Blood on the Rocks Chapter 10
The address of the complainant, one Clyde Cook, turned out to be a semi-rural property tucked into the edge of the Ulidarra National Park. Faded rainbow flags on bamboo poles adorned the entrance to the driveway, with Welcome painted onto the arch above the open gate in bright yellow lettering. There looked to be one more property at the end of the road, its entrance as welcoming as a three-metre steel barred gate set into a concrete wall could be.
Frank drove in, parking on a gravel section to the side of an expansive front paddock dotted with frangipani trees, clumps of strelitzias, bromeliads and flowering ginger bushes. He stepped carefully over the lawn in front of the house, which was churned up with what looked like tyre tracks.
The complainant himself was as colourful as his entrance. Frank recognised him as the guy Rhonda had been dealing with at the station just that morning, a man in his early seventies, Frank guessed. Clyde invited Frank in to sit on a back deck that looked out over a lily pond, to the beginnings of luxuriant thick bushland.
‘It wasn’t Dalton who did it,’ Clyde explained. ‘He doesn’t get his hands dirty. It was one of those thugs he calls his personal assistants.’
‘Dalton?’ asked Frank. ‘Your neighbour, Steven Dalton?’
‘Yeah, property developer, so trying to stop me improving my place just doesn’t make sense,’ Cook said. ‘All I want to do is take out the crepe myrtles between his place and mine and replant some native shrubs. The bloody things are a pest anyway. It’ll let some light in, plus I want the area to put in two tiny houses. I got a DA approved, to turn this in to a B and B, well before Dalton bought next door. He can’t stop me. Legally, that is.’
‘So…’
‘So he sends his thugs over to threaten me.’
‘You know your assailants?’
‘Seen them. Always coming and going – drive the trucks.’
‘Trucks?’
‘Hay, feed – he’s got some boutique herd, apparently. Beef, for the Japanese market, though covid has buggered that up, hasn’t it? Told him he should get into local tourism like me – booming – health retreat, yoga, rainforest walks.’
‘So what happened?’ Frank asked, feeling he had a good grasp on the kind of well-meaning man Clyde was.
‘So, last night they drive up here in their suped-up ute, spotlights on full blast shining right into my front room,’ said Clyde, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to the front of the house. ‘They sit there, revving the engine, filling the place with smoke. I walked out on to the front lawn – those bastards don’t scare me. I had my mobile, so I started filming it all. Then they started doing bloody doughnuts – you would have seen the marks when you came in – cutting my lawn up to shit, damaging the plants. I tried to dial triple O but the bastards drove straight at me. Just got out of the way in time. Fell over, rolled out of the way, dropped my phone. They took off.’
‘You saw their faces? You could identify them?’
‘I got some of it on the camera, but I think they were wearing stuff over their faces…but I know it was them! I recognise the ute and who else would it be? A random stranger? You live long enough Detective Diamond and you’ll realise that nothing is random.’
Frank listened to the man’s story, took notes, took a copy of the very blurry phone footage, and left. Something Clyde said was bugging him. Clyde Cook had not actually been assaulted, just intimidated. But that was enough. Frank hesitated at the gateway, then turned left, towards the property of Steven Dalton.
Frank buzzed at the gateway intercom and waited. He was about to buzz again when a tired male voice growled out, ‘Yeah?’
‘Detective Frank Diamond to see Steven Dalton. Is this him?’
‘Nah.’
‘Is he at home?’
‘Hold on while I ask the effing butler…’
‘It’s police business, sir. I’d appreciate your cooperation,’ replied Frank, ignoring the man’s sarcasm. He checked the file for Dalton’s mobile number and tapped in the numbers. Just before calling, he buzzed again.
‘Are you still there, sir?’ Frank asked as he tapped the call button and the speaker icon on his phone screen. As the drongo on the other end of the intercom started to answer, Frank heard a phone ringing in the background. A man answered, which he heard through his mobile, and the intercom. Dalton was home.
‘Mr Dalton, it’s Detective Frank Diamond here, at your front gate. I’d appreciate ten minutes of your time, if I could?’
‘Of course, detective. Buzz him in, Gaz.’
