Nightcap At Ningi Creek



  NIGHTCAP AT NINGI CREEK

  By Ken Blowers

  ****

  Editing by Eagle-Eyes Editing Solutions

  Cover Illustration by Paulien Bats

  Copyright (c) 2014 by Ken Blowers

  ****

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  ****

  CONTENTS

  1.Welcome To Caboolture

  2.U3 – EH?

  3.Lines Of Hope

  4.The Drumming Hand

  5.Close Encounter

  6.The Hasking Street Hurdler

  7.The Double Bed

  8.No Milk Today

 

  CHAPTER 1

  WELCOME TO CABOOLTURE

  Harry fancied himself as a bit of a wheeler-dealer, meaning he would buy and sell just about anything - if there was money in it. And though he was officially retired – some said from the Army, some said from the Police - he would occasionally help out an old mate who ran a security investigations business on the north side of Brisbane. Just for the odd bit of tax-free cash in hand. It was by that means he gained entry to the strange world of the Private Investigator. Sometimes quiet, but never dull; sometimes interesting and exciting; and sometimes: downright dangerous…

  It was in this casual role of Private Investigator that Harry found himself sitting in his car at the end of the day, keeping careful watch on the third floor of the car park at the Caboolture Park Shopping Centre. He had been at this particular job or ‘assignment’ as he liked to call it, on-and-off for about a month. In this time he had uncovered a considerable amount of information about a local car stealing racket; one where high value,

  near-new cars were stolen to order. That is, with make, model, colour, fittings, all clearly specified; every one ‘pre-sold’ to an interstate dealer well in advance - before they were found, let alone lifted.

  It upset a lot of people - the owners, who lost their new ‘babies’; the dealers, who lost their new car security reputations; and the Police, who found their lost car statistics shooting up the charts… Reports had been demanded! That’s how Harry’s boss came to be engaged for the work. And that’s how Harry came to be sitting here on this day, with cramp in his leg, hunger in his stomach… and a full bladder that was demanding attention… Harry rubbed his leg and bit on a Mars Bar. Then he reached for the empty wide-neck, four-litre, bottle he always kept handy for just such emergencies.

  He had tracked this particular gang of thieves from Chermside to Caboolture, as they toured what they regarded as ‘their patch’, looking for their target car. On this day it had now become obvious to Harry that their interest was centred on finding a Ford Falcon sedan. White, heavily optioned and in top nick. Harry had seen the men looking over several such cars this day, but all of them so far had been rejected, for one reason or another.

  Now Harry watched the men paying close attention to a white BMW in aisle seven. It was a beauty! Obviously brand new and from their display of excitement, he judged it was going to meet their requirements perfectly. That being the case, he judged it was time for him to make a quick sortie, using an old wheelchair he carried for close-up observation work. Everybody, it seems, tended to ignore a person in a wheelchair – reasoning, no doubt, that such a person represented no threat to them, whatever their activities.

  The chair allowed him to pass close and take surreptitious pictures of the men with his mobile phone camera. He managed to get several good shots of them using some kind of programmable, hand-held, electronic device to activate the car’s central door-locking system and gain swift entry to the car. He knew from previous observations that at times they could do this - gain entry, start the car and be gone - in about a couple of minutes!

  He returned to his old nondescript workman’s ute, with a toolbox and ladder in the back - especially chosen as being unlikely to be worth a second glance - just as they started the BMW and took off. He was confident he had all the evidence his boss needed now. Whether the Police would be involved or the problem sorted privately, he had no idea – nor did he care. He smiled, as he thought of the cash bonus he would likely get for all the hard work he had put into this assignment.

  So Harry, well pleased with himself, started his motor and moved off - only to be caught by the traffic lights at the exit to the main street. He was happily thinking of a leisurely drive to Petrie - back home to his lovely wife Jan, who would be waiting for him… with a cold beer… and a warm bed. But he was suddenly startled out of his relaxed state by the sound of screeching car tyres, braked close - too damn close - right up behind him.

  He glanced in the mirror and saw that it was a near-new blue Holden station wagon. Was that significant? Harry wondered… because the car was very similar to one he had seen earlier in the day – one being used by the gang's ‘Cockatoo’, or lookout man. The driver wasn’t familiar to him, but that was not unusual as the gang often changed drivers and look-outs.

  When the lights changed to Go, Harry quickly floored the accelerator pedal and his ute shot forward across King Street into George Street. The blue Holden was keeping close station behind him – much too close! Harry turned sharp right into Bertha Street – the car following him did the same. Then he turned left into Old Gympie Road – with the Holden still sitting incredibly close on his tail.

  He was certainly being deliberately followed – there was no hiding that! And, what’s more, he was being followed in an over-enthusiastic manner. Harry didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all! In fact, he was getting more than a bit worried now. Not that Harry was easily scared, mind – but when you’re carrying important evidence on your person - enough evidence to blow-apart a multi-million-dollar stolen-car racket – then he reckoned he had good enough reason to be alarmed. Who knew what lengths these people might go to stop him? These guys were not gentle people. He shuddered at the thought of where it could all end!

