Pacific Underbelly - Book 2 The Torres Strait: Pacific Underbelly

By James Gault

A veneer of tranquility over latent violence and crime still prevails in the Pacific. Torres Strait between New Guinea and Australia is no exception. When young women and drugs are available on one side and potential customers on the other, then the narrow waterway provides little barrier. Unscrupulous thugs and racketeers take every advantage and hide behind layers of deception, secrecy and threats. Can Pete Martyn survive in this hidden cauldron of deceit, danger and drug-dealing let alone actually accomplish any positive outcome?

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Gault
• Release date: Sep 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223397335

James Gault

James, or Jim by preference, is an ex Naval Captain who has spent much of his life at sea mucking around in ships and boats. He has had a wide variety of roles from operational to training, policy-making and diplomatic, including voluntary work as a firefighter and marine rescue skipper.He has an abiding interest in history, both fact and fiction. These days the joys of reading and writing are preferred, especially writing about the fictional adventures of others. He lives in a small coastal town in Australia.

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Cover by GermanCreative, Austria

-1-

COLONY OF NEW SOUTH WALES – 1814

Newly promoted Major-General Lachlan Macquarie rejoiced in the title of Commander-General and Governor-in-Chief of the colony but rejoiced in not much else. The dour Scot, having arrived with his own troops of the 73rd Regiment of Foot, had the rebellious soldiers of the New South Wales Corps – notoriously known as the Rum Corps – now firmly under control. The colony was, however, suffering serious drought and food shortages, whilst rum remained a significant, if now illegal, form of barter currency. Further, the availability of coinage was being severely diminished by traders purchasing goods with the limited foreign coins available, which inevitably went offshore with the outgoing trading vessels.

The British Government had just recently provided a lifeline in the form of a delivery of ten thousand English pounds value of Spanish dollar coins, some 40,000 in total. With that delivery, courtesy of the East India Company and a Naval ship, came an accompanying directive that the coins were not to leave the colony. Consulting his Attorney-General on how to give effect to this edict, it was decided to utilize the varied skills of a convicted forger to cut out the centre of the coins and over-stamp them. That would effectively neutralize, or at least dramatically reduce their worth overseas.

What went unrecorded was a freshly signed requisition on the East India Company for shipments of desperately needed foodstuffs to the tune of one thousand silver dollars. Their twenty-year trading monopoly in India was about to end but there remained more than enough time for the funds to be expended. The convenient arrival in port that week of the brig Morning Star fresh from Bengal together with news that she would be returning there within a fortnight or so fired the Colony’s Quartermaster into action. Approaching the forger charged with the task of modifying the Spanish coinage, he went armed with that requisition and a demand for one thousand coins.

‘But I’ve already cut and stamped the lot’, argued the forger.

‘That’s not my problem’, argued the Quartermaster, ‘silver is silver: we need food and we can’t eat silver! Just give me a thousand of what you’ve got: I’ll need the centre dumps too to make up the weight’.

Continuing the business in hand the next day, the Quartermaster approached the Master of the Brig Morning Star.

‘Master, we’ll be consigning a small sealed chest to your safekeeping, together with a note for the Director of the ‘Company’ in Bengal. Please deliver both by hand to the Director in person, and him only, and you will gain much credit both with the Company and this administration’.

The Morning Star duly sailed after a three-week break in Port Jackson and headed North. She failed to arrive at her destination, believed sunk. A limited number of survivors were plucked from Booby Island in the Torres Strait off Far North Queensland nearly three months later.

-2-

Queensland, Australia – Present Day

Blue skies, fluffy white clouds and a warm gentle breeze do not necessarily ensure an equally warm, relaxed and harmonious atmosphere amongst humans. The Martyn family were enjoying a rare holiday together in their yacht Finola off Cooktown on the Queensland coast. More accurately, Peter Martyn and his Hong Kong born wife Alison were enjoying the sailing: their twin daughters and younger son, not to mention their permanent nanny, were evidently not. The girls were being fractious, having had quite enough of being confined in forty-two feet of fibreglass; the youngest child was busy throwing up; and the nanny was confining herself to her bunk. Alison threw Pete a resigned look with raised eyebrows.

‘I think we might be best following the lead of your Commander Cook and heading into town’, she proposed. ‘We need to welcome your brother this evening anyway’.

‘OK, coming about’, was all Pete said, or needed to, as he twirled the wheel to port.

Pete was a Navy Commander, although he would have to admit he didn’t do much Navy stuff these days, sharing his time between their growing skincare product business south of Sydney and undertaking the occasional mission for one of the country’s intelligence services. He had lost his first wife in tragic circumstances and met, fell head-over-heels in love with and married Alison during a joint endeavour dismantling a criminal enterprise in the Cook Islands. That, other than the need for a refreshing break, was why they were all staying in Cooktown and why his brother was joining them.

