Scorpio's Lot (95 page)

‘What about the stone sheds?’

‘Oh those, they’ve been here for
years, long before my time. They would’ve been built decades ago.’

‘Any chance of looking inside
one?’ I asked.

‘I’m a bit pushed for time, but I
guess one won’t hurt.’

We proceeded towards the closest
shed. Our guide produced a ring of keys and the three of us entered the small
confines. The area was no bigger than a four-metre-square room filled with
gardening tools and a ride-on lawnmower. A narrow bench ran down one side and
electricity was provided for overhead lighting. Everything sat on a concrete
slab and the interior didn’t seem out of the ordinary. Assuming the other stone
sheds were of similar makeup, logic told me our search would need to be
concentrated elsewhere. We thanked the gardener for his time and proceeded
toward the foreshore.

We walked past the striking
architecture of a well-maintained gazebo. The large structure provided a
three-step entrance to all four sides. In line with the gardener’s facelift
comment, a fresh coat of paint had been applied within the past twelve months.
The gleaming white structure looked majestic on the wide expanse of lawn.

A little further on a stoned
toilet block suddenly came into view. The granite used was consistent with that
of the shed we had been privileged to view. On a closer inspection of the
building we realised there was little to get excited about. A concrete base was
to be expected, but like its smaller counterpart, there were again no
irregularities that warranted further explanation. Despite its sheer size, the
parkland offered very little with respect to a possible subterranean entrance.

In reaching the foreshore, Hamish
and I decided to walk the length of the bay that was exposed to the Botanical
Gardens. The route offered a mixture of sand beaches, rock pools and seaside
scrub primarily made up of leptospermum ti-tree. I looked across at a sharp
cliff edge toward the far end of the parkland. A car could be seen ascending a
gravel road that wound its path toward the peak. I could envisage the splendid
views this vantage point would offer. It was probably the local courting spot
to take your partner to on one of those ideal sunset evenings.

On completing our bay walk, I
suggested to Hamish that we run through our nine options on offer. ‘Let’s see
what we’ve got after that runaround.’

I studied the landmarks that had
been noted down. In my own mind I had four possibilities that weren’t
necessarily shared by Hamish. They were only hunches after all, with no hard evidence.
It would require the constabulary to pursue these sites more thoroughly. Still,
there had to be a start to all of this and my preferences had at least some
merit. I decided to run them past Hamish for a second opinion.

‘Okay, Hamish, let’s work on a
process of elimination. I believe the least likely are to be the Pedley Market,
the Caravan Park and Botanical Gardens. I’m of the opinion a building of some
sort holds more sway than open land because a structure, by its very existence,
has greater opportunity to guard a secret. Something like the parkland is more
vulnerable to the unsuspecting person, meaning there is more chance of someone
stumbling across a hidden clue.’

‘But your caravan park contains a
number of permanent buildings,’ insisted Hamish.

‘Nonetheless, I still can’t
accept this to be one of the three sites. Let’s look at the remaining
landmarks. Both the
Advertiser
and the Regency Nightclub sit entirely on
their respective blocks. There is no exposed ground to speak of

‘That’s irrelevant. Previous
buildings on these sites may have been half the size.’

‘But the excavation and
foundations to support buildings of this size, which are erected on the entire
land, would surely have uncovered something.’

‘Perhaps.’ Hamish sounded
unconvinced.

‘No, I believe the likely
candidates are the RSL Club, O’Riley’s Inn, St Patrick’s and Broadbent’s.’

‘I agree with O’Riley’s, but why
the others?’ challenged Hamish.

‘Because they conjure up a number
of possibilities.’

‘Oh, and what might they be?’

‘For God’s sake Hamish, do I have
to spell out everything? Look at the facts. All three establishments have been
around for decades, meaning there’s been little or no disturbance to the land
that may have unearthed some mysterious passageway. Chances are all three
contain a basement of some sorts and there is the likelihood -’

‘Okay, okay!’ Hamish didn’t
appreciate being corrected again.

‘Despite all this, I can’t help
but think that we are overlooking some fundamental understanding to points one,
two and three of the star.’

I decided we had had enough of
this merry-go-round for one day. Our next point of call would be to enlighten
Forbes of our newfound discovery. Still concerned about Arthur Simpson’s
whereabouts, I asked Hamish to accompany me on a visit to the pensioner’s 63
High Street address. Arthur’s wellbeing was starting to play on my mind and it
was now time to put these anxieties to rest.

Arriving at his triple-fronted
residence, my immediate perception was that of normal surrounds. The house
appeared secured and the garage roller door was shut. Arthur’s Humber was
parked in the driveway, which was the norm. He once told me the old relic was
often left there in case a quick trip was warranted.

