Big White Lies Read online

  Porter gazed out the window as the road weaved through towering eucalypts. Vast wheat-colored plains stretched to the horizon, littered with mulga bush, coolabah trees and purple wood wattle flowers that glowed beneath an azure sky. Grey kangaroo grazed by the road, stood to watch the approaching vehicle, then bounced away over parched ground.

  Lionel turned the Landcruiser left onto Crooked River road and drove south towards the Aboriginal mission. He began whistling another tune, Bruno Mars’, ‘The Lazy Song.’

  “You whistle more than the seven dwarfs,” Porter said. “Why so chuffed?”

  Lionel stopped whistling. “Look around, who wouldn’t be happy? It’s gorgeous, away from that miserable city and all the miserable people living in it. Feel closer to the land, closer to my people.”

  “Are these your ancestors out here?”

  “No, these lands have belonged to the river people for thousands of years. Crooked River’s their lifeline.”

  Porter remembered discussing Lionel’s background with Tugger Walford. “Where are your people then?”

  Lionel sighed. “Don’t know…”

  Porter waited and hoped he’d tell him more. “Why’s it called Crooked River you reckon?”

  “That, I do know…The first white explorers got frustrated trying to survey all its’ twists and turns, and named it accordingly.”

  “Lifeline? The land’s drier than a priest at an AA meeting…Where’s the life?”

  “It’s always there if you know where to look. A local story from the Dreamtime tells us - Long after the dry has set in, what water brings, the land remembers…”

  Porter paused to think. “Fair enough…”

  The Landcruiser slowed.

  “We’re here…” Lionel pointed to the left. “See that sign?” He drove through a narrow entrance where a rotted, wooden gate had fallen aside. “It’s the original one.”

  Porter read the sign aloud. “Crooked River Aboriginal Mission, established nineteen twenty three.”

  They parked in the shade of river gums, then strolled to the edge of the brown, tranquil river.

  “Can think of worse places to live,” Porter said.

  Lionel pointed along a dirt path to a row of white weatherboard houses with neat gardens. “Stumble out your door to swim, or catch a fish, surrounded by these gorgeous hills.”

  Porter counted fifteen houses then followed Lionel’s gaze across the river, to the red and white mottled hills that lined it. When he turned back to the houses, a Koori elder approached them on the path. He stopped a meter away and reeked of liquor.

  In his early eighties, Porter guessed, the man resembled a beer keg with arms and legs. Snow-white hair curled around his ears. His nose was broad and wrinkled, the same as his forehead. He wore a stained cowboy shirt that failed to cover his ample gut, and dirty blue jeans. His bare feet scraped grey mud as he gulped clear liquid from a plastic bottle. He watched them through glazed eyes.

  “Flashy suits and car,” the man said with a slur. “Are ya gov’ment fellas?”

  Lionel offered his hand. “Hello uncle, my name’s Lionel Roberts. I’m a lawyer, an Aboriginal rights advocate from Sydney. This is Dan Porter. And we’re not with the government. Well, not exactly…”

  The man ignored Lionel’s hand, took a swig from his bottle and squinted at Porter. “Porter? I seen the news…Aint you that whitey who killed them Koori boys in the city?” He turned to Lionel. “Why you bringin’ this fella out ‘ere? Tryin’ ta get ‘im shot?”

  Porter stepped forward before Lionel could answer. “I didn’t kill anyone…” He moved closer, towered over the elder. “And you are?”

  “Tommy Davis, the boss man ‘round ‘ere, born and raised,” he said to Lionel. “What you fellas want?”

  Lionel peered over Tommy’s shoulder. “We’d like to speak with the residents.”

  “Kids are at school, others are out. Talk ‘bout what?”

  “I’m sure you know why we’re here, uncle. We’re investigating the alleged abuse and neglect of Koori children. Don’t be suspicious, we’re here to help.”

  Tommy burped.

  Lionel grimaced, cupped a hand over his nose and mouth.

  “Aint been no abuse,” Tommy said. “Not by coppers, or anyone. We’re happy out ‘ere, they leave us alone. It’s you city fellas comin’ ‘ere that makes problems.” He took another swig.

