Chapter 20
Twenty
The midday heat shimmered over the empty stockyards, the scents of dust and damp earth mixed with a faint methane aroma. Amara and Porter found Brodie working in one of the empty stockyards.
Barely sixteen, the kid was elbow-deep in muck, scrubbing the algae off the sides of a concrete trough with a stiff-bristled brush. His boots were two sizes too big, his jeans patched at the knees, and the old Akubra shading his face had probably seen better years long before he was even born.
Porter whistled low as they stepped up to the rails. ‘You always get the good jobs, don’t ya, mate?’
Brodie peeked over his shoulder, the grin showing off his white teeth against his deep tan as he concentrated hard on his scrubbing. ‘It’s gotta be better than cleanin’ out the police cells after the drunks have been through, I reckon.’
Porter chuckled.
Amara hooked her arms over the top rail, watching him. ‘Got a minute?’
‘Sure…’ Brodie dropped the brush into the water with a splash and wiped his hands dry on his dirty shirt. ‘I’m real sorry they pinched your horse like that. He was nice.’
Amara nodded, feeling Porter watching her, as if silently warning her to play nice.
She could play nice. ‘Thank you, Brodie. Look, the last time we spoke, you mentioned the horse was a midnight special?’
‘A what?’ Porter unhooked the gate and swung it open. He leaned against the rails, shifting the dynamic—now there was nothing between them and Brodie, just open space. All done as casual as anything, like Porter was just getting comfortable.
But Amara saw it now. Porter never just stood somewhere for the sake of taking up space like she’d always assumed. Every movement, every position, was deliberate. Porter always found a spot that gave him control over the conversation—and the person he was talking to.
If Brodie bolted, Porter was close enough to grab him.
If Brodie lashed out, Porter had room to react.
And if anything went sideways, Porter was already between her and trouble.
Like the car park at the pub where Porter had parked his vehicle with the yahoos playing Hold-My-Beer. The police car and himself were far enough away, but in the perfect spot to block them should any of them head onto the road, where he had jurisdiction as an officer to arrest them.
She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed that before.
Porter was a lot more switched on than she’d ever given him credit for—even in a uniform that looked like he’d slept in it, and in boots that had never seen the right side of a polishing brush.
Had Porter done that to lull the locals into a sense of complacency?
To make himself look like just another laid-back country cop, easy to underestimate?
Or was it deliberate to make himself more approachable to stockmen, and stablehands like Brodie, who’d trust a bloke in dusty boots more than some big cheese with a mirror shine to their shoes?
‘Exactly what is a midnight special, mate?’ Porter asked.
‘You know?’ Brodie’s fingers tightened on the brim of his hat, twisting it just enough to give him something to do with his hands.
‘I don’t,’ said Porter, patting Brodie’s shoulder like a friend. ‘You know me, I wouldn’t know the difference between a cow, steer, and a whatchamacallit. As the guru of the stockyards, why don’t you explain it to me.’
Was Porter playing dumb on purpose?
It worked, because Brodie grinned at Porter, as if warming up to the officer. ‘Midnight special is what we call the stock that comes in after dark.’
‘Deadset.’ Porter’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I always thought when the boom gates went down no stock could come through here, except for the odd stockman looking for a place to keep his stockhorse while they go to the pub.’
‘Yeah, they do that all the time. Over that side of the yards, closer to the pub. We leave those gates open—closer to the stockmen’s shed, where they’ll have a quick tub under them water tanks.
’ Brodie pointed a grubby finger at the windmill and the row of water tanks on the far side, closest to the two-storey pub that clearly commanded attention over the town.
‘Don’t you camp up there?’ Porter pointed to the shed on the hill. ‘It’d have the best view from there to see who’s coming and going.’
‘It does. And at night, you can hear the music from the pub, too.’
Amara stepped closer. ‘Like the night my—’ She cleared her throat, squashing any emotions. ‘That horse, Lot 728, was brought in?’
The boy exhaled sharply, boots scuffing at the dirt. ‘Look, I swear, I know nothing… Lydia’s been real good to me, y’know?’
‘What’s this got to do with Lydia?’ Amara asked.
Brodie looked positively torn. He glanced up at Porter.
‘It’s Red, isn’t it?’ Porter answered.
Brodie’s brow crumpled between a frown and something else. ‘She trusts Red. And if I start throwing accusations, what’s that gonna do to her? When I owe Lydia everything.’
‘You’re not betraying Lydia, mate.’ Porter’s tone was gentle as he appealed to the lad. You’re helping her because the poor woman’s up in her office tearing through the paperwork, trying to find out if something dodgy is going on right under her nose.’
‘Her job is on the line too, her reputation,’ interjected Amara. ‘Don’t you think she deserves to know the truth?’
Brodie chewed the inside of his cheek, then let out a resigned breath. ‘Yeah… alright.’ He swiped the back of his hand over his dirty forehead, leaving a streak of greenish water behind. ‘It was Red. He met up with this fella and his big yank tank and put the horse in the yard.’
‘Can they do that?’
