Touch of Danger: Book two in the Lockie Trilogy.

By Desmond L. Kelly

 

The sharks in the water may not be as bad as the sharks on Macleay Island. 

That’s what Lockie finds when he clashes with hard men and stands in their way. 

 

Peter, a hermit mariner, meets the retired Lockie and hours is found by him, murdered. Lockie with his detective ally, Georgia Leah, set

• Language: English
• Publisher: Desmond L. Kelly
• Release date: Jul 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9780994389886

Desmond L. Kelly

From the Author I live on a subtropical island in southern Moreton Bay about an hour’s journey from Brisbane, Australia. I was born in Australia, in Lithgow up in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney, but my mum whipped me off to New Zealand when I was four (because she couldn’t stand her mother-in-law) and Nelson became my home town. Still is. With my wife, I returned to Australia to live when I was seventy-seven. That makes me an Australian by geography and a New Zealander by culture, a fearsome state of confusion. I have been a geologist, a teacher, a professional actor and now I come back to the love that was always there, writing. That’s my daily pleasure and I hope you enjoy it too.  Desmond L. Kelly.

Book preview

1

W ake up, said Scotty, stop admiring Australia. It’s your turn.

It’s a spectacular view from the Macleay Island Bowls’ Club lawn. I never tire of looking westward from there over the southern reaches of Moreton Bay to the mainland coast at Redland. It’s a view some bowling clubs would pay millions of dollars to have, especially when the tide’s in.

Yeah, sorry. I was watching that boat out there. It looks rather lovely sailing along in the sunlight.

Scotty stood beside me for a moment looking out at the Bay. Stranger. Never seen him before. Nice looking sloop. Classic oldie.

Is that what it is? A sloop?

Yep. One mast. Good looker isn’t she? She was; everything about her a harmony of proportion as she heeled over lightly, quietly cutting her way toward our island.

We both concentrated on the mat and the job in hand. We weren’t doing too well against the visiting pair, part of a team from Russell Island. We were playing the final head and we were down ten to seven. Scotty and I each had one bowl left and it was my turn.

Very carefully I polished my bowl with my cloth, as Scotty stood over the head at the other end of the rink, impersonating a seasoned skip but giving me impossible instructions to follow. I stepped to the end of the mat and in one smooth, easy, athletic motion, released the bowl. It felt very good leaving my hand and I don’t know why it didn’t follow the path I’d envisaged for it. Bowls can be very wilful. Scotty took one look at the black sphere as it missed everything and toppled, exhausted, into the ditch at the back. He gave me one of his, Lord why me, looks and shook his head, saying as we passed in the middle of the green, And it looked as though you knew what you were doing while you were polishing it.

Golf is more my game.

In his turn Scotty took great care with his bowl while I examined the head. Our situation was hopeless but I held one corner of my duster and trailed it along the ground in an impossible line between bowls telling Scotty to follow that path precisely, then I stood back and smiled at him while the Russell Islander beside me positively smirked. Scotty lurched forward and sent down a too fast, perfectly awkward delivery. It bullied its way, clicking and clacking, through the cluster of Russell Island bowls, collected the Jack and trailed it neatly into a waiting posse of our bowls – and – we’d won! I couldn’t believe my eyes.

That what you wanted? came the laconic voice as he walked down the green.

Yeah, I said, Should do.

We shook hands with our astonished opponents and they joined the rest of their team in the clubhouse. Once they were out of sight, Scotty and I collapsed onto a bench and laughed until there were tears in our eyes.

What happened? I said.

Tripped a bit as I delivered. We were off again. It took us a while to regain our composure and risk walking up to the clubhouse.

Where, he said with a patient sigh, would you Kiwis be if it weren’t for Australians? Scotty always thought big. Our competitions were always of international importance, but it had been a great bowl and he deserved his victory.

You reckon you can do it again?

He gave me a lovely smile. I don’t have to, he said, I’ve done it when it counted. We had another laugh and headed for the clubhouse and a beer, just as the beautiful sloop passed from sight into Karragarra Passage.

I’d been fortunate to build my duplex on Macleay Island and extremely fortunate to have Scotty and Irma as near neighbours. From the first day they’d recognised a fish out of water, a newcomer from another land, and with tact and consideration helped me find my feet and settle in.

There is something spectacularly original about Australian speech. I love it. I love the humour, the irreverence, that lives just under its sunbaked surface and Scotty and Irma used it wonderfully to help me adjust. Because it is their nature, they delivered kindness without trying, and made me feel good in the process.

Scotty and I had evolved quite a routine: bowls on Monday and Wednesday afternoons, golf on Thursday and Saturday afternoons. That was the plan; sometimes it was interfered with by trips to the mainland, or the weather, but for most days when I wasn’t in my garden, or reading, or listening to music, or writing, I was with the laconic Scotty in a very comfortable place.

