Chapter 23
‘WE WANT TO know what the hell’s going on.’ The man jutted his chin at me, turned and sized up the much larger Agent Kash. ‘We’re hearing the whole bloody town’s about to be attacked, and we’re seeing Sydney’s sent exactly two coppers to protect us. This is bullshit!’
‘Whoa, hold up.’ Kash put a hand out. ‘I’m not a cop. I’m a trained federal agent specialising in counter-terrorism.’
‘Terrorism?’ The group glanced nervously at each other, shifted their rifles. ‘Is it a terrorist?’
‘No.’ I stepped between them. ‘There is nothing to suggest right now that –’
‘Them Muslims,’ someone seethed. ‘I knew it’d only be a matter of ti–’
I didn’t have the patience for this. I was about ready to snap when a man broke in to the group, short and pot-bellied with thinning ginger hair.
‘Let’s keep this under control, huh, Jace?’ He put a hand on the rifleman’s shoulder. ‘I’m sure these officers know what they’re doing.’ The man turned to me, offered a hand. ‘I’m John Destro. Everybody calls me Dez.’
‘Dez is the mayor,’ Snale told me.
The man laughed, showing teeth so straight and white they could have been dentures.
‘Well, technically Last Chance is too small to appoint a mayor. I call myself that but I don’t get the salary.’ He smiled warmly. ‘I run the post office. So I’m the most powerful guy in town.’
He gestured to a two-storey building diagonally across the road from where we stood. It occurred to me exactly how powerful a postmaster could be in a situation like this. He literally had a monopoly on the essentials of life out here – food, alcohol, tools, farming supplies. It paid to be nice to the people who controlled your supplies, particularly when it was a two-day drive to anywhere with a population above five hundred.
‘I’m here to help in any way that I can.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Thanks. You can start by telling everyone to put their guns away. There is no evidence of an imminent threat to the people of this town. And this many people running around with rifles and frayed nerves is going to get someone killed.’
I walked inside the pub, where the tables surrounding a large stage were packed with people, some of them already halfway through breakfast beers beside plates of toast. There were people on the upper floor, arms hanging over the railing, watching. This is what people do in country towns when there’s trouble: go to the local pub, gossip, get a hold on the situation, regardless of the work to be done that day. The place was the beating heart of the town. There was a sweaty bartender standing behind the long, polished counter, holding a pint of beer to his lips. The glass featured a brass nameplate with ‘Mick the Prick’ engraved on it. I guessed drinking on the job was acceptable here, at least.
I walked to the stage and thirty sets of eyes followed me. Literally half the population of the valley was here.
‘My name is Detective Inspector Harriet Blue,’ I said loudly. ‘I’m from the Sydney Metro police department. I’ve got a few things to say.’
I drew a long breath. How many of these people would recognise me from the front page of yesterday’s paper? Snale was watching me from the doorway, with ‘Jace’ and the hostile group of farmers.
‘Last night, your former police chief Theo Campbell passed away,’ I said. There was no rumble of voices, no gasps of surprise. ‘We’re still investigating the circumstances, and whether they are linked to the diary Sergeant Snale questioned you all about some days ago. At this stage there is no reason to believe that anyone else in town is under any further threat. I advise you to go about your business. Those people we want to question about the case will be contacted shortly. If you think you’ve got relevant information to share with us about Mr Campbell’s death, or the diary, then please do so.’
I tried to leave the stage and almost ran right into the solid wall of human muscle that was Kash. My stomach sank.
‘Ah, actually,’ he shifted past me to the centre of the stage, ‘it might be helpful, Detective Blue, for us to provide a deeper understanding of what information might be relevant.’
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I whispered. He ignored me.
‘My name is Special Agent Elliot Kash. I’m a highly trained counter-terrorism expert, specialising in Islamic terrorism and insurgency. I’ve spent years in Iraq and Afghanistan gathering surveillance and intel on lone-wolf and sleeper-cell development.’
The crowd stirred. The bartender slammed a pint glass down.
‘Because of my specialist experience,’ Kash said, ‘I can tell you the kind of thing we’re looking for. You need to keep an eye out for someone you know who’s been acting strange lately. Maybe spending more time than usual on their own or on their computer. Ask yourself if someone in your household has gained a sudden interest in organised religion, particularly Islam, or if they’ve been making aggressive political statements. Have they withdrawn from their circle of friends? Are they making or receiving private phone calls in the middle of the night? Hypervigilance is the key here, people. Be aware, and if you see something, say something.’
‘Terrorists,’ someone at the back murmured. ‘I bloody knew it.’
‘That Taby kid’s always on that laptop,’ someone else said. ‘You see him around town with it. That’s how they radicalise them. The internet. The videos. The chat rooms.’
I all but yanked Kash off the stage as he tried to wrap up. He seemed confused by my fury. I pushed him out the pub door and into the shade of the awning.