Operation Gravelrash

By Graham Braddock

In Queensland, two seemingly unconnected investigations are underway; a stalled search for a murderer by the state police and mysterious shipments of cement that have set bells ringing in the Australian Federal Police. As the events converge, a cattle property in the Central Queensland outback becomes the unlikely setting for a series of inciden

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Nov 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781947355156

Book preview

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 

Many thanks to the authors of the countless books of this genre I have read over the years; their fascinating plots and characters finally inspired me to write one myself.

My grateful appreciation goes to my wife, Kaye, and my sister, Carol.

They gave support, which was always needed.

They offered advice, which was sometimes heeded.

CHAPTER 1 

Monday, January 21
Wynott Station, Central Queensland

Blackie looked extremely pissed off. When he had stopped to eat his sandwiches for lunch, Jim Bryant had driven up to the stockyards from the homestead.

Looks like you’ve nearly finished, Blackie.

Yeah, just gotta hang that last gate and tidy things up. Have you got that paint ready so I can start on the shed tomorra?

Well, yes and no, Blackie. Fact is, going to have to let you go, mate. Betty’s off to sort things out for her mother.

So what, Jim? I can look after the cooking and everything.

Blackie didn’t want to sound like he was whining, but he was sure Jim would be aware that there was little chance of him picking up another short-term job quickly at this time of the year. There would certainly be some work farther south, but they both knew that his aging Holden pickup could not be relied upon to travel too far—not with the radiator leaking like a sieve and second gear being a matter of chance and not choice.

Sorry, mate, but it’s costing a small fortune for her to go to Melbourne and down to Frankston. With any luck, we should be right to finish off the shed in about another three months. I should have some other work for you by then. Come over to the house tonight for a feed and I’ll fix you up for the four weeks. That should help towards repairing your ute and still leave enough for a week or two of solid socialising. That was if you could call propping up the bar at a country pub, playing pool and poker and encouraging horses to disprove your knowledge of the racing industry as social intercourse, he said to himself. 

***

Betty had roasted a big joint of beef.

Should keep you going for a while, Jim, she said, for the umpteenth time.

Jim grunted some sort of agreement and fished another couple of beers from the fridge.

So, how long will you be away, Betty? Blackie asked, piling his plate with more food.

Betty rattled on about how her mother had broken her hip in a fall, goodness knows how long the poor thing had been lying there before someone found her, and how she would need to be put in a nursing home, because Mum won’t be able to cope on her own, you know.

Betty said she would also arrange for the sale of her mother’s unit and ensure everything was tidied up properly. I have a cousin down there who knows a good estate agent, you know.

She asked if Blackie would like some leftover meat for sandwiches tomorrow. And do try the rice pudding, Blackie. There is plenty of it. Jim, don’t belch like that. You’re drinking your beer too fast. You shouldn’t be drinking anyway, not when you have to drive me to the Clarke’s tomorrow. Bill Clarke’s going to take me in his plane to Cairns, you know, she added.

Hope he keeps his headphones on, thought Blackie.

After pretending to listen to a dissertation on the perils of selling a property way down in Victoria and the life history of the neighbouring Clarkes, Jim and Blackie escaped to the office.

Bloody hell, she can yap. All excited about going to see her mum, I guess. Feel sorry for the old girl though. Mind you, she’ll probably have broken eardrums as well after Betty arrives, observed Jim. Here, have a drink.

Do Betty good to be away for a while,’ replied Blackie, holding out his glass. When did she last get away by herself?"

Yeah, first time she’s been away since, well…

Jim’s voice trailed away as he glanced at the photo of their son, Albert, who had been killed two years ago at their property over on the east coast. Jim had inherited the 156 hectares about five years ago after his father died. The land, bounded to the north and south by mangrove inlets, was ideal for cropping and fattening cattle, although the house was in need of new guttering and a coat of paint.

They never found those bastards, you know.

