Story by  Warrigal Mirriyuula.

Pat Hennessey the Fire Warden was walking over as Chook pulled off the highway up through the road gate in the Police Ute. The building had been almost entirely destroyed by the fire and a plume of grey and black smoke was drifting into the sky. The rain had stopped and the clouds that had hung low over the district all day were now beginning to slowly clear. Chook got out and dragged his Wellingtons from the back of the ute. As he undid his bootlaces Pat filled him in.

“Thanks for comin’ out Chook. I would’na ordinarily bothered ya ‘cep’ this isn’ what it first seems. Now that we’ve got the thing pretty much out we’ve found some things about this one that aren’t right.” The warden paused. “For a start we’ve got a body.”

That got Chook’s attention. He quickly looked straight at the warden as he pulled the left Wellington on. “A body?”

“At first it just looked like an outbuilding fire with a few dead sheep but, yeah, then we found the body. Ya better come an’ ‘ave a look.”

The warden turned to walk up the muddy path to the remains of the burned outbuilding. Chook didn’t like the sound of this and the sight of Bagley standing off to the side, his hat dripping and his driz-a-bone glistening in the rain, his arms crossed and a foul look on his face didn’t auger well. Chook pulled on the other boot and followed after Pat.

As Chook caught up to the warden the building was still just alight in spots, tiny flames leaping like dancers across the charred timber. Most of the ruin was smoking and steaming as the firemen played water over the blackened mess. There was the distinct sickly stench of burned wool, sheep flesh and diesel.

The smoking pile had been used to store feed and hay, odd tools, discarded machinery and obviously fuel for the tractor. The foundations, floor and gabled end walls of the building were constructed from local rubble blocks mortared with lime cement made from Molong limestone. The front and back had been timbered with thick axe cut slabs. An iron roof had replaced the original Sheoak shingles over the rough timber trusses. It had survived for well over a hundred years, an iconic piece of bush architecture, a practical and pragmatic building from the very earliest days of white occupation. The stone and heavy timber walls providing some security for early shepherds worried about aboriginal attacks as the white man’s mutton invasion continued inexorably into the Wiradjuri lands beyond the early colony’s Limit of Settlement.

The roof iron had collapsed into the building and lay, twisted, still hot, amongst the ash and charred wall slabs, roof beams and trusses. The carcasses of the dead sheep lay in a deep bed of ash, all in one corner where they had no doubt retreated from the flames only to be trapped and burned alive. Chook noted they had been rams, the blackened bony cores of their horns clearly visible. Chook felt a shiver run up his spine. Were these the prize Merino rams that Bagley claimed had been interfered with? No wonder Bagley looked dark. This could put a whole different complexion on the day.

As Chook followed the warden around to the rear of the building the smell changed and then there where the wall had partially collapsed out, Chook saw inside, the body; only the head and shoulders were visible, all tangled in charred timber and bent iron, the head reduced to a leering skull with adhesions of cartilage, charred flesh and burnt hair. The eyes had cooked in their sockets. The lips, shrunken back revealing blackened gums; the teeth, big, strong and dazzling white against the black, gave the appearance that the skull was laughing hysterically. Chook gagged and shivered again. It was unsettling, gruesome to look at. This burnt offering had once been a human being.

The warden stood back as Chook tried to get a better look at the corpse. He leaned inside the wall line. The whole business was still smoking and the smoke was getting in Chook’s eyes. He pulled his head away, his eyes watering. He reached out to get his balance and leaned on the rubble-stone wall. The stone was still uncomfortably hot and Chook pulled his hand away too quickly, loosing his balance and falling on his bum in the mud.

“Bloody fantastic!” said Chook, getting up to wipe the mud of his uniform serge.

“Yeah, we’ll have to wait until the whole thing’s cooled down before we can get the body out.” the warden offered a little too late for Chook’s griddled hand and muddy bum.

“Yeah, let’s do that.” Chook said sourly, but enjoying the soothing relief the mud was providing his hand. He waved it around a bit.

“Listen, has Bagley offered anything on the cause or nature of the fire? Bagley was still pacing some way off, his face a mask of dark animus.

“Hasn’t said a word mate” pulling his head to one side, chin in, and looking at the ground. “Not a dicky bird.”