We contrasted strongly in many ways, not least in our houses. I had built a simple modern, duplex, living in one half and renting the other half out as an income earner. My furnishings ran to the simple and modern, all rather spare. Scotty had an old but beautifully maintained Queenslander, a house from a different era raised a floor above the ground with handsome, wide verandahs all around. Being a retired cabinet maker he kept the house in immaculate condition and underneath, next to his garage, he’d built a beautifully equipped, practical workshop. There, he made pieces of furniture on commission and I often sat or leaned in that workshop as he worked. That’s where we yarned and put the world to rights.

I retired to Australia after a lifetime in New Zealand, partially because I have a son and grandchildren in Sydney and a daughter and grandchild in Melbourne, but also to enjoy the comfort of warmer weather and to seek a place where I would not always be face-to-face with Mary. My life with Mary was one of those great fortunate relationships that happen to some people. Her heart had failed suddenly and I thought it might be easier to have my mind occupied by new things rather than dwell on loss. Loss can be so consuming. So what more engaging than a new landscape, a warmer climate? Macleay Island was a place I could afford. Again I had been very lucky.

The day after our undeserved bowls win I was about to leave home for the post office to pay a bill when Scotty saw me, and wandered over. He said he was going down to The Blue Parrot to talk to John Stone who wanted a table made, so we ended up going down together in my small red Honda Jazz.

Australia Post, The Blue Parrot and a gaggle of shops share a small terrace beside the street and two or three steps down from it. Tables from the restaurant scatter out from its front under a big blue triangular awning and close by there is a fountain which doubles as a fish pond. It’s not exactly the Trevi Fountain of Rome or the rude fountain of Brussels. It’s a plastered free-form red horror in a square oxygen-plant choked pool encompassed by a wooden slatted seat. The water dribbles or splashes and most of the time the seat is wet. No Michelangelo designed that one, and it could be called ugly but, as Scotty insists, it’s our own type of ugly and the kids crowd around it looking for the goldfish – which are there hiding under the greenery – somewhere. By design or accident, it’s a pleasant little space, that piazza.

G’day John, I said pulling out a chair. Always nice to see you back. How long for this time?

I like John Stone; mid-late thirties, tall and fit looking with short brown hair and an engaging manner. He lives in the middle of the island with his wife Karyn and daughter Sasha and is away for long periods.

Maybe a month. Now that Christmas is over I’ll have another week at home and then a fortnight or so in the office drawing up a few plans.

Then what?

Back to New Guinea to finish the job.

Power house?

Bridge. It’ll make a huge difference there.

Good for you. Then where?

Nothing locked in yet, but East Timor’s looking good. Small power station and the road into it. Good project. Not too big but full of variation.

Well, I’m pleased to see you’re recruiting Scotty here. He needs taking out of the country; give us all a break. John laughed.

I could see him doing well on projects. I can’t judge his engineering skills but he has this ability to deal easily with people and I imagine it would be the same whether he was talking to an official trying to skim the project money, or a lowly labourer. Of course the partnership he formed, with two of his university class buddies, must be good enough to be winning the contracts it does, but the nature and manner of John Stone were surely among the firm’s strongest assets.

You obviously enjoy the work? I said.

Very much. It’s a strangely satisfying job; part engineering, part human relations, part financial and a surprising amount is political. There’s a lot of work and some luck in keeping local fingers out of the till. I don’t always win but I do enjoy the process, and at the end there’s a brand new road or power house, or bridge, or hospital, or whatever, to look at and surely that’s going to make life in the region better for someone; usually the women.

Wouldn’t mind a trip to the Pacific with you, said Scotty coming forward in his seat and putting one elbow on the table. Just sit up there in a big chair. Have the locals carry me around, food brought to me by dusky maidens––

My god Scotty, I think I should hire you, just for the pleasure of watching you get the big reality check. That’s a hundred and fifty years out of date. In fact I don’t think that version ever existed.

I’ve noticed it John, his mind’s wandering. Irma does all the thinking in that family now. I said it sorrowfully.

Scotty glared at me, then said with a smile. Wrong! She’s always done it.

We laughed. It’s very companionable on the terrace outside of The Blue Parrot.

John took the plan of a dining table out of his pocket. He’d drawn it up on his home draughting table and it was a work of exactitude.

Don’t think I’ve ever had such a precise plan to work from since I left the factory in Sydney said Scotty looking at the sheet on the small table. "Can’t see any problems. Just a matter of what wood’s available. I’ve got a really nice slab of Robinia that might just be big enough for this."

The waitress arrived with my pot of tea, and coffee for each of the other two. I poured, Scotty sugared, John stirred.