Albert, then aged twenty, had been sent to check the property soon after Cyclone Yasi had created havoc along the Queensland coast two years previous. There had been reports of mysterious trucks around the area since then and stock losses on nearby properties. After not hearing from his son for over a week and despite a broken ankle, Jim had driven the six hours over mainly secondary roads to see what was happening. The homestead was deserted, but some of Albert’s clothes were on the washing line and a few dirty dishes cluttered the sink. But there was no sign of Albert, the Land Cruiser, or his dog, Jed. Checking the outbuildings, Jim noticed that the tractor and trailer were also missing from the implement shed.

Several days later, a police and SES search party found Albert and Jed in a scrub valley near the back of the farm, their bodies concealed under scrub branches. Both had been shot dead. It appeared that, while checking for stray cattle, Albert had happened across a well-organised marijuana crop. The missing tractor was connected to a pump for irrigation and the site showed signs of a hasty harvesting. Drug squad detectives had scoured for clues and interviewed several people known to be involved in the drug trade, but no concrete information had come to light.

Shaking his head to clear the painful memories, Jim swallowed his drink and offered another to Blackie. When his employee declined, Jim made to pour himself another, but recapped the bottle with a sigh.

So, what will you do now, Blackie?

Hope my wheels get me to the Black Stump, he said, using the colloquial name for a small town about an hour’s drive away, cash your cheque, have a few beers and … dunno. Had thought about going down to Brisbane to see my sister, but I can’t stand her bloody kids or that prick she lives with. Anyway, I’ll worry about it tomorrow. tablet into the satchel and grabbing his windbreaker from the

Look, before you go, I just wanted to—

The phone interrupted.

Hello. Jim Bryant here, he answered. Yeah, Bill. It’s moving down that fast, eh?  Seven o’clock at the strip then? Ah-ha. Yep. When does that flight from Bundy get to Melbourne? Change planes at Brisbane. Yeah. Betty can sort all that out. Okay, see you tomorrow, Bill. Thanks a lot.

Hanging up the phone, he started towards the door. Better pour us another round, mate. Looks like I might need a hand here for a while, so you could have some more work yet. I’ll be back in a minute. 

CHAPTER 2 

Brisbane, six weeks earlier

Sandra McMorrison was a very successful freelance journalist. The independence of not being confined to any one office or publisher and the same group of co-workers suited her well. She had never formed any serious relationship since her divorce five years ago, having spent the previous eight years in a marriage of convenience for two workaholics who rarely spent much time together, let alone consider raising a family. As a journalist, Sandra’s work was widely accepted by a number of newspapers and magazines and she had a weekly guest appearance on a national television program. She was renowned for her investigative assignments and knew she was now on the track of an explosive story.

A recent newspaper article had exposed a possible cover-up concerning elements of the environmental impact statement (EIS) for a proposed coal seam gas (CSG) operation in the Surat Basin area of Queensland. Of the many experts consulted by the Independent Expert Scientific Committee, one was a noted industrial and analytical chemist from the Queensland University of Engineering, Science and Technology, usually referred to by the acronym, QUEST. When the report was finally released, a national newspaper had obtained a copy and asked Sandra to check the conclusions, which seemed to ignore the input of some of these experts; Professor Nigel Bracker in particular. She had been attracted to Nigel from that first interview. He had strongly defended his opposition to the proposed mining operation, citing the probable long-term ramifications for the aquifer structure should the venture proceed. This seemed inevitable, he claimed, given the bland and non-committal tone of the EIS.

He opposed the findings by saying, While the report covers the minimal effect of boring into the artesian basin, it ignores, or is unaware of, the consequences of penetrating the cap that acts as a protective barrier. The seismological and soil sample analyses from the reports submitted show a commonality with those from most parts of the Surat and Bowen Basins, where most of Queensland’s large-scale coal seam gas production has been conducted for nearly twenty years. This report has concluded that the same environmental protection measures as taken in the Bowen Basin will be suitable in the Surat Basin, given the similarities of the geological formation.

Noting that as a quote, Sandra pressed for details as to how Nigel had reached his conclusions.