Chook’s eyes narrowed and he looked over at Bagley. “That’s not like him.” His gaze stayed on Bagley.

“No mate it’s not.” The air between the men thickened with suspicion as they both kept Bagley in their gaze. “Once ‘ed arrived I expected to get chapter and verse on fire fighting delivered in the usual style.” The warden paused and looked at Chook. “’e ‘asn’t said a word, to anyone. Not a word. He’s just stood there were ‘e is. Highly unusual I’d say.”

“So he wasn’t here when you arrived. Who reported the fire?”

“Miss Hynde at “The Pines” over on the other side of the valley.” The warden pointed to a cottage about two miles away on the opposite side of Molong Creek, nestled in a corner where two tall stands of old Monterey Pines met. The little white house was magically aglow in the deep dark green of the pines, at that moment illuminated, picked out in a beam of sunlight breaking through the dispersing rain clouds. “You can see the whole valley from her place.”

Chook was momentarily transfixed by the uncanny scene. He shook his head and deliberately looked at Pat.

“Does Bagley know about the body?” Chook looked back at Bagley.

“Well the men got pretty excited when they first saw it. There was some shouting and hoying but I don’t know whether Bagley knows or not. Like I said, ‘e hasn’ come any closer than “e is now since ‘e arrived.”

The fire was out and the rest of the fire crew had begun to rake out the embers to spread the heat and hasten the cooling. They were about to start pulling off the crumpled iron when Chook shouted for them to stop. The firemen stopped and turned looking to the warden for direction.

“What’s on ya mind Chook? The warden asked while the men waited.

“Something about this doesn’t sit right.” Chook said with classic understatement. He took a good long slow look around the area. “Look it could be anything at this stage. Misadventure, suicide, manslaughter, or it might be murder. I’m gonna have to call it a crime scene anyway, so no one touches anything until I can get the Inspector out from Orange. How much water have you got left in the tanker? Have ya got enough to just keep damping the hot spots?”

“Yeah, sure; we’ve prob’ly got a couple a hundred gallons left. If we run low we can call the other tanker but I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Why, whata ya thinkin’?”

Chook didn’t feel like explaining himself. He wasn’t sure he could anyway, but there was a growing feeling that the thing better be done by the book. Whatever had gone on here, it wasn’t simple. There was a whole lot more that Chook didn’t know. This was MacGuire’s land, his building; those were probably his rams; which meant Bagley was going to be a fixture of the investigation.

Chook wasn’t certain about what he was thinking and decided that a simple cover story would hold the warden. “Have you met Inspector Beuzeville from Orange? He’s a stickler for the regs. We’ve got a body therefore this is a crime scene until it’s released by the Inspector.”

“Whatever you say Chook.” The warden was happy to be shot of the responsibility of being boss of the fire. It’d save him from having to deal with Bagley. If the police said this was a crime scene then a crime scene it was. Someone else could do the worrying.

“I want your men to pace out 50 yards in all directions from the fire. Then they’re to stay outside that perimeter except for the bloke on the hose and he should try and move around as little as possible. As soon as there’s no more smoke or steam, he has to move outside the perimeter.” Chook looked over at Bagley again. He’d have to talk with him. “I’m gonna have a yack with Bagley then I’ve got some calls to make. I’ll get someone out here as soon as I can, just make sure that there’s someone here all the time until he gets here. I’ve got a feeling in me water about this one.”

“Whatever you say Chook.” the warden said again, taking his cue from Chook’s serious tone. He turned and shouted at the firemen, “Righto, disconnect the pumps, pack it up. Bob you hook up to the tanker and run the little pump. Set ya nozzle to spray and just keep it playing over the hot spots. Mick, you pace out and mark a fifty-yard perimeter; and remember, all of you, don’t move anything, don’t disturb anything. This is now a crime scene, the cops are in charge.” The half dozen young volunteer firemen got to it. Mick was pacing out the perimeter and flagging it with tagged stakes, the others were emptying and rolling the hoses. The one called Bob had reconnected to the tanker and started the little petrol pump. He took up a position on the high side of the blackened ruin and commenced damping down.