The other two chatted about the table project while I went inside to ask if my raisin toast had been forgotten. As I approached the double glass doors my eye caught that of the man sitting next to them, and so next to our table too. He had a startlingly freshly laundered look about him as he sat, with his cup of coffee and I probably looked at him a little longer than was polite. He glanced up and caught my eye. It was a gentle face and brought a smile to mine.

Good morning, I said as I went through the door.

He nodded his head gravely and politely said, Good morning, in his turn.

With my plate of toast in my hand I went back to my table. On the way, I again nodded and smiled to the still man by the door.

At our table the other two had wrapped up the production discussion and Scotty folded the plans and plaed them by his cup. They were talking about the places John had worked and when I had a chance I asked the engineer. Will you come ashore one day soon, stop the travelling? ‘Swallow the anchor’, as the sailors say? Our world changes.

Always, Lockie. It’s always changing. It’s our saving and our challenge. And yes, I guess I am approaching settlement time; dream house time.

Dream house?

Dream being the operative word. He shifted in his seat, a hand each side of his coffee and looked into the slow turning of its surface. We planned to build a mainland house when it came time for Sash to go to university. Probably should be starting the planning now.

You’ll design it yourself? I naturally thought that. He was an engineer, a design engineer, and people persisted in drawing up their own houses. Nobody takes out their own appendix but it is accepted that it’s normal to design your own house; maybe consult a sheaf of builder’s plans. I never could understand the readiness with which people consigned themselves to a lifetime of inferior design and subjected their children to it. They wouldn’t accept that in their cars.

Oh, no, said John, We’ll use an architect. The way he said it left no possible question about it and my rating of him rose steeply. We’ve already got a list of wants as long as your arm. His concentration was somewhere in the future, It’ll be our chance to have a really nice place so, yes, there’ll be an architect. He looked up at my beaming face.

I’m so pleased to hear you say that. Most people seem to think it’s a job they do for themselves.

He gave a wry smile. They do, don’t they? But having grappled with design in engineering I have great respect for design skills. In fact I have a promise from a mate of mine that he’ll do it for me, and I think he’s pretty good.

Would I know the name?

Stephen Calderfield.

Stephen Calderfield! It came out as an involuntary exclamation as I sat upright.

Yes, You know him?

No. No, of course not. Forgive my reaction but I know of him. He’s quite an emerging star and I’m really impressed by what I’ve seen of his work – which comes down to pictures in architectural magazines. Really impressed.

John Stone was as delighted as I was. It’s great to come across someone who’s actually heard of him.

All I can say is you’re a lucky couple to have a man like that to work with. Would it be possible to see the plans when you get them and have a tour of the house once it’s up? The very prospect of seeing a Calderfield house in reality excites me more than you know.

Certainly, but you’re way ahead of things at the moment. We haven’t decided on a date, although I suppose we should. Have you seen the house he’s built on the island?

Surprise number two. On this island?

Yes.

Really? You never told me there was a Stephen Calderfield house on Macleay? I was addressing Scotty who had been leaving us to our conversation. He shrugged.

Didn’t know you were that interested. It’s just a house. Hasn’t got the command of a real old Queenslander.

It would certainly be different, but I’ll bet it’s got some command about it. Wow! A Stephen Calderfield. That’d be something.

Oh, it is.It certainly is, said John.

Yeah? Well my Queenslander maybe old but it suits me just fine. You can keep that modern rubbish.

I’d certainly love to keep a Calderfield house, if I could afford it,I said. And that takes nothing from your Queenslander, Scotty. Where is this place? I’ve not noticed it.

John sat back. It’s built on the south-east coast down a drive off Fallsworth Drive. You can’t see it from the road. It was built just before you came here.

I’ve not come across any photos of it.

Don’t think the owner allowed any photographs to be published. It’s built for privacy.

That’s a bit mean. You seen it?

Oh yes. Times I was home while it was being built, Stephen took me to see it. Fantastic place. Set back from the cliff edge, about ten metres above sea level with fantastic views over Karragarra Passage. The view sweeps south, and includes Lamb Island, Russell Island and down towards the Gold Coast. Stephen rebuilt the jetty too. It’s a fabulous property.

Who’s the lucky owner? Sounds pretty rich.

Of course he’s rich, said Scotty, He’s a bloody lawyer isn’t he?

What’s his name?

John was laughing quietly. His name is Hale Jennison, and yes, he’s a lawyer, quite a well known one because he’s very effective in getting desperate men off their charges. Bikie gangs use him a lot. Yep, he’s skilful and he works hard. Might just earn his money, Scotty.

Bloody leeches, all of them. I know a lot of blokes who’ve worked harder all their lives than that parasite, but they don’t have a fancy house and jetty and a flash-Harry launch.

Steady Scotty, I said, You’re back to thinking the world should be a place of justice.