I spent considerable time with the consulting geologist, who is also a visiting lecturer to the university. He, however, had detected an almost obscured abnormality in the seismological map, presenting a potential weakness in the cap at that particular location. Combined with the high mineral content of what is certainly a substantial CSG reserve and the accompanying volumetric pressure of its exploitation, he was adamant that this presented a far different proposition than previously encountered in that general area. I am an industrial chemist with many years of experience in mining procedures and my task was to ascertain if this combination of factors could adversely affect the artesian basin that lies under much of Queensland. Without getting too technical, my projections indicated the likelihood of a catastrophic chemical reaction should there be even a minuscule leakage through the aquifer.

Having obtained sufficient information for the article—most of this is above my head, but it makes good copy—Sandra invited the professor for lunch, where they could lighten up and she could discover more of the man behind his academic veneer. After a long lunch learning about each other at a popular hotel near the Brisbane Cricket Ground at Woolloongabba, they moved into the bar and continued the verbal dance that each knew was going to lead to a bedroom. They had arrived separately for lunch by cab and just before the traffic flow began to congeal, took another cab to Nigel’s flat in the nearby suburb of West End. Their coupling was rapid and mutually satisfying and repeated throughout the night. It had been many months since either of them had broken their sexual drought. And a long time since I had breakfast dressed in just a man’s shower robe, reflected Sandra.

They had spent much time together since then, alternating between their respective domiciles. Nigel was pleased when her first article about the EIS was published, feeling a sense of vindication as reactions came forth. One Tuesday night, after he had been drinking more heavily than Sandra had previously noticed—he had been drinking all afternoon and was somewhat drunk and truculent when she arrived at his flat with a Thai takeaway meal—he told her of the hostility he was encountering at work. When interviewed on television a few days previously about aspects of his account being inaccurate and uninformed, he had intimated that these aspersions from the university were influenced by financial incentives offered to the institution by the applicant consortium. After editing for transmission, this comment coupled with other sound bites from the interview, presented as an accusation of QUEST accepting a bribe to endorse the EIS. He had been called to the office of the faculty dean earlier that afternoon and warned that any further comments in that vein would be regarded as slanderous and that libel suits were possible against any media outlet which embraced those comments.

Not only that, he fumed, the responsive statement from the university intimated that, while I was an undoubted expert in my field as an industrial chemist, my experience had been on the blackboard and I’d probably never set foot in a mine site. In other words, he was almost shouting now and thumping his forefinger on the table for emphasis, they are accusing me of being incompetent!

Sandra made appropriate soothing comments as she laid out the meal and ran her hand over his groin, whispering in his ear, But, darling, I’ve never found you incompetent.

Nigel calmed down and they ate their meal in relative silence with Sandra inserting humorous observations of an incident in the TV studio that morning. After watching a movie, they retired to the bedroom where it became apparent, for the first time since they had met, that he was not capable of meeting the requirements to consummate the evening. Sandra was contemplating leaving him to sleep it off and return to her own apartment when Nigel began a rambling monologue.

He muttered about the difficulties in having his divorce finalised, the incompetence of his solicitor, the hypocritical attitude of the faculty staff, corruption in the environmental protection advisory panel, the bulldozing tactics of big business and several other items on his resentment list. But then he began to drop names into his litany of woe—names of people not generally recognised by the public, though familiar to Sandra from her extensive journalistic experience and contacts. Rather than hush him up, she let him continue, occasionally asking some innocuous questions to expand the details he was relating. While she knew a little of his divorce proceedings and the general dissatisfaction he found in academia and other institutions, she had never heard him so vocal in expressing opinion outside of his specialised field. Cuddling into him, she was able to coax his recalcitrant member into action and quickly mounted him. Afterwards, he fell asleep, but Sandra lay awake for a long time, reviewing what she had learned.

Late the next afternoon she rang Nigel, apologising for having to stay at the Gold Coast for a couple of days on assignment and suggested that he contact a solicitor she knew in the city. She had spoken to him earlier that day, she said, and considered he could be helpful in expediting Nigel’s divorce settlement. He agreed to make the contact and that she agreed to collect him on Friday afternoon to spend the weekend at her apartment in Milton. However, on Friday morning, there was another article in the paper headed University Professor in Disgrace, claiming that Nigel had been placed under disciplinary caution by the university. They considered he had made unfounded accusations about the integrity of the EIS, consequently tarnishing not only his own reputation, but also that of the faculty and the academic community in general. Curiously, Nigel shrugged it off when asked about the damning article, being more interested in where to dine that evening.