Chook walked over to Bagley who had stopped pacing and was looking blackly at Fowler.

“You took ya bloody time Fowler.” Bagley always started every encounter with an insult or criticism. “If you’d been here first thing like I said maybe this wouldna happened.” Bagley let that sink in. “Those bloody rams were worth a small fortune. Every one of ‘em’s a ribbon winner.” His anger and frustration were plain.

Chook wasn’t in the mood for Bagley. He had no patience for the man’s abrasive and insulting way.

“Ya can’t go up there Bagley. It’s a crime scene for the next few days. I’m gonna have ta call in the D’s from Orange.”

“What, can’t handle a little fire Fowler” Bagley smirked.

That was it. Chook had about as much from Bagley as he was gonna take. The man was unfit for civilised congress.

“Look Bagley, there’s a dead body in the back corner. This “little fire” is much more important than the loss of some bloodstock no matter how valuable they mighta been. Bloody hell man, the rams are insured aren’t they?”

Fowler was just hitting his straps. “A man’s dead Bagley. Burned liked a forgotten Sunday roast.” Bagley didn’t react and didn’t seem to care. Just like the bastard, thought Chook.

“You don’t go closer than fifty yards and if I find out you have, then I’ll arrest you for interfering in a police investigation.” Chook looked Bagley straight in the eye “Have ya got that?”

“Ya wanna watch ya self Fowler. I’m not without influence round here.” Bagley threatened, inflated with pride, “While ever I’m manager here I’ll go where I damn well please and do what I need to.”

The fact that a dead man had been found on the property he managed didn’t appear to be figuring in his calculations at this point. To Bagley it was obviously a bloody inconvenience but essentially someone else’s problem. “What about my bloody rams?”

“MacGuire’s rams Bagley. Remember? You’re just the help.” Chook was really getting on Bagley’s tits now, he could see it, and saw no reason to back off. “I’ve had enough of you Bagley. You may think you’re a big wheel round here but to me ya just a bully; a loud mouthed common thug. Those you can’t thump ya threaten. You push ya luck on this and you’ll find out just what the NSW Police are capable of. Have I made myself clear enough now?”

Chook always felt a slow surge of blood when he invoked the brotherhood of the force.

“You’ll regret this Fowler. I’m not a man to make an enemy of.” Bagley was fuming. He spat into the mud, turned and walked back to his Land Rover.

“I’ll need to talk to you later. Make sure you’re somewhere where I can find you.” Chook shouted at Bagley’s retreating back.

“You can go to buggery Fowler. I’m sure you know the way.” Bagley got in the Land Rover and took off down the valley towards the main homestead, on his way to report to MacGuire.

Chook wondered what made a man like Bagley. Even a dead body didn’t move him. He had no friends so far as the Policeman knew; and though he was married, he and his wife had no children. All he had was his job at MacGuire’s, his own high opinion of himself and an indefatigable drive to get what he wanted no matter the cost to those around him.

He was a brutal boss known for violence against casual hands. He’d blinded a young rouseabout in a fistfight when Chook was a teenager. He’d been charged with grievous bodily harm but the charges were dropped when the complainant failed to show for court. There was talk he’d been paid off.

Over the years there had been many stories of Bagley’s cruelty and he reserved a specially callous contempt for the Fairbridge boys he took on, treating them little better than the animals themselves and reminding them all the time that they were the waste and detritus of the empire and they should be bloody grateful he employed them at all. In short he was a shit of a man in Chook’s opinion, and this investigation was going to be all the more difficult with him involved.

Fowler got on the radio in the ute and contacted the station in Orange. He made a quick report to Inspector Beuzeville who agreed it was suspicious and that it should be looked into more thoroughly. He couldn’t come right away; he’d be out at 6AM tomorrow morning. Best to get the body out before the heat of the day. In the mean time the Inspector told the Sergeant to secure the scene, cover the body as best you can and no one to touch anything, he’d bring the Coroner’s Pathologist and a police photographer with him, “Over and out.”

Chook got out of the ute and walked back up to the burnt out building. He told the young fiery that he had to go into town but that there’d someone back in an hour to relieve him. The young bloke just nodded as he distractedly continued to hose the sodden remains of the building.