So it bloody well ought to be.

Maybe lawyers are trying to make it so. Maybe they’re trying to have everyone pay their taxes fairly.

What? Don’t give me that bullshit.

Both John and I laughed at the indignant Scotty. I was puzzled though.How come I’ve never heard of this man or knew such a house existed?

The fact is, John said, he’s rarely here. A maintenance man lives on the property but most of the time it’s empty. Hale’s base is in Hamilton in Brisbane. I believe that’s a fine place too though it’s not by Stephen Calderfield.

So why build this house then?

John blew out a breath. I don’t know. I suppose he wanted a week-ender away from it all and he does like his comfort.

I wonder, I said, if he’d let me look at the place?

Ah, said John. He’s almost paranoid about his privacy. I think he’d be happy if no one on the island knew the house was there, or that he existed. Don’t fancy your chances of getting a look through.

That’d be right, said Scotty. Lawyers are tight. They’re made that way. Save your breath. Don’t even try.

We chatted on for a few minutes, enjoying the tea or the coffee with Scotty greeting people as they drifted in or out of The Blue Parrot – always a word in passing.

We went into the building to pay and I was the last one up to the counter. By the time I was all settled the other two had walked to the foot of the small flight of steps leading up to the footpath a metre above this level. I saw them standing there, talking, as I came through the door, still putting my change in my pocket, when I felt a hand touch my left arm – lightly. So very lightly.

I turned and was facing the laundered man, now on his feet. A good handspan shorter than me, slight of frame and so thin he looked half-starved despite the impression of neatness. His khaki trousers and a squared off khaki sweat shirt were spotless. His hair was salted with grey and looked as though it had just been trimmed by the hairdresser. There was something more to his face. The skin across his nose and around his eyes was weather-beaten and wrinkled but the skin of his forehead, chin and neck was much paler as if long hair had covered it from the sun. He’s just been to the barbers I thought, and had a real clean up. The fingers of his hand now hovering above my left forearm were surprisingly slender and long. All that, I took in in an instant but what held me was his face, its contrasts, that weather-beaten walnut skin, drawn over his prominent cheekbones like lampshade parchment, and the eyes that stared at me. Under thick and greying eyebrows, in all that assemblage of weather-beaten skin those eyes shone like beacon lights and held me right where I was.

He appeared to be struggling to speak and to stand steadily. I wondered if he were drunk though I could smell no alcohol.

Are you all right? I said, hoping to get him to say something, even if only to ask for a cup of coffee. Would you like to sit down? I steadied him by the elbow and pointed to his seat, but he was consumed by urgency.

Don’t go there, he said in a low, rich voice. I expected him to say more but he stopped. I wondered what he meant and it must have shown on my face. He took a quick look around at the people crossing the terrace to the shops. No one was near us, no one had replaced us at the outside tables. Pardon me, he said quietly, I heard you talking. Be careful. Stay away.

I could see by now he was not drunk. I was trying to guess his age but the variations in his complexion made it impossible. I thought he might be in his forties though he gave the impression of being older.

Would you care to sit down and tell me about it? Another coffee? He worried me.

No. Those sharp eyes were flicking about nervously. Too many people. He held the edge of a table. What do you do?

That surprised me, but there was such intensity in the man I went along with him. I’m retired on the island. I was once a school teacher. What do you do?

Sail. I waited. Nothing.

Just sail? On your own?

Yes.

Sail to where, why?

Anywhere. I sail and I will keep on sailing. It’s a full life.

And if you have an accident or fall ill?

He shook his head dismissing all that. When the time comes, it comes. Doesn’t matter where you are.

I was shifting in my mind from an initial suspicion, past thinking him drunk, beyond considering him mad. I was captivated by him; English I guessed, and possibly eccentric. One thing was certain he’d spent so much time on his own that he found talking, awkward. He’d made no move to take up my invitation to sit down and I could see he was getting edgier. He wanted to move.

What did you mean, just now, when you said, ‘Don’t go there’?

Around us, people were coming in, chatting, absorbed in their own business and it was too much for him.

I’m sailing tonight, he said so quietly I could hardly hear him. A swift glance around and he came closer to me. "This afternoon. Come to my boat. It’s the only safe place to talk. The Mountain View. Thirty-five footer, west of the jetty."

He stumbled off leaving me baffled, and intrigued.

2

The prospect of seeing through a Stephen Calderfield house excited me and as soon as I arrived home I sat down and wrote what I thought was a very good letter to Mr Jennison, pointing out to him that I was a Macleay Islander, not just an idle rubber necker, that I had a deep and long standing interest in architecture and was fully aware of the significance of a Stephen Calderfield house. I went on and buttered him up just a tad. I quite enjoyed trying to impress a lawyer enough to get him to make an exception