It was over coffee and croissants at a local café the next morning before he finally mentioned the events of the previous day. He had been advised in the morning by an internal letter that his contract was to be terminated at the end of the semester, only weeks away. While he was invited to apply when the position was readvertised, it was suggested that he might prefer to explore further options.

There is not likely to be much on the further options horizon, especially with my career path to date and my age, he commented. A colourful parade of Lycra-clad cyclists parked their machines in the courtyard and queued up for the mandatory lattes.

I had hoped to get into some large company where my work could be put to practical use or a research laboratory, but… He shrugged his shoulders in what Sandra interpreted as a gesture of self-pity.

Have you spoken with that solicitor yet?

We have a preliminary appointment for ten on Monday morning and if it’s okay with you, I will take the train in from here.

That’s fine, Nigel. I’m glad you took my advice and rang him. He comes across as a bit of an old fuddy-duddy, but he gets right on to things. He handled my divorce and most of my media contracts, negotiating terms that were far better than I could ever have dreamed. Now I’ll just have to see about using my contacts to help you get another job.

It had taken a while after Nigel’s departure to the city and two or three phone calls for Sandra to get things organised. If it all worked out, there would be a great story in it for her. Nigel thought he knew what he was doing. Sandra also thought she knew what she was doing too. She pondered as to whether Nigel was just a means to an end for her in all this. Developments were emerging rapidly now, more swiftly than she had anticipated. Picking up the phone again, she rang a silent number in Canberra. The conversation brought the disturbing realisation that she did not know as much as she’d thought and that she was not to learn much more just yet. Ringing another unlisted number on the Gold Coast, she quickly outlined developments and wondered afterwards what the appropriate action to be taken would entail. 

CHAPTER 3 

Tuesday, January 22 Wynott Station

Blackie looked around the office sipping his drink while Jim told Betty about the phone call from Bill Clarke. An old Imperial typewriter was perched on the filing cabinet, gathering dust since its replacement with a computer. The screen saver on the monitor showed a photo of Albert, mustering cattle on his horse with Jed and another couple of dogs in the background. The colourful image showed the features he had inherited from his parents; the gangling height of his father and the fine facial structure of his mother. He was dressed to suit the subtropical weather, with a Drizabone coat strapped to the back of the saddle and a well-worn Akubra perched rakishly on his head, shading what Blackie knew to be hazel-coloured eyes. His own eyes strayed around the shelves and walls, noting the collection of prizes and awards that Jim had collected over the years—ribbons from shows around Queensland, even one for a prize bull at the Sydney Easter Show ten years ago. Fond memories, he surmised, but little comfort for a life spent on a farm now reeling from successive seasons of drought and low market prices. Unable to resist the temptation, after all, the letter was lying opened on the desk, Blackie saw that the Bryants were being pressured to dramatically reduce their loans. No surprise there, he thought. Quickly scanning the first page, he learned the bank was suggesting that the run-off property at the coast be…

Pretending an interest in a photo of Albert accepting first prize at some rodeo when he heard Jim returning, he finished the last sip of the whisky.

Thanks for the drink, Jim; I’d better get my head down so I can make an early start. Don’t like driving in the hot.

Hang on a minute, Blackie. We’re on to plan B now. Jim chuckled at the look of bewilderment on Blackie’s face. Grab a seat and have another beer, he continued, passing a can from the six-pack he was carrying.

Shit, Jim, beer on top of whisky on top of beer. I’ll be in no condition to get back to the cabin tonight, let alone drive in the morning.

I just told you, mate, we’re on plan B now and I need you here for a while longer yet.

Stretching out in the swivel chair, Jim ripped the tab off a can and reached to fill his pipe. Blackie watched the ritual with bemusement as his employer settled in the old rocking chair.

