Scorpio's Lot (32 page)

With the O’Neill girl now in
safekeeping Morgan decided to rejoin his accomplice at the wheelhouse. It had
been sometime since his last rendezvous at the bridge, and besides, it was
necessary to check on Mick and inform him of the procedure once they docked at
Pedley When he entered the wheelhouse all appeared under control. Their
appointed crewman continued to direct the
Molly Bloom
while the two men
bound and gagged upon the floor had become agitated in seeing the man’s return.
Irritated by their unrest, Morgan let fly with his baton, landing a solid blow
upon each skull. Retrieving a gun from his underarm holster, Morgan then
attached a silencer to the barrel, resulting in a terrified look from the
remaining crewman.

Taking Mick to one side he
muttered a few words in his ear, ordering him to knock the seaman unconscious
as soon as the boat berthed. He was now in a position to rejoin Charlie at
starboard to pass on some last-minute instructions to the captive passengers.

He could see that his accomplice
had the situation under control. He would now relieve Charlie of his duty,
enabling the 4WD to be positioned for a hasty exit. With his silencer in full
view, Morgan commenced his briefing.

‘We will arrive at Pedley in
around quarter of an hour. You will remain in your seated positions for ten
minutes after the boat has docked. Any person, and I mean
any
person,
who decides to disobey my order will be shot immediately. I have here in my
hand a silencer attached to the gun barrel.’

The passengers cringed in
anticipation that more trouble was to follow.

‘Let me demonstrate for those who
may be ignorant.’

In an unbelievable act of
barbaric proportions, the perpetrator took aim at the Jack Russell and pulled
the trigger. A short yelp followed and the dog was dead. The chess player with
the deformity screamed in horror at the loss of his beloved terrier. Scrambling
to his feet he rushed to the dog’s side, shouting the name Sox in his grief.
Tears flowed from the man as he knelt beside his lost companion.

‘Sit down!’ roared Morgan.

‘You bastard! There was no need
to do that,’ Tom shouted back.

Ignoring Tom’s hostility, Morgan
continued. ‘So you see my weapon is very effective. No noise, no distractions,
just this quiet little bullet finding its intended target. Do I have any
further volunteers from the gallery?’ he asked sarcastically.

The reaction was spontaneous.
Terrified that someone would be selected at random, the passengers huddled
together with heads bowed toward the deck.

‘Good, now we have an
understanding. Oh, just food for thought...should I decide to use this little
gem once more you do realise that no one from land will hear of your
misfortune. Remember, no movement for ten minutes after we drop anchor.’

As he retreated to join his
accomplices in the stern, Brad Morgan deliberately walked past Burke and
Martino and let fly with his baton, delivering a further blow to their heads.

~ * ~

The
Molly Bloom
finally berthed and was greeted by a small crowd either
intending to board for the return trip or in wait of a familiar face to
disembark. Morgan rushed to meet his two accomplices, who were waiting beside
the 4WD. Mick had already taken care of the crewman on the bridge, and upon
sighting his approaching compatriot he climbed aboard the Land Cruiser to sit
behind the wheel. Morgan chose the rear passenger seat, primarily to keep an
eye on Brigit, while Charlie was outside lowering the electrically controlled
steel plank. Once in place Charlie climbed aboard and all was in readiness for
a hasty retreat.

Mick floored the accelerator over
the plank at such a rate the Land Cruiser actually became airborne. The
welcoming thud of terra firma greeted them amidst an astonished crowd of
onlookers, who were wondering if this was some sort of pre-voyage
entertainment. Down a side street they drove, with the
Molly Bloom
slowly shrinking in the rear vision mirror. Their objective had been carried
out: in the back lay Brigit O’Neill, still unconscious from the effects of the
chloroform.

~ * ~

s
he made his approach toward 8 Covert Road, Neil Carpenter could hear a high
level of activity coming from the grocery warehouse. Following Forbes’
instructions to check out the Broadbent premises, including the products for
distribution and on-site personnel, Carpenter had dressed in full uniform. Not
wanting to give the impression that Broadbent was under surveillance, he would
maintain the purpose of his visit was to purchase certain commodities for a
forthcoming police function.

Entering the warehouse, the
sergeant was suddenly confronted by two forklifts loading goods into their
respective delivery vans. Forced to stand and wait beside a sidewall, he
briefly glanced around at the interior before him. Broadbent appeared to be
undergoing some reorganisation of warehouse space by integrating its receiving,
storage, picking and shipping operations. The whole place seemed a buzz of
activity, with another storeman handling the bulky seasonal food that had just
arrived at the far loading bay. These packages and cartons were immediately
received and sorted directly to dedicated outgoing lanes with little handling
or order picking required. It was an impressive show of regularity and
efficiency.