Chook got in the ute and took off back into town. The sky was now clearing rapidly and the road was steaming as the afternoon sun came out from behind the clouds. There were still several hours of light yet and there was a lot Chook wanted to get done before Beuzeville came out in the morning. He’d get young Molloy to sit the night watch at the scene, Chook wanted to talk with Miss Hynde and he’d have to beard Bagley at home; and just to be sure he’d talk to MacGuire too, if he wasn’t down in the smoke.

This was more like it, Chook thought. Real Police work, hopefully with a real outcome. This wasn’t dealing with drunks or scolding kiddies, or another turn in the eternal dance with Jack. This was meat and potatoes Police work.

There weren’t that many bodies turn up in Molong in suspicious circumstances and Chook always took these cases very seriously. People needed to know what happened and the dead man, lying in the cooling ruin, that horrible skull silently screaming for justice, he would have one last mate and Chook wasn’t about to let a mate down.

Chook realised at that moment that though procedure required an open mind, the gut feeling that was developing deep inside him was insistently shouting “foul play”. Chook had learnt young not to deny his gut feelings, but what had exactly gone on here was still a mystery waiting to be deciphered.

Chook put his foot down and for the first time in weeks turned on the siren.

Story and Photograph by Warrigal Mirriyuula

Sergeant Fowler drove away from the sawmill shaking his head. According to Ted Condon, the owner and manager, the money and the chain saw had turned up again and as far as he was concerned that was the end of it. He wouldn’t be pressing charges; it had all been a big misunderstanding.

It didn’t jibe. Ted had been pretty pissed off when Chook responded to the original call. It was him that had originally made the suggestion that it might be one of the mill crew. The McCulloch chainsaw alone was worth nearly a hundred quid and Ted had been spitting chips about its theft.

Chook wasn’t buying any of this new story though, not for a moment; but without a complainant and with the alleged cash and goods back in the owner’s hands, this was no longer a police matter. Then, in that way that it often did for Chook, as he drove back into town, not thinking of much really, the whole affair fell into place.

Chook would bet his pension it was Nugget did the burg. He really was a sorry case. Years of piss and too many fights had addled Nugget’s brain. It was about all he could do to get the occasional day working as a general hand at the sawmill, or on the roads for the council. As soon as he had his pay in his hand he’d be off to the pub and wouldn’t stop drinking till his pay ran out. He lived in a coldwater rat hole in East Molong. You wouldn’t call it a life. He was only half there when he was sober, when he was drunk he had a chip the size of a river red gum on his shoulder and an ugly angry violent streak. Pissed, he could convince himself that his problems were always of someone else’s making.

Chook could see it now. Nugget got himself three days at the mill, he’d seen it in the mill’s day book; on the second day, the day of the night of the burglary, he’d’ve come back from lunch half cut, slung off at someone, who’d’ve slung back. Nugget would’ve brooded on it. Somehow it gets twisted up into some kind of sawmill conspiracy to do him down. Nugget, thinking to get even, would’ve come back later, even more drunk, and done the amateur burglary. Chook smiled sardonically as he imagined a pissed Nugget lugging the heavy chainsaw away, cursing it continually for its awkward weight. Nugget didn’t turn up the next day; that was in the daybook too. A dead give away in Chook’s mind. He’d have paid a few pressing bills and begun drinking the rest of the money. When that ran low he’da tried to sell the chainsaw. Not that many buyers there, and those that might be buyers woulda known where it came from. The word woulda got back to Ted Condon. Condon gets the mill crew to find Nugget, they take him to the Freemasons, outa hours, just Jack looking on, no trouble there; play some cards, get Nugget pissed and skiting about the burg; Nugget was too addled to know when to shut up; that loud abusive stupid mouth of his was his fatal flaw.  The mill crew woulda been dark on Nugget for stealing from Ted. They take Nugget outside, give ‘im a quick tune up then over to Nugget’s to pick up the chainsaw and any cash they could recover. Nugget ends up pissed, bruised and lumpy in the cell with young Molloy scraping off the blood and dried spew. Nugget’s oblivious, collapses in the cell, pisses himself and spends the rest of the night snoring and farting; just another Sunday night for Nugget.

