his head.
However not for long. He knew something was afoot so he just joined in. As for
me, I retrieved another item from the shed I had placed there this morning. A
nice long board, beautifully painted and bearing the lettering ‘Queen
Charlotte’. This I started affixing across the smoke box door with some wire.
Then the penny dropped for both of them.

George stopped painting and said “You’ll never pull it off.” To which Holly
replied “Oh yes we will. Five minutes to get that paint on and splash some on
my ‘new’ funnel.” When we finished the old loco had just a glimmer of her
former days. Not as pristine as she was when she emerged back in 1922 into
the world. In fact she looked a wreck, but a nice wreck.

We threw some coal into her bunker and on the cab floor then boarding the
real Queen, moved out the rail gate, pausing long enough for me to padlock it
behind us. Then it was just drifting down the grade all the way back to the
foundry gate. Ted was there waiting.

“Returning your Hunslet as promised. Suggest we steam her in to the back

corner somewhere and rake out the firebox; drain the boiler and cover her
with some tarpaulins before any prying eyes see us.”

He looked and started to say something about this was not the Hunslet, then
with a smile of recognition, threw up his hands. “This is close to the wind and
makes me see you in a new light. Let’s hope it works.”

“So do I,’ I said and we followed the Bo Bo inside. It took us about half an hour
to make the Queen less visible and Ted would throw on another tarp later
when the firebox was cool. From my bag I offered him a bottle of Johnny
Walker Red Label but he declined saying just bring it tomorrow when I went to
my sister’s place for dinner. He was coming also. Then we walked out to the
road way and waited. My sister arrived in that black Opal she drove and we all
piled in and headed back to the quarry to pick up our cars. There was also a
bottle for each of my grimy and paint splattered helpers, which they accepted.
I was glad they did. They deserved it.
That was my story I wanted to tell you. Reckless? Silly? Illegal? Maybe, but who
cares. It was worth it to save the Queen and it all turned out right in the end.
Mind you I was on tender hooks for weeks. Waiting for that phone call or a
police car pulling up, but note happened. The assessors came and found a
locomotive ‘rusty and old’ and probably wondered how this kept running. Then
they moved on to other items and it was forgotten. The salvage man came and
made an offer and never queried the condition of the locomotive. Whether he
had planned to sell a working engine I will never know, but he must have
accepted what he saw and took it. I finally received my final pay and I said
goodbye to the quarry. Now it is history.

The article I mentioned was only small. It just said that such and such
International had been taken over by some even bigger multinational and that
many of its head office staff would be made redundant.

Only one final thing you might be asking. What about the Queen? Well Ted
tells me it sat quietly in the back of the foundry yard for six months all covered
up and Mr. Montgomery none the wiser. Then one day he announces to Ted
that the Preservation group were coming with a low loader to take the junk
away. He reduced the price to £50. He was away the day they came. Ted did
have a word in their little pink ears when they came and it was hoisted;
secured and covered in record time.

Somewhere in the green pasture country up north, Queen Charlotte is

chugging away, bringing pleasure to many. Thanks for listening to my story.

Jimmy Brook
3 AUDIOBOOK COLLECTIONS

6 BOOK COLLECTIONS