In addition to the storage racks
and overhead mezzanine floor, the building housed a large refrigeration room,
and a kitchen and washroom facility at the far end. Intriguingly, there was an
internal stone staircase leading to a basement beneath the warehouse. Carpenter
could envisage the cellar being used as a coolroom to store wines and other
beverages. His concentration was broken by the manager’s voice as the man
approached from the front office.

‘Can I help you?’ asked Neville
Bradbury, who always claimed he could smell a cop a block away.

‘Yes, I need to buy some products
for a forthcoming police function.’

‘But we’re a wholesaler and
generally don’t sell direct to the public.’

‘The guys from the station
suggested coming here to save a dollar.’

Bradbury’s instinct told him that
to deny the police would be inappropriate. ‘Look, seeing it’s for the
constabulary we’ll make an exception. What do you wish to purchase?’

‘Just the general run of things
like frozen pastry lines, some meat and sweet dishes, and you might as well
include plates and cutlery.’

‘How many people do you intend
catering for?’

‘Around forty.’

‘Um ... not a big crowd by police
standards.’

‘I also need some beer and wine,’
added Carpenter, ignoring the remark and hoping the proprietor would buy his
story.

‘We keep a large range of beer in
the refrigerated room over in the corner and there’s some wine under the
mezzanine floor,’ replied Bradbury.

‘Not much of a wine selection,
from what I can see. Do you have any more?’

‘Yes, there’s a larger range in
the cellar.’

‘Could I possibly have a look and
select a couple of dozen bottles?’ asked Carpenter, thinking this provided
opportunity to check the basement.

‘Certainly. I’ll lead the way,’
said Bradbury, gathering an order form for the intended sale.

At the top of the staircase
Carpenter noticed a doorway on a landing some fifteen or so steps down.

Bradbury opened the door and
flicked a switch, immediately lighting a further descending path to the cellar
below. ‘There’s no handrail so watch your step. They made straight steep
staircases back in the old days.’

The cellar that lay before
Carpenter was indeed a generous-sized room. Built of bluestone walls with a
concrete floor and high ceiling, it housed four large double racks of wine that
would serve the local community many times over. The basement gave the
impression of having been around for more than a hundred years.

Bradbury continued. ‘I’m not sure
what it is you’re looking for, but whites are generally to the left and reds to
the right. Unfortunately some are still mixed and they need correcting.’

‘But how do I know where certain
wines are kept?’ asked the sergeant.

‘The sides of the racks are
labelled, a bit like trying to find a book in a library.’

The officer studied the trade
names and regional selections on offer. There appeared to be every conceivable
type of wine, from cabernets and clarets through to chablis and chardonnays.

‘I’ll leave you to make your
selection and I’ll be back in around ten minutes. There’s a matter upstairs I
need to attend to,’ stated Bradbury, turning to depart.

Now alone, Carpenter decided to
select two dozen bottles at random, not knowing exactly what it was he had
placed to one side. He wasn’t a wine drinker but logic told him to mix red and
white so he could use the excuse that all tastes would be catered for. He was
here primarily to check and report on the premises and not to engage in some
wine selection he knew nothing about.

He had accumulated and placed
most of the wine to one side when a sudden noise stopped him in his tracks. A
dull thud came from behind the wall. Or did it? Had someone above dropped
something heavy upon the warehouse floor, or had the thud come from the other
side of the bluestone? There was no repeat sound. Carpenter continued to stare
at the wall before him. He began to doubt his judgment, for commonsense told
him the thickness alone would surely blanket any noise.

Studying the wall more closely,
he could see the mortar between the stones had deteriorated, to the point where
some low-lying joints had commenced crumbling away. He assessed that the damage
would need to be consistent throughout the depth of the bluestone to enable
sound to penetrate through to the cellar. He continued to gaze upon the
barrier, wondering if he was mistaken after all. He could only conclude the
noise did happen and the only two logical sources were the ceiling or wall.

Upon hearing the return of
Neville Bradbury descending the staircase, the policeman immediately focused on
the rack behind him.

‘Have you selected your wine yet?’
Bradbury called out from the final step.

‘Just about, only three bottles
to go.’

‘Perhaps I could help you. Let’s
see what you’ve put aside.’ Bradbury studied the sergeant’s selection. ‘I’ll
include a Riesling, Pinot Noir and a Merlot. There, that should do it. If you
would please follow me upstairs I’ll raise an order and arrange for delivery.’

Returning to the warehouse,
Carpenter was asked to decide upon his food choices while the proprietor
commenced the paperwork. Once his selection was completed he passed the list to
Bradbury who finalised the order.

‘Thank you for your business and
I hope your night is a great success,’ Bradbury said. ‘We’ll have your order
dropped off at the station later this afternoon.’