Ted was never going to come clean. He had his chainsaw back. That was the main thing. If he’d done dough in the process then he’d extract it outa Nugget’s hide over the next few months. Nugget wasn’t going anywhere, and the sawmill was one of a very few places where Nugget would be taken on, even if only as a day labourer.  What’s more Ted needed his crew just as much as they needed him. Timber getting and milling wasn’t for weak men. They’d back one another’s stories and alibi one another up over the beating.  It was an investigative dead end but there might be one way to prove out his theory.

Chook shuffled his day in his mind. Bagley would just have to wait a little longer; Chook was off to front Jack Hornby at The Freemasons. He could rocket him for trading out of hours; then, on the back of his not reporting Jack, maybe get Jack to fill in a few blanks about Nugget and the burg, just a conversation between two blokes in a pub, no actual police involvement.

As Chook pushed through the main street doors of The Freemasons his appearance drew the usual response. Several of the drinkers pulled their beers in close to them, hunched their shoulders a little, adopted a watch and see posture. A couple skulled their beers and made their way out of the pub, others looked up, noted the sergeant’s stripes and went back to their counter lunch. Through out the front bar the level of conversation fell a notch or two.

Fowler took a stool at the bar, his back to the room. He chose the muttonchops, mash and peas from the counter menu, decided against a beer and had a squash instead. Chook wasn’t a big drinker, never had been, but he had nothing against the pubs or their patrons so long as nothing they did had to be written up at the station.

As he waited for his lunch the usual hubbub returned, the lunch patrons acclimatising to the presence of the law. There was a loose copy of “The Express” lying on the bar and Chook filled his wait with the local headlines. There was a great picture of Mongrel and The Runt on the front page. Chook had heard about the young Inspector’s mysterious mishap and when he’d called Billy Martin to retrieve the abandoned ute from the rye pasture, Billy had already taken care of it. Billy was like that. He just got on with it. Not like these no hopers that filled the Freemasons during the day.

Since The Royal had burned down during the war there were just the two big pubs in town and they couldn’t be more different. The Telegraph was more like a community club, a family pub with a dining room and billiards. It was Clarrie and Beryl’s pub and reflected their character and style. The Telegraph was no trouble at all.

The Freemasons was a horse of an entirely different colour. It was the regular resort of the hard men, the sportsmen, gamblers and straight out heavy drinkers. Jack the publican was ex British army. He’d been in Tobruk and El Alamein and in the midst of that misery had run a very successful black market operation.

The story that came back was that Jack was about to be taken in charge by the Redcaps when the Boche kicked off again, lobbing in heavy fire. The surprise attack had caught many in the open and there’d been serious casualties, mostly blast and shrapnel, lots of wounds to dress. Jack’d bought his way off the charge by handing over a purloined consignment of sulpha drugs and leading a party of commandos out past the German line by a secret route normally used to move contraband. The commandos destroyed fuel and amunition dumps and several vehicles as well as chopping up the guards. Even Jack got his arm in, silently and efficiently garrotting a sleeping kraut sentry.

The Germans, seeing their dumps exploding and on fire, and fearing a rear guard attack, fell back, taking the pressure of the town. The whole thing had gone like a clock. Tobruk could breathe again for a day or two.

Jack’s CO had even been tempted to mention Jack in the despatch reporting the failed German attack. He’d decided against it on the grounds that Jack was still a complete bounder who had recently been greatly profiting from the scarcity that beset the entire besieged garrison. Besides, Jack just couldn’t be trusted to do the right thing with any cache that might attach to “hero” status. Instead the CO had simply marked Jack’s record with the notation, “No promotion this theatre”, and curiously moved him under the wing of the Supply Corps. Perhaps the CO thought that Jack’s unconventional procurement skills might be more generally beneficial to the unit.

When he was demobbed Jack had chosen Australia over Canada and New Zealand. With all the post war shortages and civil disruption in Britain it was considered prudent to offer demobbing British servicemen assisted passage to attractive destinations in the Empire. There was even a modest cash incentive. The idea was to limit the impact of returning servicemen on the labour market at a time of rebuilding and deep change at home. There was nothing for Jack in England and he ended up in Molong. Bought the pub, license and freehold for cash and never looked back. He claimed he got the money from a freakish streak at the horses that included an accumulator over four races.