Pete’s brother Andrew had also seen much tragedy. An unhappy marriage had ultimately fallen apart when it transpired that they were on opposing sides in the matter of a commercial drug supply activity. Andy had taken refuge in the embrace of an Islander woman and their developing love affair had come to an untimely conclusion when both his vengeful wife and his lover were killed in the same outburst of violence. That had also occurred in the Cook Islands, where Andy had happily been accepted as a permanent resident. The brothers had not met since. What now drew them together was to resolve an oddity in the Queensland legal system which had resulted in all but one of some properties originally owned by the drug syndicate they had dismantled being confiscated as the proceeds of crime. The exception was the very large house the Martyns were presently residing in which somehow had been transferred from the syndicate to Andy’s deceased lover Tamika and then from her to Andy. There was no substantive evidence that the transfers had involved other than legitimate funds hence the property remained in Andy’s ownership. He had decreed that its use should be to freely house the occasional Cook Islander tertiary student in need of Australian accommodation. As all legal disputation of his title had now evaporated, it was time to tidy up arrangements for its future.

After a smooth docking at Cooktown wharf, Pete jumped ashore to greet his brother who was already awaiting their arrival. The brothers hugged warmly, something Alison had not seen before and probably had not occurred for a significant period as they had spent many years at loggerheads. Alison eyed the brothers critically. Both were good looking male specimens, she thought, tall, well-built and slightly tanned, although Andy had clearly enjoyed the best of the sun’s rays in his tropical hideout. Her husband was just a touch taller whilst Andy was a touch broader, though perhaps not looking as physically fit as Pete, whom she drilled remorselessly with their joint fitness regime. She was no slouch in that department herself, having consistently maintained her high grading in Jiujitsu and other variants of the martial arts. She was easily dismissed by the casual onlooker as merely a glamorous addendum to her male partner but, as an ex-Detective Inspector with the Hong Kong police, she had subsequently proved her metal in some highly risky scenarios.

A pair of taxis disembarked their noisy burdens in the front driveway of an impressive two-story building well out of town that could readily be described as a manor house. They were met at the doorway by a burly Maori having the appearance of a recently retired prize-fighter and whose cheery smile looked mildly out of place.

‘Meet Ari’, announced Pete, ‘Ari, meet my brother Andrew Martyn, technically your employer’.

‘I’m Andy, Ari, delighted to meet you at last. I hope we can sort out some sort of longer-term arrangement over the next few days’.

On the way to their respective rooms Pete whispered ‘Andy, did you realize that Ari was the husband of the housekeeper that was murdered here?’

‘Oh shit’, swore Andy quietly, ‘probably by my ex-wife too. Hope he doesn’t hold any grudge, he looks mean!’

The three men sat together in what was still regarded as ‘the office’ with nothing evident of the gruesome double murder that had occurred there only a few years previously. They sat around the large polished mahogany table with nothing now evident in the room of the savagery that had occurred. It was decided that Andy would transfer ownership of the property to the Cook Islands Scholarship Trust which would allow Ari to be paid as caretaker and still maintain the place as accommodation for visiting Uni students. Meanwhile, Peter would act as in-country Public Officer of the Trust to help sort out any tax or similar issues that might arise. In return he would be allowed reasonable periods of free family accommodation. That would facilitate him keeping the family’s yacht at the local marina.

‘I need a drink’, declared Andy as they headed back to their rooms.

‘Good idea, I’ll join you’, responded Pete, ‘maybe we could take some time out and go for a sail together. I wouldn’t mind checking out the Torres Strait islands, we could be there and back in a week with the current conditions’.

That was a mutually agreed good idea in brotherly bonding which lasted almost a minute until Alison disposed of it.

‘If you boys think for a moment that you’re going off to enjoy yourselves swanning around the islands by yourselves, you’ve got another think coming’, she declared, somewhat more than just resolutely. ‘I’m coming with you’.

That left care of the children to be arranged. Emily, the nanny, would not usually be pleased to be left ‘holding the baby’ so to speak, by herself. The prospect of more sailing time was sufficiently daunting to overcome her hesitancy, however, and all was duly arranged.

-3-

Charlie Hargrave would tell you he was nudging seventy. He had been telling people that for at least five years. He fancied himself as an adventurer, and there was somewhat more truth to that description. He had been sailing yachts for as long as he could remember, although of recent times he had swapped his purist ideas of what constituted a true yacht to acquire a sailing catamaran. The catalyst for that had been his daughter Anna, the delight of his life but needing a lifestyle change after the loss of her husband to a freak mountain-biking accident three years previously. She had shown no interest in men since then, and little in anything else really, except for her sailing adventures with her father. She did have other baggage though, a fascination for scuba diving and all the necessary kit that goes with that. Hence the bigger boat to carry them both and their large array of gear in comfort. Fortunately, Charlie had made some fortunate underwater discoveries over the years and made some prudent investments so they could both live in equal comfort.

Their boat was a bit of a monster really for the two of them: a forty-five-foot Seawind cat that could go pretty much anywhere they wanted to go and do so rather quickly. In a fit of unadventurous thinking, Charlie had named her simply as Cat. She was presently berthed at the public wharf on Horn Island in the Torres Strait in the care of Anna. Charlie, meanwhile, had taken the Dash-8 service from there to Cairns carrying a tiny item that encapsulated much of what Charlie and Anna were all about. They needed to get that item evaluated by an expert.