‘Most of ‘em stock agents have a key to the boom gate when making deliveries. And they’ll slide their paperwork into the overnight hatch for Lydia to process in the morning. But Red’s the only one who’s got a key to the office.’
‘Does he now…’ She glanced at Porter, who remained neutral. ‘What does Red do in there?’
‘I dunno? But you should hear Lydia get up him, because Red mucks up her systems when he does. Says it puts her days behind. When Lydia doesn’t need that, she works hard enough as it is, you know.’
‘I know, mate. I do.’ Again, Porter patted the kid’s skinny shoulder as a show of support. ‘I tell Montrose here not to muck up the tucker in the fridge at home. I’ve got a system and I don’t want her wrecking my meal plan.’ It was enough to make the kid ease up a little.
Amara struggled to stay calm, exchanging a glance with Porter as the excited rush coursed through her veins. Was Red the elusive Stock Agent the team had been chasing for almost nine months now?
But Porter wouldn’t know this, he was NT Police. And if she stepped in now, it might scare off Brodie, who was comfortable talking to Porter who was asking the right questions.
‘Have you ever heard of anything else being moved after hours?’ Porter asked, with his tone light. ‘Like is it common?’
‘All the time.’ Brodie pointed at Amara. ‘When you were here with Cowboy Craig, I told you that people bring in their livestock after hours.’
‘But what made that horse’s midnight special, so different?’ Amara stepped closer, the eagerness for answers making her fingertips tingle.
‘Because Lydia tells me when they’re coming and to keep an eye out for them. And I do.’
‘To do what?’
‘Lydia tells me what yard to put them in, and I’ll fill their water troughs and set out some feed ready for their stock to arrive. The stockmen and owners like that— less for them to worry about—and as Lydia says, makes for happier customers.’
‘And the others?’
‘They just rock up. And someone lets ‘em in.’
‘Who?’
Brodie bit on his lip. ‘Stock agents do.’
‘Did you recognise the car that brought in that horse?’
Again, Brodie shook his head, taking a step back from her. ‘All I know is it’s big, not a ute and not a truck, like somethin’ in between.’
Porter tapped out something on his phone, then flipped it around. ‘Was it something like this, mate?’
Amara peeked over to look at his phone’s screen with Brodie.
‘Yeah, like that. Only a red one. I think it was red. Or dark red, kinda maroon maybe, coz it was dark. Hey, what kind of ute is that?’
‘A Dodge Ram.’
Amara’s heart started pounding quicker. Craig had said they’d found tyre tracks near Porter’s place, and from the tread shape, wheel spacing, and the way the vehicle had taken the corner, he’d narrowed it down to the type they were looking for. The Ram.
‘Thanks, Brodie. You’ve been a big help.’ Porter pulled out his wallet and stashed some cash down Brodie’s top pocket. ‘You should buy yourself some new jeans or something.’
‘Why? The good clobber will only get ruined out ‘ere if I do. Not like I’m gonna go to the ball or anything,’ he said, wiping down his dirty shirt. ‘You?’
‘Nah, I’ll be on patrol. But if you ever see that Ram come in to town again, I want you to call me, okay?’
‘Or me. I mean, us. We live at the same house—’
‘I heard.’ Brodie’s eyebrows bobbed up and down with his cheesy grin. ‘Got the town’s tongues wagging, and Tess at the post office all grumbling.’
Hell’s bells. One thing Amara hated was being the talk of the town. Two, she would never lower herself to get into some petty catfight over a guy. Three… there was no three, or threesomes, and certainly no tricky three-way love triangles. ‘We’re just friends, Brodie.’
‘Really? So I’ve still got a shot, huh?’ The kid brushed down his grubby shirt while puffing out his skinny chest.
Amara was too stunned to know what to say.
Porter let out a low chuckle, as if sharing an inside joke with Brodie. ‘Mate, if you’re gonna have a go, at least clean the horse crap off your boots first. Montrose has standards.’
Brodie smirked. ‘So you’re saying I’ve got a chance?’
Porter patted his shoulder, dead serious. ‘I’ll help you shop for a tie, because I don’t have any to lend. I don’t even own a suit.’
‘I doubt he owns an iron,’ she said, flicking a finger at Porter’s uniform while rolling her eyes. But she couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at her lips. ‘You two should go to the ball together. It’d be a laugh-a-minute with you two on the dance floor.’
Brodie chuckled, as he wiped his hands again on his already-filthy shirt. Only for his smile to fall. ‘The Ironbark Ball… I heard someone say it’s where the deals are gonna happen.’
‘Like what?’ Porter asked.
‘Like some off-the-books catalogue inspection, I heard someone say. Don’t ask me who. Like I said, at night, round here, voices carry.’
Porter gave Amara a small nod, as if telling her to take point on this one. After all, this was her job.
She stepped in closer, her voice soft, her hand even softer on Brodie’s arm as she leaned down to get eye level with him. ‘Exactly what did they say about the ball? Word for word, Brodie. Can you remember?’
Brodie gave a nod. ‘One of ‘em said that the Ironbark Ball was gonna be a smugglers’ meet-and-greet.’
She looked to Porter. ‘We need to find Finn.’