There was no point in going undercover in Carter’s Creek. Every man and his dog knew who I was and why I was there. I didn’t even try to make myself agreeable. I figured that people would talk to me whether they wanted to or not, because anyone who didn’t would come under suspicion. As a strategy it worked pretty well. I phoned the Western Holdings office and got an appointment with Tod Van Keppel without any trouble.
I rolled up to the elaborate gate with a tankful of Jacko s petrol, spoke my piece to the intercom device and the gate swung open. Easy as pie. In contrast to the rundown look of the Brown farm this place was spick and span. The fences looked immaculate, hedges were trimmed and the grass was well watered. The buildings-barns or whatever the big ones were-and sheds had fresh coats of paint and every shining galvanised iron roof serviced a large water tank.
I drove a couple of kilometres past all this operational efficiency to a sprawling ranch-style building that seemed to double as a residence and office. The road looped around in front of it with a dozen parking places marked out in white paint. The parked vehicles, a couple of 4WDs, a Tarago van, a ute, a station wagon and a gleaming silver-grey Mercedes, were all newish and well maintained. Dusty and travel-stained and with its second-hand roof-rack, Glen’s Pajero looked shabby beside them.
I followed a sign in the form of a finger with the word ‘Office’ printed on it in a Gothic script around the side of the building to a set of steps. The glass door with a louvre blind on the inside carried a sign reading ‘Please enter’ in the same script. I did, and stepped into air-conditioned comfort-thick, pale carpet, cool white walls, comfortable-looking chairs and a large reception desk. The woman behind the desk was thirtyish, blondish and good-looking.
‘Mr Hardy,’ she said. ‘Please sit down. Mr Van Keppel is running a little late. He’ll see you in ten minutes. In the meantime, coffee?’
‘Thank you.’
I wanted to see if she made it herself. Thought not. She pressed a button and a few minutes later another woman appeared carrying a tray with a coffee pot and all the fixings. She put it on the low table in front of me, poured a cup and lifted the lid on silver vessels containing milk and sugar.
I said, ‘Thank you,’ again and felt as if I should tip her.
Almost as soon as I took a swallow the receptionist said, ‘Mr Van Keppel will see you now. Please take your coffee in with you.’
I’m too old a hand to fall for that. Balancing a cup in one hand is no way to meet someone you want to be forceful with. I replaced the cup on the tray and went through the polished teak door. The office was surprisingly small and surprisingly tasteful. I’d been expecting something Texan in style, but it was more modest-standard size desk, filing cabinet and bookshelf. No wet bar in sight, no conversation pit. It was about twenty notches up on my office in Darlinghurst but I felt comfortable in it. Watch yourself, Cliff, I thought. That’s how he wants you to feel.
Van Keppel was a medium sized man with thinning sandy hair and an outdoors look-weather-roughened skin, faded grey eyes and work-enlarged hands. He came around the desk and we shook. Strong grip, but not too strong.
‘Sit down.’ The accent was South African touched with something else, maybe Australian. ‘I know you’re working for Jack Brown, looking into the trouble he’s had. I agreed to see you because I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea if I hadn’t, but…’ He spread the big hands. ‘I don’t know how I can help you.’
‘I take it you could buy Jacko out?’
That surprised him. ‘Is he thinking of selling?’
I smiled. ‘No, I just wanted to see how the idea struck you.’
He nodded and didn’t say anything. He was good. A people manager.
‘Would a community bank be a thorn in your side?’
‘It’d depend on its policies and its size. But I would think not. We could get along.’
‘We?’
‘The larger operations.’
‘Who are well organised.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Wouldn’t it be tidier if you mopped up the small-timers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Couldn’t you have helped the Carter’s Creek bank to stay open?’
‘Probably.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘We bank in Sydney.’
‘No feeling of obligation to the area, to the community?’
‘Western Holdings sees itself as part of the global community, Mr Hardy, and-’
‘Which is no community at all.’
He went on as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘-and our obligation is to our shareholders.’
And that was about that. We batted it around for a few minutes without me scoring any runs. We shook hands again and I left. The coffee had gone, which was a pity. I’d have drunk it cold. It was good coffee.
I talked to old Harry Thompson, Syd Parry and Lucas Milner but got nothing useful from them. They all seemed fond of Jacko and worried about their jobs. None was particularly interested in the community bank idea one way or the other. They took it in turns to drive into Cobar to bank and seemed quite happy with the arrangement. Thompson and Parry were single and occupied fibro sleep-outs in a paddock behind the farmhouse. Milner lived with his wife and child in a house he’d built by the creek a kilometre away. Jacko had made a subdivision for him and he owned the acre block freehold. When I asked him if this was his country he smiled.
‘No, Mr Hardy. I was brought up in Redfern. I came out here ten years ago to get away from all that shit.’
‘What d’you mean?’
He rolled a cigarette, lit it and blew smoke. ‘I mean all that political shit. I believe in a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work and that’s all I fuckin believe in.’
Over the next few days I drove around the district talking to various people. I had a chat to Sergeant Vic Bruce, who’d heard some talk about the threats to Jacko but didn’t seem very interested.
‘Town’s dying, Hardy.’ He laughed, signalling a joke coming. ‘And I’m dying to get out of it.’ I guessed he’d used the line a few times before.
Roger and Betty Fairweather, the parents of Jacko’s late wife, were guarded. Without actually saying so, they implied that they blamed Jacko for their daughter’s death. But I got the feeling that it wasn’t a strong emotion, more an expression of loss than an accusation. Her two brothers, who’d owned a smallish farm carved out of the original property, had recently sold to one of the big operators and moved away. They’d gone before the threats started.
I was running out of suspects. I kept an eye on Kevin but, apart from reluctantly doing some desultory work on the property, he spent most of his time in the pub drinking with his mates. He had a motive-the hope that his father would sell up. But as he seemed to be relying on Jacko to stake him in some way and didn’t have the gumption to get away on his own, it seemed unlikely he’d have been able to mount the campaign.
I mostly steered clear of the pub, especially when the old Bedford truck that belonged to Kevins mate Jimmy was parked outside, and that was most of the time. I didn’t fancy another run-in with Jimmy. But I did manage a talk over a beer with Ted Firth. I pumped him a bit, asking about word processor users and people who might oppose the community bank idea. I had another of his wife’s massive sandwiches, but otherwise I got sweet f.a.
Jacko seemed to perk up although I told him I wasn’t making progress. It seemed he was and apparently he’d had a good response to a call for a meeting in town in a couple of days time to discuss the bank proposal.