  “Well, we’ll talk to the residents anyhow. To make sure…”

  Tommy snarled at him, bared all of his four teeth. “Think you’re one of us, callin’ me uncle and pretendin’ ta care? You aint nuffin’ like us…Think you gunna come out ‘ere and impress us stupid country fellas with ya fancy legal talk?”

  “I’m sure someone here needs our help?”

  “Like I told ya, aint nuffin’ ta save us from.”

  Lionel raised the briefcase in his left hand. “A report in here says otherwise. Only a few months ago, a young girl living here was allegedly molested by a local policeman.”

  Porter moved forward. “Being the ‘boss’ man, you’d know about it? Right, Tommy?”

  Tommy stepped back. “It’s all crap, nobody touched no-one. Tilly Johnson tellin’ stories ta get attention.”

  “Tilly, that’s the girl,” Lionel said. “Which one’s her house?”

  Tommy gave a devious smile. “Johnson’s don’t live ‘ere no more. Moved on, ta don’t know where…”

  “We’ll find out…The report doesn’t name the officer involved. Who was it Tommy?”

  Tommy shook his head.

  “Tell ya who hurt Tilly Johnson…” The harsh, crackling voice behind Porter startled him. Lionel jumped. They turned towards the riverbank. A frail Koori elder, darker than the shadows, sat on the rotting trunk of a fallen gum tree. “Was that bastard--.”

  “Simpson! Shut your mouth ya silly old fool,” Tommy bellowed as he strode towards the elder.

  The elder opened his mouth.

  Tommy smacked him across the head and knocked him from the tree trunk. He hissed, the elder cowered and picked his tattered cowboy hat from the ground.

  Porter ran to the elder and helped him to his feet. “You alright, mate?”

  The elder said nothing. He looked ten years older than Tommy, his face a withered prune with a sparse beard hanging from it. He’d tucked a black and green chequered shirt into faded jeans and rolled it to the elbows. He wore rubber flip-flops on mud covered feet.

  “Get inside,” Tommy shouted at the elder, then kicked him in the backside to push him past Lionel and Porter. The elder hobbled towards the houses and didn’t look back.

  “What are you doing?” Lionel said. “You’ve no right…”

  “Got every right, young fella, and people ‘round ‘ere know it.”

  Lionel’s face turned crimson as he prodded a finger at him. “You assaulted him. We should take you into the police station.”

  Tommy chuckled. “Police station? They’d laugh and kick ya skinny black arse back ta Sydney. Local coppers let me run this place as I need ta, it saves them comin’ out. On this ‘ere mission, I am the police.”

  “That old bloke wanted to name the copper involved in the Tilly incident, and you stopped him.” Porter growled down at Tommy. “Who you protecting?”

  Tommy pointed towards the elder, who climbed steps to the third house. “Him, Old Man Simpson. Drunken fool’s about ta mouth off with his usual crap. That’s who I’m protectin’...”

  “You let us take care of that. Reckon he knows what happened to Tilly...”

  “He knows nuffin’, just likes ta play games and gossip.” Tommy sculled from his bottle. “Troublemaker…”

  Porter and Lionel exchanged a suspicious glance.

  “We’ll speak to uncle Simpson later, and the others,” Lionel said. “You may think you’re the law, Tommy, but you’re wrong.” His thick eyebrows arched. “Can bring Inspector Barrett out here to explain it…Do I need to?”

  Tommy sighed. “Aah suit y
a bloody selves. But my people have nuffin’ ta say ta you fellas. Wasting ya time…Now rack off back ta town and leave us be.”

  “Next time, we’ll chat when you’re sober.” Lionel pointed to Tommy’s bottle. “So please, go easy on the whiskey.”

  “Ha, it’s gin ya fool. And look at ya, layin’ down rules like some fancy school teacher…Ya in my country now, young fella.” Tommy’s black eyes held a wicked glint. “Be smart ta follow my rules...”

  Lionel frowned. “A threat?”

  Porter walked towards the Landcruiser. Lionel followed.