A knock on the front door brought
no sound of approaching footsteps. I looked at Hamish with a concerned
expression. We were now into our second day without Arthur and it seemed out of
character for the old bugger not to contact us, considering our close
association of late. I then wondered if he lay unconscious somewhere in the
house. After all, Arthur lived alone and at his age these circumstances could
well prove possible. It was time to notify the police and have this checked
out.

~ * ~

n
the early hours of the preceding morning a Nissan Patrol had quietly slipped
into Pedley unnoticed by the local constituency. It was three am and not a soul
stirred in this seaside hamlet. To be expected at this ungodly hour, the
village resembled a ghost town where any sign of life was temporarily put on hold.

A winter mist had descended on
Pedley making outdoor activity an undesirable venture. Five men in a 4WD
inconspicuously patrolled and observed the local sites amidst a foggy
landscape. The search for the Piedpiper had suddenly picked up momentum. Indigo
and his four lackeys had arrived well prepared. The rear of the Nissan
contained an arsenal of weaponry that was reminiscent of a terrorist’s armory.
The sheer magnitude of this collection implied their intended business would be
on a grand scale.

Indigo instructed his driver to
cruise the streets with the purpose of familiarising himself with the town’s
layout. Past the police station and hospital in High Street, they turned left
into Bridge and travelled the full length via the showgrounds and St Patrick’s
Cathedral to the far end. The T-intersection with Baker Street provided a
glimpse of the
Molly Bloom
docked against the backdrop of a fog-shrouded
Sapphire Bay.

The foreshore parks and gardens
glistened from the moon’s reflection on icicles and frost that would maintain
their influence until the morning’s thawing sun. Down the main thoroughfare of
Pitt Street, past the
Advertiser
and Esplanade Hotel and still no sign
of life. It was as if Pedley was at their mercy to do with as they wished. A
diversion into Covert Road and past Broadbent Warehouse, the drug boss then
gave orders to swing around into Market Street and on to their intended
temporary address.

At 136 Market Street, directly
opposite the Botanical Gardens, the Nissan Patrol swung into the driveway and
silently braked to a stop. The five men immediately descended the 4WD to
commence the task of unloading luggage and weaponry into the house. Approaching
three-thirty am, it was highly unlikely that some inquisitive neighbour would
witness the transfer of this vast array of arsenal.

A front door key had been left
under a flowerpot to the right-hand side of the entrance. Indigo was both
relieved and thankful the Scorpio informant had kept to his side of the
bargain. He would pay the man handsomely for his apparent risk in arranging the
rental of this property for upwards of a two-week period.

The triple-fronted weatherboard
house was a modest piece of real estate. Centrally located but far enough
removed from the bustle and exposure of Pitt Street, it would serve the Traffik
syndicate well if only for the convenience it presented. It was decided to use
the larger front bedroom to assemble and store their vast range of weaponry.
The room was a sensible choice, given the wide bay window provided a full
frontal view of any street activity.

The assortment of firearms was a
sight to behold. Handguns, sniper semiautomatics, and in particular, the M-16
assault rifle would be a disturbing weapon from Scorpio’s perspective. Such was
the significance of this rifle; it was often referred to as a killing machine
that presented ongoing debate over gun control.

One of the lackeys commenced
emptying a small cardboard box containing an array of knives that he
strategically placed on a nearby shelf for later selection. All five men
continued to fill the bedroom with their selected armory. It was clearly a
well-organised drill carried out in a minimum of time. Each man appeared to
have a specific task and responsibility for checking a category of weapons.

Indigo lent over to unlock a
large metal box to ensure the explosives inside were still intact. The
efficiency and professionalism of these men had the entire room of arms
checked, assembled and rechecked within the space of fifteen minutes. Scorpio,
and perhaps the police, would indeed be up against a formidable opponent.

Indigo’s mobile suddenly
vibrated. Their leader appeared unperturbed by the call at this unlikely hour. ‘Yes!’

‘Is the house suitable?’ asked
the Scorpio traitor.

‘Ideal choice. You are to be
commended on its location.’

‘When do you plan your first
assault?’

‘Well, that depends. I need to
take weather and other factors into consideration first. What are Broadbent’s
working hours?’ enquired Indigo.

‘Generally seven-thirty to six,
but overtime could make it as late as nine pm.’

‘And what are their intentions
over the next few days?’

‘Overtime applies to Tuesday and
Thursday only,’ responded the traitor.

‘Tell me about Saturday.’

‘Eight to twelve religiously.
They rarely go past midday.’

‘Good. Now tell me, are you aware
of the Piedpiper visiting Broadbent’s premises during this coming week?’ asked
the meticulous Indigo.

‘That I don’t know and something
that cannot be asked directly -’

‘Which doesn’t help the cause!’
stated Indigo, not allowing the traitor to finish.