The way Jack told it, he got off the boat at Circular Quay, went to a pub aptly called “The First and Last”, met a bloke, they got talking, then took a bus to the races at Randwick where Jack and the bloke had enjoyed a supernatural streak of luck. Jack had always been coy about exactly how much he’d won but it must have been a considerable sum of money. The bloke came from Wellington. He was a wool classer in Jack’s story, said he was going to retire on his winnings. This is where the bloke disappears from the yarn; but not before telling Jack of this pub he knows is for sale in this place called Molong. The pub’s going cheap after years of wartime rationing and restrictions. Jack dreams big and quick and a few days later he’s in Molong, the deal is done and after jumping through flaming hoops and walking on hot coals with the licensing division in Orange, he’s confirmed as the licensee of The Freemasons Hotel. A sanitised and heroically proportioned version of his exploits in North Africa was no small part of his success in the Licensing Court. It all just added to the legend.

Jack wasn’t exactly a crook. He was just a bit of a “Jack the lad” who hadn’t quite grown up yet. He loved a caper and was happiest when he had a big deal going. Chook reckoned he fenced a bit of stolen goods, only occasionally and only if the goods weren’t from Molong. He had some scruples. He fiddled the hotel books to avoid excise and tax and ran a substantial part of the black economy in Molong. He accommodated Molong’s SP bookie in a dark corner of the front bar. He was well known and liked by a certain kind of Molong citizen and kept his record clean with the rest by making hefty donations to the local football and cricket clubs and being a “captain” in the local volunteer bush fire brigade. He was a loveable rogue with a flair for the fantastic. He’d have been the kind of bloke that’d be good to have as a mate Chook thought, if only he wasn’t into the fringes of every dodgy deal running.

What ever else Jack was, he was always reliable for a good story. The trick was to tease the truth out of Jack’s rococo embellishments. To Jack the truth was just what happened. A good yarn was something else altogether.

Chook pushed a bit of bread around his plate and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing while he shoved his plate away. Jack was at the other end of the bar talking with a truck driver whose lorry was parked illegally on the other side of highway. Chook got up, swilled the last of his squash and ambled down the bar.

“That your truck mate?” he asked the driver while Jack stood back smiling, waiting to see what would happen.

“Yeah mate. Ya gotta problem?” the driver asked as he sized up the police sergeant, scratching his ample gut through his worn blue singlet.

“No mate, not me; but you might have if ya don’t move it. Yer parked “near and close” mate. I’ll have to give ya a ticket if ya not away soon.”

The truckie, figuring he could do without the ticket said, “Yeah well I’m away right now boss.” He picked up the two bottles of Dinner Ale sitting on the bar. “See ya nex’ week Jack.” The truckie looked at Chook again still trying to size him up. “Sergeant…” he nodded. Chook nodded back, filing the face for future reference.

“What can I do ya for Chook?” Jack lent in, wiping the bar with a rag. He liked Chook. They’d be mates except that Chook was a rozzer.

“Ya wanna beer?”

“No thanks Jack.”

“On the house…”

“I’m on duty.” Chook said, looking to remind Jack.

“Suit y’self.” Jack said and shrugged his shoulders. It was only a beer. He put his rag down and gave Jack his attention. “What’s on ya mind?”

“When I got in this morning Nugget was sleeping it off in the cell. Looks like he got a seeing to last night.” Chook paused.

“He’s a fool for a fight, that Nugget.” all light and breezy like there’s nothing going on here officer.

“Yeah, well he’s a bit of a mess, the old Nugget.” Chook paused again watching for any reaction from Jack. There was none, just Jack’s affable smile.

This was where their conversations always got interesting. Chook never knew whether he was ballroom dancing or prize fighting. Jack wanted to be genuinely helpful, he was that sort of a bloke; but he couldn’t really be frank with Chook, tell him what he really knew; and Chook couldn’t give anything away either. He had to walk a fine line between encouraging Jack to open up while questioning him with just the right tone of intimidation appropriate in a policeman on an enquiry.

“He wasn’t in here earlier was he?” Chook asked directly.