  Harry wasn't a big man, but he did like to keep fit – and he liked to think he could ‘handle himself’. Not that he’d had much experience of that. His main worry at the moment was what the guy in the Holden was carrying, you know, a knife or a 'shooter'. He particularly didn't fancy having big holes shot in him until he resembled a Swiss cheese! He knew he had to get out of this dangerous situation and damn quick too - but how? Surprise! Yes, that would be his weapon, it would have to be - it was all he had! And as long as he was in the lead, he could take this guy anywhere - right? Yes! Somewhere nice and quiet... that would be it… where he could unexpectedly gain the upper hand. It had to be sorted. He had to do something - and he knew he had to do it now!

  Harry made a quick sharp turn across the railway line into Pumice Stone Road. The following Holden again shot forward, tyres squealing, to take up the slack.

  “Come on, chum. Come on, come on… you bastard - close as you bloody like... I'll have you...” With that thought in mind he swung sharp right, into Horne - a quiet, short, go nowhere, little dead-end street. Harry
did that acting on impulse, hoping it would fool his pursuer and put him off balance - and it did! The Holden tyres were screaming at the sudden late turn as he followed, accelerating to close the gap. That would shake him, Harry thought, and knowing that timing was crucial, braced himself for the next move - and suddenly slammed his foot hard on the brakes.

  'Whoompaaaah!' The sickening, explosive, sound of the immediate crash was followed closely by a cacophony of minor vehicle parts, having been flung in all directions and raining down on the ground.

  Harry jumped out and raced back to the Holden. He pulled open the driver’s door. He saw the driver sitting there, stunned and motionless - with blood trickling from his nose and mouth.

  'Get out! Get out. You crooked bastard!' Harry yelled, somewhat impressed if not frightened, by the shear bulk of the driver; who had huge shoulders, a thick neck like a rugby-forward and amazingly large hands.

  Harry recognised at once the dire need to maintain the advantage here if he was to survive this encounter. To maximise his current advantage he reached in and grabbed the man and pulled him partially out of the car. Then he slammed the car door hard. This trapped the man's leg in a sickening, bone-breaking, crunch!

  Harry thought that move alone would be bound to immobilise him. But no! The man quickly recovered and freeing himself, managed to reach out and catch Harry and pull him in close with one hand – and strike him down with a pile-driving punch to the guts with the other! As the man bent over to check his injured leg, Harry struggled to his feet and hit him hard with a karate-type blow to the back of the neck. But the man simply shook his head, grabbed Harry, swung him round - and threw him hard up against the side of the car, his chest flattened against the door and his head struck the roof with a sickening thud - and it was ‘lights out’ for dear old Harry...!

  When he came to, Harry found himself propped up against the rear wheel of the car. His assailant was sitting on the ground nearby and looking at him, pensively.

  'You alright then?' the man asked, in a surprisingly warm tone.

  'Yeah. I think so - maybe a busted rib… or two... And one hell of a headache! You...?'

  'My leg's a gonner, I reckon. Broken for sure…'

  Harry noticed the mobile phone in the man's hand. 'I guess you've… reported all this... to your boss, then - eh?'

  'Too bloody right mate,’ said the man. 'Wouldn't you?'

  'Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.' Harry dared not move - it hurt too much.

  The man looked at Harry, shook his head and said 'Jeez... you can play pretty rough, mate! Who do you work for?'

  'Me? I'm private, mate. Work for me-self. Contract like,' Harry replied. ‘You? Chermside mob, I reckon - right?'

  'Chermside mob? Me? Nah...'

  'Pine Rivers mob, then?'

  'What me? Nahhh. I'm Caboolture.'

  'What? You mean you're based here - in Caboolture?' Harry asked, in genuine surprise.

  'Yeah! Yeah, 'course I am!'

  'Ah… well… you must be the local gang's best Cockatoo ever, then - right?'

  'Cockatoo? Nah, mate. Don't know nothing about cockatoos... or birds at all really. No. I'm not a bloody Park Ranger either. No. No. I'm an Ordinance Patrol Officer, with the Caboolture Shire Council.'

  'Council? You mean Caboolture bloody Council!’ said Harry in disgust and confusion. ‘But... why… why were you chasing me?'

  'Chasing you? What do you mean, ‘chasing you’? I wasn't ‘chasing you’, mate. I was just following you.'

  'Chasing… following… What’s the bloody difference? Why? That’s what I want to know!'

  'Well, I was hoping you'd stop so I could tell you.’

  'Tell me what?'

  'Why, tell you your rear indicator’s are not working - and your number-plate is… or was… falling off! Not that it matters much now mate, the rear end of your old ute’s a complete bloody wipe out! A bit like my leg…'

  'Oh! Jeepers! Sorry, sorry I did that. I didn't know. I didn't understand. I thought you were part of a car stealing gang I was investigating.'

  'Oh… don't tell me you're a Copper?'

  ‘No. No. As I said, I'm strictly private.'

  'Look; I reckon it's best we don't talk about all that stuff - not now. Not until the Cops get here. I take it you're not from around here, then - eh?'

  'Me? No, no,’ said Harry, dismally, 'I'm from Petrie'.

  'Petrie? Ah… Petrie, you say… Well... difficult as it is.... it's my duty…I suppose, being an Officer of the Council on duty an' all that… and you… being a visitor to the Shire...'

  'Say it? Say what?'

  'Oh... well...er… Welcome to Caboolture!'