Does Betty need a hand with the packing or something?

Hell no. Ever tried to help a woman pack?

Jim regretted his words the moment they left his mouth. He remembered that Blackie had mentioned having helped pack his wife’s belongings after ten years of marriage. Hiding his embarrassment while pointedly prodding the wad of tobacco in his pipe, which was already smouldering as intended, he mentally reviewed what he knew about the man seated opposite. He didn’t even know his first name; he was just known as Blackie. He’d served in the Vietnam War, was divorced or separated and a loner, but he’d been a bloody good worker on the various jobs he had undertaken around the farm. He seemed to be able to turn his hand to anything but never said much about his past, just seemed to hide everything behind his beard and under his hat.

I’ve never had much practise really, Blackie finally replied, with the usual lack of emotion that Jim had gotten used to. That’s why all my gear fits in the back of the pickup.

Yeah, well anyway, that weather is closing in. The cyclone has shifted around again, so Bill’s going to fly in at first light tomorrow and head off to Bundaberg before it gets too rough. Jim took another draw on the pipe and continued. So that means we’ll have to get those stock off the strip.

By we, I guess you want me to hang around a while longer?

That’s what I just said. Look, Blackie, can you stay until this weather clears? Then you can take the truck to town and get the parts to fix your pickup. However, I do need to shift that stock and move them to the Gully Paddock for shelter. They’re supposed to go away for the Roma sale next week.

Well, why not while I’m on Wynott. It will take a few days to finish off that roast meat anyway.

Good on ya, Blackie. Here, have another drink. No? Okay. I’ll have one myself. Remind me in the morning to tell you about my plans for the run-off. 

***

Bill Clarke’s plane took off with wings yawing in the strong crosswinds as the storms from the tropical cyclone approached. Tugging his Akubra further down his brow, Blackie followed Jim to the adjoining paddock.

When did Bill get the PC-12, Jim? referring to the Swiss Pilatus aircraft that was disappearing into the haze and out of sight.

The what? Oh, the plane. Dunno really. He has had planes ever since I can remember. Got a coupla choppers too. Nice to have money, eh.

Yeah, but that’s real serious money. That aircraft can carry eight or nine passengers, but there were only four seats fitted.

Dunno, mate. Anyway, it’s a good way for Betty to start off for Melbourne. Bill was going to Cairns but the weather prevented that, so he’s going over to Bundy instead. That’s why he rang last night, to see if Betty had made her booking yet.

How long’s she away for? shouted Blackie. The first wave of the squall was now lashing them and he tugged his hat on more firmly.

Dunno. Doesn’t really matter. The way things are going here, there will be nothing for her to come back to anyway. What’s with all the questions anyway? You never talk much about nothing.

These cyclones bring out the best in me. 

***

As the two men plodded their horses farther towards the gully paddock to recheck the stock they had moved earlier, Jim came out with the proposal he had been thinking about overnight.

Interested in looking after the run-off for me? I want to run some agistment over there. A few head for ourselves of course and also get a crop or two planted.

What sorta crop? Barley? Lucerne?

Dunno yet. Have to see how the sale goes next week.

Yeah, sounds okay, Blackie replied unenthusiastically. Fix the pickup first, eh?

Sure, Blackie. Now how about we get these stock settled in and head back for lunch. Roast meat sandwiches and cold beer sound okay to you. We can’t do much more outside now anyhow; that looks like a bloody big storm coming through.

Suits me, Jim, ’cos there’s a few things we need to talk about.

By the time they had returned to the house yard and unsaddled the horses, the wind was gusting from the northeast, bringing heavy showers. After wiping down the saddles and hanging them in the tack room to dry, Jim removed his jacket and wiped his face and neck. Blackie seemed to be searching through his pockets.

While you’re buggering around playing with yourself, I’ll go inside and put the billy on. What’s wrong, you lost something? asked Jim.

Thought I had another pack of baccy with me. Must’ve left it in the glovebox. Yeah, you go on in and I’ll be there in a tick.