“What, th’smornin’?” Jack played up “being confused”. “I thought you said he was in a cell at the station.”

“No, not this morning,” with softly played exasperation, “earlier yesterday, Sunday.”

“On a Sunday Chook? That would be against the law wouldn’t it?” Jack asked rhetorically. He picked up the rag and began to studiously wipe the bar again. It’d save him having to look directly at Chook.

“Look Jack, no names, no pack drill, OK? You wouldn’t want me to have a closer look at your license, maybe call in the Licensing Sergeant from Orange.” Fowler let that sink in. “I know Nugget was in here and I know there was some others from the mill.” Chook lied smoothly.

“Seems you know more than me Chook.” Jack wasn’t giving anything away. “The last I saw Nugget was at closing on Saturday night, after the darts. He was lying in the garden over at the railway station.” Jack’s face took on a look of innocent befuddlement as if to say he was at a complete loss as to how Chook could be so wrongly misinformed.

“So you know nothing about the burglary at the mill, the missing chainsaw now miraculously turned up again? What about the thirty-five quid? Anybody been a little too splashy with their cash?”

Jack was on easier ground now the conversation had passed by any direct focus on his license. He stopped wiping the bar and pulled in close to Chook so as not to be overheard by the regular patrons.

“Yeah I heard about that.” Jack heard about everything. “Ted Condon gave me a call. Asked me to be on the lookout for someone trying to sell a McCulloch chainsaw.” Jack did an impression of someone trying to remember. “You know, now that I think of it, Nugget has been a bit flash lately, and he lost a fiver on the darts.” This was the gem of truth around which this entire conversation had been skirting. “I didn’t hear anything about the chainsaw though;” Jack and Ted were both wheels in the local bush fire brigade, thick as thieves, “but Ted’ll be pleased to have it back.”

“Yeah, it’s almost as if it was never stolen.” Chook offered with thick irony. “So Nugget wasn’t here yesterday but he has been a bit flash lately, right?”

“That’s about the strength of it, yeah.” Jack confirmed.

“So he wasn’t in here drinking and playing pontoon with the other blokes from the mill. They didn’t ply him with piss and get him skiting, giving himself up. They didn’t take him out the back and sort him out then fetch the chainsaw from that dump he calls home, leaving him mindless blind drunk and bleeding on Bank Street.” Chook took a breath and fixed Jack with his copper’s stare. “None of that happened?” Chook asked in a tone of mocking disbelief.

Jack’s face became a mask of guileless innocence. “Nah Chook mate, nothing like that happened.” Jack said nodding his head.

That was the “tell”, the nodding head. For such an accomplished liar Jack was still easy to read and Chook felt vindicated. Not that it meant anything, the investigation was going nowhere, but it was good to know that his instincts had been basically right. Chook smiled at Jack.

“Right, well I s’pose that’s that,” Chook had all he came for, “except that if I were to find out, for sure, that you’d been selling on a Sunday I’d be bound to do something about it Jack. It’s the law. You understand that don’t you.”

“Of course mate, fa sure.” Jack took Chook’s diaphanously veiled meaning, assuring him that Chook would never have any reason to treat the pub or the publican any differently than from this friendly conversation. The balance was restored. Both men had their pride and both were oddly thankful to the other for the manner in which this curiously refracted conversation had been executed.

“Righto, well I better get cracking.”

“No worries Chook, any time.”

Fowler turned and took a quick squiz around the bar, just in case there was anyone else he might need to talk to, new faces to note. It was the usual crowd. He walked out through the highway doors.

Chook slung his slicker over his shoulders and ran for the ute. The radio was calling. Opening the passenger door Chook leaned in and grabbed the handset.

It was Pat the local Volunteer Fire Brigade Warden on the emergency services channel. He wanted Chook at an outbuilding fire on a block along the highway to the east of town.

“Let me get this straight”, Chook needed a little clarification; ”You’ve got a fire on a day like this?” The rain continued to rattle on the ute roof.

“Not just a fire mate. Ya better get out here smartish.”

There was something in Pat’s tone, an urgency, serious concern. It was all Chook needed. He jumped in, slid across the seat, lit up the ute, dropped a tearing “Uee” and took off back down the highway past the railway station. He could be there in ten minutes.