‘Or high-end embryos.Rare prime stock.’She clicked her pen.
‘I never looked or asked.’He gave an awkward shrug.‘But they paid me triple for that run straight to the export yards in Darwin.Didn’t think much of it at the time—just saw a bunch of boxes tucked under the tray that held them shiny canisters.They looked expensive.’
‘Cryogenic-grade canisters can burn you.It’s all about liquid nitrogen.And that’s instant frostbite.’
Tooley swallowed hard.‘Yeah, there was this smoky mist coming off ’em.Cold, not hot.Didn’t know they were there, you know.I only stopped because the back trailer started knocking like it’d dropped an axle.Pulled over on the side of the Spinifex Highway, and had a look, and found them loose, rattling around under the tray.’
Finn watched the bloke scratch at his neck, guilt sweating through the bravado.
‘I called Bob,’ Tooley went on.‘Told him something had come loose.He turned up not long after and helped me get the new boxes out of the ute and repack everything.Told me not to touch the bottles or I’d lose a few fingers.Said we’d get it sorted.And we did.I guess…’
Tooley hesitated as he frowned at the grains that made up the tabletop as if remembering that day.‘Then Bob handed me a bonus on the spot.Cash.Said to buy the missus some flowers and take her out somewhere fancy.I figured…’ He shrugged, looking up to face Taryn.‘It was hazard pay.And to not ask any questions, so I didn’t, and just drove as planned.’
‘What kind of boxes?’
Tooley rubbed his palms down his thighs.‘They were just boxes.Plain cardboard with brown tape.Didn’t pay much attention, except they were light enough to lift.’
‘Like a shoe box?’
‘Nah, more like the size of them boxes you get for nappies or load up your groceries in.’
‘Did they have any labels or addresses on them?’
‘Just something likeConference Pack—NT Tourismwith a bunch of flags on the side.Thought they were full of brochures or tourist junk.You know, the kind you chuck in a bin at a servo.’
Finn didn’t know what part had her hooked, as much as he was, waiting to see which thread she’d pull through to unravel.
‘Where do those boxes go?’she asked Tooley.
‘They used to stash them under the trailer, but the heat melted the glue on the tape.That’s when I heard Bob talking on the phone to someone about meeting the plane for future pickups.Don’t ask me where.’Tooley shook his head.‘I haven’t got a clue.And most cattle stations have airstrips, you know.’
Finn scowled.Out here, airstrips were like ballpoint pens—everywhere until you needed one.But finding the right one?That was like chasing a single grain of sand across a sunburnt outback.
‘So, do you know who’s behind it?’she asked.
‘No idea.’Tooley shrugged.‘Look, I’m just a truck driver.’
‘Surely you must have seen more.’Again, she flicked over a page, that pros and cons page, the one that promised his golden ticket to freedom—and yet she’d never promised anything.
‘Well, I mean, there’s Bob.And there’s this other guy, a stock agent.He’s got this long red beard, goes by the name of Red.Shows up, checks the brands, makes sure it’s the right mob.Always disappears fast after he signs something with Bob.’And Tooley flinched.
It was a small twitch in the jaw, followed by a quick shift in his seat—but it was there.
Finn’s pulse ticked harder.
Was Bob SW?The initials scrawled next to Red’s on half the dodgy paperwork, and waybills.Would Taryn realise this?
She was calm.Controlled.Playing the good cop like it was second nature.
Finn kept quiet, even if he was itching to tell her—Use the photos, Fed…
She’d spent all night in his troopy, having turned it into a makeshift photo studio.Making him toss a tarp over the top to block out all light, while she took happy snaps of every page of his Gaps File, to create a digital file, effectively getting to know every name and every face in this operation.
If ESP was real, this was it.Come on, Fed… ask him if it’s Red.
‘Last question, Tooley, and I need you to be honest with me, okay?’She even smiled at the guy, like they were old mates, as she scrolled through her phone.
Meanwhile, Finn had to fight the urge to reach across the table and shake the answer out of the guy—ifit was the question he hoped she was about to ask.