Jim limped off with some derogatory comments about the weather and Blackie sprinted across to his battered vehicle. Mopping his hands and face on a dirty-looking towel, he opened the glove box and removed the pouch of tobacco. Quickly glancing in the wing mirror to make sure Jim had indeed gone to the homestead, he reached under an untidy collection of papers and removed a satellite phone from its concealed charging unit. Viewing the two messages he’d received, he started to return the phone to its cradle. Do I or do I not? Jim is going to know soon anyway. However, he doesn’t have to know about this yet, he muttered. Restoring the phone to its hiding place, he retrieved a small wallet and tucked it in his jeans pocket.

Shaking off his jacket and boots, he made his way to the kitchen, where Jim was cutting slices off the previous night’s roast beef.

Thought I might throw these on bread with gravy and zap them in the microwave. You want mustard with yours?

Just a dash for me thanks, Jim. That tea brewed yet?

It’s all ready to go. You pour them out and take them through to the sunroom. Now there’s an oxymoron for today!

He gave a shoo motion and continued preparing the sandwiches.

That’s a bloody big word for you, Jim. Been doing crosswords again? 

CHAPTER 4 

Tullamarine Airport, Melbourne

Every time she was sure her suitcase would be next, a collection of luggage from another flight appeared on the carousel. At first, she never took any notice of the announcement over the PA system, but it finally sank through—she was the person being requested to report to the Virgin Australia service counter.

I’m Mrs Bryant. You were calling me? she stammered.

Mrs Bryant? The voice came from a middle-aged, well-dressed man flanked by two younger men, who seemed to be looking nervously around the concourse. Acknowledging her bewildered nod, he continued. I’m Superintendent Lawrence Parry from the Federal Police and these two gentlemen are my colleagues.

Covering her mouth to stifle the involuntary exclamation of surprise and awe, Betty eventually managed to splutter what was intended to be, Pleased to meet you.

It sounded more like, Bloody hell, what’s this all about?

Don’t be concerned, Mrs Bryant, we have already recovered your luggage. Now if you would just like to come with us.

Wha- wha- what’s wrong with my luggage? Betty queried, sending inquisitive eyebrow signals to the Virgin attendant, who quickly became busy checking her computer screen.

It’s just that with you having come from a drought area, there are certain checks to be made.

Yes. Yes. That is, yes, we do have a drought at home. But surely, she asserted, regaining her composure, (didn’t these city people know that there was no chance of her carrying any potential danger to Victoria’s farming industry?) this is a matter for the agriculture department or someone like that?

Seated in a nearby office, Betty saw her suitcase standing upright on the floor, apparently unopened. Declining the offer of a cup of coffee, Betty settled for water and fidgeted in the chair while the superintendent poured a cold glass from the small fridge. The other two men, she noticed, were waiting outside the office.

Really, Mr Parry, surely this is most irregular. After all, I’m just down here to see my mother.

Yes. Indeed! replied Parry. And I am delighted to tell you that your mother is fine. Her injury was just a bad case of bruising and she is being well looked after. I can see you are somewhat, and I must add, understandably confused, but we believe you may be able to help us with a matter we are currently investigating.

Bruising? She’s fine? Investigating? Tell me, Sergeant …

I am a superintendent. Superintendent Lawrence Parry of the Australian Federal Police.

Superintendent Larry Parry. What’s your middle name? Clarry? What’s the federal police got to do with me seeing my mother? And how do you know all this anyway?

Mrs Bryant, forgive me for alarming you. Do you know someone called Blackie?

Blackie, you mean Blackie on the farm?

Acknowledging Parry’s nod of confirmation, Betty continued. Well, he arrived a few weeks back and’s been helping around the place. Been a bit hard going for Jim, you know, because of his ankle being broken a couple of years ago. It probably would have healed properly if he didn’t have to drive to the run-off looking for Albert. Albert is—was—our son. He was killed over there by druggies but they never found them.

Yes, we are aware of that, Mrs Bryant. And before you ask,—Parry held up his hands in a stop motion as Betty began to interrupt—"certain aspects of that