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Petri bent to pick up the scattered maps but Karl nudged him with the knife. ‘Jist git in.’
Petri obeyed and, thankfully, the engine started easily. He pulled up at the broken gates.
Karl spat on to the floor of the ute. ‘Ya needn’t git out. I don’ need ya help with the gates. Sooners gorn the better.’ The dogger got out, slammed the door and watched as Petri started a three-point turn to leave.
Petri looked to where the woman was standing on the veranda. As soon as she saw him preparing to leave without re-entering the compound she waved and started running towards the vehicle.
Petri couldn’t hear what she was shouting but realised she was running as hard as she could to reach him before he drove off. He took his time in reversing.
Karl stood at the gates. ‘Piss off, ya bastard, an’ don’ come back,’ he shouted.
Petri deliberately stalled the vehicle to enable the woman to reach him. She thrust a brown paper bag through the window.
‘Here, some lunch for you. I’ve made some sandwiches,’ she panted.
‘Hope ya ain’t tried to be a clever puss, bitch.’ Karl grabbed the package
before Petri could take it and checked the wrappings. Seeing nothing suspicious, he smiled and crudely bundled the sandwiches back into the paper. He shoved the mucky package at Petri. Lifting his rifle, he said, ‘Okay, jist piss orf now. Youse done enough fuckin’ damage. If I sees ya ‘ere agin ya’ll be dead meat. Unnerstan’? Dead meat.’
Petri completed his turn and drove away. In his rear-view mirror he could see the dogger with one hand on his hip, the other casually holding the rifle. The woman was slowly walking back to the buildings.
He kept driving.
When he reached the tee-junction between the dogger’s track and the Cundeelee road he stopped to think of what he should do. He opened the sandwiches and, like Karl, looked very carefully at the wrapping for a possible message, one Karl might have missed. There was none. He took a bite and started to chew. The tinned meat was something he disliked and tried to avoid. However, he was hungry and needed to think.
He stopped chewing. This meat seemed worse than usual. He realised there was something in his mouth other than bread and meat. He spat it out. It landed in the sand. For a while he stared at the lump, wondering if it was a contaminated tin that had been used. Suddenly it dawned on him. He picked up the soggy mess and with great care spread it out.
It was a note.
In spite of his care the paper was so damaged that much of what was written was illegible. Petri smoothed out the remains carefully and managed to make out a few words:
Katheri … Thompson … duna ‘65. Husband … geo … prison here Help us.
Con … t police urg … You … hope.
‘Good God! Katherine Thompson,’ Petri said. The realisation suddenly hit him. Until that moment he had not realised that the dishevelled, deeply tanned blonde he had just seen must surely be his friend’s missing wife.
He found it difficult to relate the distraught woman at the old station to the pretty girl whose photograph Alec kept on his desk. But once the connection was made he was absolutely certain he was right. Same hair colour, same eye colour. It had to be her.
He knew now he had to do something quickly. If he drove back to Kalgoorlie to alert the police, several days would have passed by the time they confirmed his story, even with the evidence of the scribbled note. He had to do something more direct to try and rescue her. And the children. Two of them. Alec had mentioned only a daughter. The other child must be the dogger’s.
He waited at the intersection until late afternoon when the Royal Flying Doctor Service telegram service was about to start then turned on his radio.
‘Sierra November Bravo, this is Sierra November Bravo.’
‘Come in Sierra November Bravo, you are acknowledged and in the queue.’
His call was amongst the first. He impatiently tapped the steering wheel, not taking his eyes off the track, as he waited. After what seemed like an age, he got the call-back.
‘I want to send an urgent telegram then get you to contact the police. The telegram is to Dr Alec Thompson at the Royal School of Mines, Imperial College, University of London, South
Kensington, England. Urgent. Have located Katherine, repeat Katherine. Both well but held against will. Location WA CSIRO station NW Cundeelee. Have advised police in Kalgoorlie. Over.’
‘Is that Katherine with a C for Charlie? Over’
‘K for kilo. Over’.
‘Repeating back to you,’ The message was repeated back correctly before the final ‘over.’ As the sun dipped lower on the horizon the reception became less clear.
