Death on Dangar Island

Max 'The Mauler'

‘I dunno, Mauler: I just don’t like the bloke – he rubs me up the wrong way. What do you want me to do – send him a memo? include him in my cc loop?’

The Mauler gave a strangled laugh full of irony. ‘I hated the little prick all the way through. I still do! Who cares if he got me a promotion, saved an innocent bloke from the joint and started a Royal Commission? He’s a massive pain in the arse. Don’t get me wrong, I did everything I could to ignore him when he pitched up. Then, when he started trying to interfere, I actually ran a sheet on him. He’s clean as a whistle by the way. Works helping refugee groups in his spare time too ... s’how he got involved.’

‘He could be Mother Theresa for all I care, mate. He’s not getting the red-carpet treatment from me, I’ll tell you that.’

‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. From what I hear, you’re about to blow the full-time whistle on that Dangar Island case and start writing it up. What I’m trying to tell you is … the reason I’m calling you after work on your private phone is …’ the Mauler took a breath, unsure just how to phrase the next bit. ‘What I’m trying to say is that if Israel Wren tells you something about this case, don’t just chuck it because he gets your back up. Think about what he says. I know from personal experience that it can be worth it.’

McKinnon said he’d think about it and thanked his old mate for the info. After a couple of minutes of chat about office politics and sport, they rang off.

The DI finished the last slug of his beer and looked wistfully out over the traffic again. The Mauler wasn’t the kind of bloke to ring up out of the blue for a bit of chitchat. So, Professor Israel bloody Wren is it? Mr Effective bloody Methods for Policing bloody Sub-Cultural Minorities. Shit.

Refreshed after an hour communing with his feathered friends, Israel padded lightly back across the forest floor. He made it to the clearing and then onto the well-worn track that snaked more easily through the dense woodland. The route eventually led him to a wider, better-maintained path that functioned as one of the main thoroughfares on the island.

As he turned onto this larger walking track, he noticed a tall, heavy man standing very still only three or four metres ahead of him. The stranger was apparently blessed with acute hearing because, despite staring in the opposite direction, he was clearly aware of the professor’s light footfalls behind him. He turned and assessed Israel with impassive confidence. Despite the lack of a uniform, Israel recognised him as one of the volunteer firefighters Gary had been chatting to the previous morning.

The firefighter had an aura about him. There was an intensity emanating from his eyes. For some reason, his mop of dark brown curls, deep-sunk eyes and heavy eyebrows brought to mind the image of a zealous preacher. He would have been a handsome man but for a double chin and a heavy gut.

‘Just been up to see our famous caves, have you?’ The foreboding visage disappeared with the man’s warm grin. He became a whole different person when he smiled.

‘Yes,’ responded Israel after a small hesitation. ‘I enjoyed myself looking at those ancient marks.’ He paused again briefly. ‘I also enjoyed resting on a rock observing the birds.’ The man looked surprised and approving. Israel took a step closer and offered his hand.

‘I am Israel Wren. You were talking with my friend Gary at the fire station yesterday when you were parking your vehicle.’

The man leaned forward and their eyes met as firmly as their hands. ‘Oh yes, I remember. I’m Jon, Jon Morris.’

‘I have always admired the volunteer spirit in Australia, Jon. It says a lot about a culture when citizens are willing to risk life and limb for their communities without being paid for it.’

The larger man’s eyebrows knitted together at that comment. ‘Yeah, I can imagine people from other countries wondering why we’d do it, but there’s, I don’t know, a sense of belonging that comes with it. And of course Australia is a huge, wild place with only a small population outside of the big cities.’ He looked up at Israel and smiled again. ‘So if you don’t go and put that fire out with your mates, who will?’

Israel favoured him with a special ‘high beam’ smile. ‘Yes, of course, you make a good point, but it doesn’t diminish the bravery of those involved.’

‘There’s not too much bravery involved on our little island, I’m afraid. Just the odd spot fire in the bush every now and then. That and the occasional house fire are the main dangers here. Not as bad as facing a thirty-kilometre fire front with leaping two-storey flames. Some of our people have to face things like that. That takes some guts.’

Jon Morris glanced down at his wristwatch. ‘It’s a hot day again, Israel – it is Israel, isn’t it?’ He glanced at the dark little man, who was nodding serenely. ‘Well, why don’t you come and join me for a drink before you go back down the hill? I don’t get company up here very often.’

‘I would be honoured. Thank you, Jon.’

As they moved off in a direction he hadn’t explored before, Israel remembered that this man must be the retired merchant banker Dorothy thought was ‘after her property’. It also meant he was the owner of the house the party was held in the night Roxanne died. The professor grinned to himself as he realised that he was at this very moment being taken to the ‘house on the hill’ that Dorothy had heard was ‘pretty swish’ but had never entered. He would have to take care to memorise the details.