  “Take it how ya want, aint my problem,” Tommy shouted out to them. “Ya look clever and talk clever, but ya too stupid ta know where ya aint welcome…”

  TWENTY FOUR

  Wednesday morning, a week after his team’s arrival in Crooked River, Lionel Roberts sat at the Carinya homestead’s kitchen table and nibbled honey on toast. It had been a frustrating week where his team received a cold reception in each Koori community they’d visited throughout the district, from hostile residents unwilling to talk. He’d wasted precious investigation time, and neglected districts he knew were rife with abuse of Koori children.

  He leaned back in the chair and studied the ceiling’s ornate cornices. Had he made a mistake basing Carinya in Crooked River, and placed too much faith in Shirley’s information? He waited for a vision, hoped for guidance from the wise elders who’d brought him this far. When they failed to appear, he sucked on his bottom lip and stared into the coffee mug. He had to decide whether to stay or go, and soon.

  “You’re quiet, Lio,” Klose said from the chair opposite. “Alright?”

  Lionel sipped lukewarm coffee, then told the team of his predicament. They discussed the matter for five minutes and concluded it was best to move on from Crooked River.

  Lionel watched Porter devour a pile of bacon and scrambled eggs. He smiled, because Porter’s mood seemed to improve each day and he’d begun to open up. And he looked nothing like the mess of a man he’d first met in Steve Williams’ office. He was clean shaven, had a fresh buzzcut courtesy of John Rhodes, with a keen glint in his eye. He’d regained his appetite, drank less beer, and jogged every day.

  “Could eat the crutch out of a low flying duck,” Porter said. “Loving these morning runs, the clean air’s beaut.”

  Rhodes washed dishes in the sink. “And you’re looking better for it too...”

  Klose poked Porter’s gut. “Don’t eat too much, bud, won’t fit into your wedding gear.”

  “The wedding’s still months away, and reckon only Jane needs to worry about that.” Porter grinned. “Us blokes can always make last minute adjustments…”

  They laughed together.

  Lionel addressed Porter. “Speaking of Jane…You said she and Amber might visit?

  “Hopefully, in the next couple of weeks...”

  “They still at your parents’ farm?”

  Porter moved to the gas cooktop and threw more bacon into a frypan. “Yeah, and reckon they’ll stay a while yet. Amber’s fallen in love with dad’s horses.”

  “She’ll enjoy it out here then. Have seen groups riding along River road.”

  “I know, I’m always dodging horse shit during my run...” Porter’s phone vibrated on the table. He rested tongs in the frypan then took the phone from Lionel. He pressed its’ screen then placed it on the benchtop. “Claire, what’s up?”

  Lionel strained to hear the conversation above the sound of hissing bacon.

  “Hi Dan, how’s it going out there?” Claire’s voice crackled through the phone’s speaker. “What’s that noise?”

  Porter leaned towards the phone. “Cooking brekky. Got you on speaker.”

  “Ah, okay. Just got off the phone with Interpol guys in Singapore. They wanted to speak to you personally, but I said I’d pass the info on to you. It’s related to the missing girls…Your line secure?”

  Porter glanced at the others. He turned off the gas, left bacon in the frypan, grabbed his phone and sat at the table. “Fire away, Claire. What you got?”

  “Not good news I’m afraid. A Koori girl’s been found dead in Singapore. Dumped in an industrial waste bin near shipping docks. They’re sending her dental records and photos through to us. Good chance she’s one of ours abducted from Sydney.”

  Lionel swallowed the lump in his throat.

  ‘Sounds like it,” Porter said. “Why’d Interpol ask for me? I’m off the case.”

  “That’s what’s interesting…She had the same markings as Nadia, the ‘KA’ branded on her back. And your report of Nadia’s homicide is the only one they could find with the same MO…Which is unusual, given what they told me…”

  “How?”

  “These guys in Singapore have access to Interpol databases that we don’t. They’ve sifted through hundreds of photos of dead girls and saw they all had the same ‘KA’ branding. But like I said, your report’s the only one that mentions it.”

  Porter huffed. “You telling me Interpol had knowledge of serial killings with a MO the same as Nadia’s, and didn’t tell us? That they didn’t bother to disseminate it?”

  “And it seems they’ve known for a while.”

