Serpent Song. Toni Grant
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glanced at her partner. “Are you telling me we’re now looking at four syndicates – Nero, Chi You, Ares and Warlords?”
“You know what, we could sit and speculate all night. As I said, we won’t know anything more until we get some results on that body at the Ridge. Tomorrow I want to double-check that information and then take a look myself. You’d better come too.”
Chapter 7
“Lightning Ridge is a small town in the NSW outback. No one knows exactly how many people live there but there are over 9000 post boxes. Can you believe it? People sort of go there to get lost,” Johnno commented as they landed in Dubbo. “It’s a funny little place, very quirky. You’ll probably like it.”
He continued as Francesca looked out the small window surveying the country airport before her. “Most of the itinerant residents move out in the summer. Too hot. The Dubbo cops are picking us up at the airport. The Ridge is about 4 hours drive north west of here. The camp is another half hour drive out of town apparently.”
Francesca nodded.
“The guy who owns the camp is a bit of a character. Poor bastard has mental health issues. Something to do with a war. Anyway, we know he’s in camp. He was seen in town earlier this week stocking up on supplies.” He paused. “It’s cooler this time of year, you see.”
As they stepped off the plane, Francesca relaxed in the huge sky surrounding her. From horizon to horizon, 360 degrees, it was big, blue, and she couldn’t help feeling like she had been transported to the inside of a snow globe. Smiling, Francesca relished the marvellous familiarity of western life in the big blue shed.
The drive to the Ridge was long and dusty. Those paddocks visible from the air surrounded her now. Massive gum trees, their white branches spreading out, almost stretched in the morning winter sun.
As the temperature rose Francesca ditched her heavy jacket and scarf in favour of her t-shirt. It showed her athletic build enhanced from years of ongoing training. She leaned forward slightly to stretch her arms behind her head, linking her fingers at the base of her skull. Her back arched releasing the strain of sitting for so long.
Detective Harry Jones, a local operative, eyed her in the rear view mirror. His eyes followed the line of her bunched biceps and lean arms to her rounded breasts straining against the flimsy fabric of that silky top. Dark Fiorelli sunnies masked her eyes and her lips, clearly visible, were etched in a half smile. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. The girl’s head was turned towards a wheat paddock that had attracted the attention of a family of emus. Dad and kids in stripy pyjamas were clustered near a stand of native acacia.
For hours, vast paddocks rolled along, every now and then giving way to a series of small country towns that had plenty to say about their past.
As they neared Lightning Ridge, the landscape changed dramatically. Stands of eucalypts, river flats and paddocks gave way to a flat red and white powdery moonscape. Scattered upon the hill, mullock heaps of wasted white rock and dirt surrounded shanty homes.
Lightning Ridge township emerged from the tree-lined highway, its wide streets flanked with an endless array of signs and directions scribed on any vertical surface. It was a town brimming with personality. Francesca scarcely knew where to look first. The whole place promoted sensory overload.
After collecting the local sergeant and grabbing something quick to eat, they headed north east along a back road to Angledool.
Francesca couldn’t hide the satisfied smile. She was instantly at home on the dirt track leading to the mine and leaned back into the seat to enjoy the sparseness and the billowing dust.
“Told you this place was awesome.” Johnno gazed out the window, his body twisting in the seat as he assessed the state of the paddocks. “How long since you had rain?”
“Eight months. We had about 2mm. Could do with some more,” the sergeant replied, keeping an eye on a small mob of straggly stock camped close to the road.
~
The vehicle stopped amid the piles of excavated dirt. In the middle was a small camp comprising of an open tin shed and a small fireplace. A generator hummed behind the shed operating an ancient-looking fridge, its blue enamel stained with dust and age. A small room attached to the shed housed what Francesca imagined to be a bedroom and bathroom. The set-up was very basic, with a bunk bed and an array of sparse furnishings, and Francesca wondered what kind of person would choose to live in such desolate, primitive fashion.
The sergeant strode over to the mine entrance and cupped his hands over his mouth.
“Enzo! Enzo! It’s Sergeant Tom. How are you doing today? Come on up mate I have some friends who want to meet you.”
A long ladder stretched from the floor of the hole to the reinforced opening where a rickety piece of machinery was used as a hoist. Tom stepped away from the hole, as Enzo made the slow and seemingly painful journey to the surface.
“Enzo, this is Francesca and Johnno, from Sydney. They want to ask you a few questions about the other night. Just tell them what you told me and anything else you may be able to think of. I’ll be right here with you.” The little old man squinting in the bright sunlight, looked towards Johnno and Tom. His gaze fell to Francesca.
“Mamma mia!” he exclaimed suddenly falling to his knees at Francesca’s feet, speaking in rapid dialect Italian, his head bent in respect.
Francesca was so shocked she took a moment to start translating. Sicilian dialect. The kind she’d heard as a young girl. The other detectives stared in open amazement.
“Santa Maria, Santa Maria,” he was saying and blessing himself over. He began praying in Latin, the Hail Mary, remaining on his knees at Francesca’s feet. He reached a grubby hand into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He looked down at it and continued to speak in Italian.
“Mother Mary, please forgive me. I have taken the oath a long time ago but I paid for my sins. Please, grant me forgiveness. Please spare me, I do not wish to die.”
He kept his head bowed, not daring to look at the woman standing before him. Mother Mary, the Holy Mother of God. Stunned, Francesca translated the prayer for Johnno and Tom.
Tom quickly strode to the old man and knelt on the ground with Enzo.
“Come on old mate, show me what you have there.” His voice was gentle and reassuring.
Enzo’s aged eyes beseeched Tom. After a nod of reassurance, slowly, Enzo opened his fearful fist to reveal a faded holy card. There was blood smeared over the dress and feet but the face was still visible.
Tom gazed at the picture in amazement and then at Francesca. The resemblance was uncanny. He looked at the card again. “Unbelievable!”
“What? What has he got?” Francesca whispered, almost too afraid to ask.
“Enzo may I show Francesca your card?”
“Si! Si! Santa Maria.” He was motioning in Francesca’s direction but never met her eyes, his head bowed in respect.
Johnno and Francesca examined the holy card, exchanging glances between each other. It could be Francesca painted on that card. It was certainly unbelievable. They handed the precious card back to Tom.
Francesca shuddered. She’d seen this card before, a long time ago—a childhood memory that came flooding back. It was a holiday in Sicily with Nic’s family. After church, one bright Sunday morning, a young child had wandered into the hillside garden, picking flowers to make a daisy chain necklace. The soil had been turned and it smelt divine, wet and musty, and new flowers were planted. In the damp, the corner of the holy card poked temptingly out. Francesca pulled at the corner and brushed the dirt from the picture of the Virgin Mary.
The painting was beautiful and the gold around her head and hands shone in the morning sun. A corner was missing, but this was a picture of the most beautiful woman Francesca had ever