The gate started to swing open slowly. Frank eased his car through and along a gravel driveway lined with murraya either side, just over two metres high. About 50 metres along the bushes opened briefly to a small cottage on the right, in front of a large shed. A black 4WD ute with all the trimmings, including spotlights, was parked beside the cottage. Frank stopped the car and got out to have a closer look. His examination was disrupted by a high-pitched yelping, coming from somewhere near the shed. He took a step to investigate, but his phone rang.
‘Are you in, Detective? No problems?’
Frank got back in the car and continued up the drive. The ute was spotless, anyway. Another 50 metres along he arrived at the house, an ostentatious take on classic Queenslander architecture. A huge wooden double-door was opening as he killed the engine, revealing a man built on the same lines as the door, followed by a smaller, slender man, balding, wearing heavy-framed glasses and flowing linen pants and shirt. The big guy just wore muscles, covered by dark clothing and an attitude; Frank figured he was Gaz.
‘Detective,’ said the slender guy, extending a hand to shake. Frank held up his ID in his left hand.
‘Hi. Covid,’ he explained as he held up his right hand, not shaking Dalton’s.
‘Of course,’ replied Dalton. He made a pistol with his fingers. ‘Bang, bang you’re dead.’ Dalton laughed and drew a smile quickly across his face as a magician might offer fake flowers to the unsuspecting audience member; Frank had the impulse to check his watch and wallet. ‘Shall we take a seat on the veranda? Can I offer you a cool drink, Detective? Gaz, could you fetch some water, please?’
‘Actually, Mr Dalton–’
‘Steve, please.’
‘Of course. It’s Gaz…Gary, I’ve come to talk to.’
‘Then no cool drinks for you,’ Dalton replied, with the same empty laugh. ‘What has this bad boy been up to?’
Gaz stood impassively, arms folded. Frank wondered that he could actually bend them with the sheer bulk of his biceps. The ubiquitous tattoo wound around both arms, a snake, or a rune, or a flame…Frank couldn’t tell. There was also a nasty cut, like a slash, running along his forearm.
‘Could I ask your full name, please sir?’ he asked of Gaz.
‘Gary Garth Fuller.’
Frank painstakingly wrote this in his notebook.
‘And your address?’
‘Gaz lives here. He looks after the grounds and manages the cattle.’
‘I see. Farmhand?’
‘Yes, a farmhand,’ agreed Dalton.
Frank licked his pencil and wrote this down. As he pretended to concentrate on the words he noticed Gaz shoot his employer a look, which Dalton did not notice. He should have, thought Frank.
‘And where were you Tuesday night?’
Gaz shifted his feet. ‘All night?’ He flicked his eyes to Dalton briefly.
‘That was the day you fixed the back shed,’ said Dalton, as if reminding a child of their table manners. ‘And got that nasty cut on your arm.’
‘Yeah,’ said Gaz. ‘Didn’t feel so good. Bit of sunstroke I reckon, so took it easy that night.’ He warmed to his story as he went, and Frank was pretty sure it was a work of fiction. ‘So had a few beers with the Gasman and turned in early.’
‘The Gasman?’ asked Frank.
‘My other employee, Craig Sean Galette,’ said Dalton, indicating that Frank should write this name down too. ‘I can confirm all of what Gaz has told you. Indeed, it was on that very veranda. A big day. Beers well-deserved.’
Both men squared up to Frank, waiting; he took his time writing.
Dalton looked at his watch. A watch lover. Or maybe someone who liked to remind people that his time was expensive.
‘Will there be anything else, Detective?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Frank, using his own smile. ‘That all seems in order. If I need to contact Mr Fuller or Galette–’
‘Call me,’ said Dalton. ‘We are happy to cooperate. I assume this has to do with my neighbour? All I can say about poor Clyde, Detective Diamond, is that the 70s were good to him, if you know what I mean. You should have a quick look at what he grows alongside his tomatoes, if you know what I mean. I have no problem with the occasional puff, but when it starts to move into psychosis, well–’
He was interrupted by the arrival of a sleek black BMW, which Frank recognised as belonging to Karen White.
‘I better get going,’ he said quickly. ‘Thank you for your help.’
Frank hurried over to his car and slid in. He reversed and turned to point down the drive. In the rear-view mirror he watched Karen teeter across the gravel to embrace Dalton, bending down to kiss him fully on the lips. The rich boyfriend, obviously. What had Clyde said about random?