There are several honest and reputable coin dealers in Cairns. Ronaldo (Ronny) Moretti was not one of them. Certainly, he was a dealer in coins and collectibles; it was just his honesty that was questionable. More than that really: he was a crook. He glanced up as Charlie entered his shop and subjected him to a rapid but shrewd assessment. Old guy, old shirt, shabby trousers, clean, tough-looking sort summed up his initial appraisal. The bloke isn’t carrying anything so maybe he’s a buyer after all, his thinking went.

‘How can I help Sir’, Ronny queried, adopting one of his more obsequious tones, which no-one had ever told him sounded thoroughly patronizing.

Charlie fished into the depths of his trouser pocket and pulled out a coin wrapped in tissue. It would once have been his handkerchief that was used for such things, but Anna had insisted he adopt 21st century practice and switch to tissues. He straightened the tissue out on the counter and laid the coin upon it.

‘Could you give me a valuation on that please?’ Charlie asked politely.

Ronny picked up the coin without displaying any real interest, then picked up a magnifying glass for a closer look. ‘Well, it’s basically an old Spanish dollar’, announced Ronny shortly, ‘it’s in pretty poor condition although I can still read the 1805 date ok. This is most likely an early facsimile of a holey dollar’ he declared. ‘I could take a chance and give you two hundred dollars cash for it. Can I ask where you got it?’

‘Up North, found it on the beach with my metal detector’, lied Charlie as he retrieved the coin.

No stranger to untruths, Ronny could detect one at a hundred paces. He casually leant forward over the counter and for the first time checked out Charlie’s shoes. Boat shoes, no socks, thought he: this guy’s a sailor. ‘There is a small market occasionally for this sort of thing, maybe I could let you have five hundred dollars for it if you leave it with me now’, offered Ronny with a generous smile.

‘Nah, think I’ll hang on to it for myself’, responded Charlie and he headed out the door.

The innocent majority of any population may well take comfort in the thought that underworld crime gangs are confined to major cities. They are almost invariably wrong. Ronny was a very minor cog in a local collection of miscellaneous miscreants who had few scruples and regarded the law as a matter for other less savvy people. They collectively owed loyalty to no-one but themselves, although there was a certain group of self-professed motor-cycle enthusiasts who they both feared and gave due respect to as being further up the crime tree than themselves.

Ronny’s first thought, not unusually, was for himself. He dialled the number of a lesser light in the local thuggery world. ‘Stanley, there’s a guy just left my shop. He’s an old codger that’s got something I want – it’s just a coin but it means something to me in a sentimental sort of way. If you can get it back for me it’ll be worth a few hundred to you’. He then proceeded to give Stanley a description of the man concerned and the direction he had gone. ‘If you can’t get it back off him then just find out where he’s gone and I’ll look after you when I get this sorted’.

Meanwhile, Charlie was examining the window of a tidy-looking shopfront with a large hoarding on the footpath declaring "Coins, Stamps and Antique Jewellery Bought and Sold’. From the look of the window display it appeared that jewellery was their main source of income, but Charlie went in anyway. To his mild surprise he was greeted by a short, dumpy woman in her middle-to-late years but with a smile as broad as her beam.

‘With you in a sec dear’, the lady announced whilst she was apparently fussing with a small cardboard box of mixed coins. ‘Now’, she said, apparently satisfied with the contents ‘what can we do for each other today?’

Refreshingly honest thought Charlie as he extracted his coin. ‘Could you possibly give me some estimate of this?’ he queried as he laid the coin carefully on the counter.

‘May I?’ the woman asked as she picked up the coin anyway. A brief glance and she reached for the magnifying glass that was evidently the principal tool of such dealers.

‘Well, I’ll be buggered’, she exclaimed as she turned it over in her hands for the fourth of fifth time. ‘So, what do you think you have here young man?’

‘A Spanish dollar of sorts’, Charlie responded with his usually cautious choice of words.

‘Oh, it’s a great deal more than that. ‘Look’, she held the coin out in the palm of her hand and started reading aloud ‘1805 Dei Gratia Carolus four, Hispana et ind rex m and the rest is a bit too worn to be clear, but the inner Five Shillings is clear enough. My dear man, this is an eight Reales Spanish silver coin alright, one of the old pieces of eight but modified down south in Sydney many moons ago. It’s now known as a Holey Dollar and it’s worth quite a lot of money. Can you prove where you obtained it?’

‘Maybe, but probably not: found it on a beach up North’, Charlie replied cautiously ‘any chance it’s a fake or something?’

‘It’s genuine as far as I can tell’, declared the woman ‘look, you can still see Chop Marks on the obverse side. I think finding this on a beach a pretty unlikely story’, she added, ‘but you don’t have to tell me where you got it. It’s just that a good provenance can add even more to the value’.

‘So, what do you think it might be worth?’ queried Charlie with mounting optimism.

‘I