‘Wish I could help. But unless you’re interested in booking a charter flight, I’d better get back to work.’
‘About that. Could you confirm that one of Yindi Creek Chopper Charter’s helicopters has been impounded by police for forensic examination?’
‘I can confirm that I’ve got to get back to work and that it’s business as usual here at Yindi Creek Chopper Charters. Have a nice day.’
Hux dropped the phone onto its cradle with unnecessary force. ‘Phaeds,’ he said.
‘Yes, hon?’
‘We are in deep shit.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Some journalist from one of the TV channels. He knows about the R22.’
‘Well, if he knows, everybody knows.’
‘For sure.’
‘This could tank the business, Hux. I mean, bookings are always lean over summer, but we do not need any bad press. Look, I know me and Charlie take care of the finance side of things—you don’t even take a wage, for Pete’s sake—so I don’t normally bother you with this stuff, but we maxed out the overdraft redecorating this place. Until more charter work comes in, anything else we spend will be going on Charlie’s credit card.’
‘What work have we got booked?’
‘You’re delivering a tax agent out to a station southeast of Boulia on Friday afternoon, staying over, then bringing her back Saturday morning. Smithie—you remember him, right? Red hair? Missing a chunk out of his head from skin cancer?—paid up front and I don’t think he’d give a shit even if Charliehadgone berko and lost six dozen tourists and sold drugs all over the western plains. But that money’s been spent already. Monday you’re flying power lines in the early morning and that’ll bring some cash because Elcom won’t pay until the services are delivered, but then it’s nothing until a Thursday muster job looking for some cattle that’ve taken off through a broken fence line.’
‘So nothing this arvo?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Good. It’s time to gather the Numbers. Break the news to Mum and Dad.’ And hopefully Number Three was currently lead-footing it up the Capricorn Highway with or without her twins strapped in the back seat, as he hadn’t heard that she needed him to collect her by air. Which left Fiona, aka Number Five. He pulled out his phone and sent her a message:Gunn Station. Today. Family meeting. Ask Laura what time she’s arriving and try to get there the same time.
He hit send, then reconsidered. Fiona was kinda stroppy.
Please.
Then he had a thought. ‘The journo, Nigel he said his name was, said he was already in town. If you were a stranger rocking up to town for the first time, where would you go?’
‘Easy. The pub. It’s cheap accommodation, and there’s pies and beer and gossip.’
‘Yeah,’ Hux said. ‘I might go there first.’
‘What’s got you looking wild-eyed?’ said Maggie as she handed him one of her Guinness pies. ‘They’re hot, so don’t burn yourself.’
‘I’m worried, Maggie.’
‘Yes. I heard things had taken a turn for the worse out at the airfield.’
‘There’s more. I just got a call from a journalist. Like a real one, not some kid doing an assignment about Dad’s day volunteering for the SES.’
‘You see that guy in the dining room working on a laptop?’
Hux craned back on his stool so he could see through the stained glass doors leading away from the bar. A middle-aged man with short-cropped curly hair sat at a table for two against the back wall, coffee mug and laptop squared off beside a wad of bulldog-clipped paper. He was typing at a breakneck speed that Hux, no slouch on the keyboard himself, had to admire.
‘That’s him. Introduced himself when he arrived, asked me six dozen questions and ordered the club sandwich. I’ve put him in your girlfriend’s room.’
Hux looked back to Maggie. There was so much wrong with that statement he didn’t know where to start. ‘You did what?’
Maggie smirked. ‘Don’t worry. She’s not in there with him. She checked out.’