  “That info would’ve made a huge difference to our investigation…”

  “Yep, but for some reason, Interpol insists on keeping it low key. According to the Singaporeans, all other Interpol offices have retained a ‘missing” status on the deceased girls who’ve been located.”

  “Bloody Interpol mongrels…” Porter fumed. “What are those bastards hiding?”

  Lionel took his eyes off the phone and noticed that Klose and Rhodes were both enthralled by the phone conversation. “Or, who are they trying to protect?” he asked them.

  Porter’s face flushed red. “That’s friggin’ obvious…It’s this ‘KA’ mob, whoever the sick mongrels are.”

  Claire sighed. “We’re no closer to knowing that either…Singaporean intel analysts searched all databases for the letters ‘KA,’ hoping to find a link to known criminal organizations. Found nothing. They’re in the dark regarding what the letters ‘KA’ stand for, and who they might be.”

  Porter gritted his teeth. “Not the only ones…” He thanked her, ended the call, then discussed the missing girls’ case with Klose and Rhodes.

  Lionel trudged to his bedroom. He sat at the desk and rubbed his hollow chest. How many of Sydney’s missing girls were already dead?

  He opened his laptop and navigated to the email inbox. He gasped as he read the fifth subject title: ‘More from Shirley.’

  His trembling hands fumbled with the mouse. He opened the email.

  Dear Lionel,

  It’s me again, Shirley, writing you from bonny Scotland (although I’m sure you already know that ☺ ). I read on the internet about Carinya, and have to say, I’m impressed. Getting the backing of the Attorney Generals’ office couldn’t have been easy? And I see you’ve got Nick Galios in your corner, he’s one of the good guys. I said I’d give you more information if you made progress. You have, so I will.

  There are two attachments to this email. The first one is a copy of a letter I received many years ago from my best friend at the time, Cathy Inglis. Cathy lived with her family on the Crooked River mission. In 1968, when she was eleven, a white man from the Aboriginal Welfare Board came and took Cathy away. I’m sure you’re well aware of the wicked powers the Aboriginal Protection Act gave the government.

  Cathy’s family thought she was going away to have a better life – a white man’s money, a proper education and a better future. Read the attached letter from Cathy and you’ll see this was far from the reality. Cathy was ‘sold’ to a Dutch man, Bleeker, and went to live on a farm in central Queensland with his wife and children. That man raped and beat Cathy every other day. She sent me the letter shortly before she killed herself.

  The second file I’ve attached is a copy of a receipt. A welfare board fellow by the name of Alec Ferguson wrote it out to Bleek
er, for the money he paid for Cathy. Cathy must’ve stolen the receipt from Bleeker, and it was attached to the letter she sent me. I scanned both documents long ago, and the originals are in a safe place.

  Ten pounds, Lionel. My dearest friend was sold by the AWB for ten pounds! And she wasn’t the only pretty Koori girl taken from Crooked River by Alec Ferguson. There were many others, not seen again. I've never dared to talk of this before. It’s dangerous, and I’ve loved ones to protect. And who would’ve believed me? Or believed what Cathy wrote? But I know you will believe it Lionel, and you know what to do with it. PLEASE, tell NO-ONE of this email. Powerful men will do anything to protect a sordid past.

  I trust you Lionel, so here is my mobile number, to be used in emergency only - +61056235143234. I prefer email contact, and check mine daily, so will reply asap if you need to know more. Good luck and please, be careful Lionel.

  Shirley

  PS – I doubt the elders at Crooked River mission will remember Cathy’s story, her family were one of many who only stayed a short time. Mention another girl, ‘Rosie’, who lived there longer. She should get them talking. But don’t mention her if Tommy Davis is around. He’s an evil, evil man.

  Lionel propped his elbows on the desk and held his forehead in sweat laced palms. A sentence slapped him across the face as he read it again. ‘Powerful men will do anything to protect a sordid past.’ Like removing AWB files from State Archives, or failing to file them in the first place? If true, Shirley’s accusations provided strong motivation for a government to take such measures. A thousand scenarios whirled through his mind.

  He rushed to the kitchen and sat, eager to share the latest development with his team.