“Pushed, as in literally? Or metaphorically, Sarge?” the pedantic DC inquires.
That flicks the switch on Gudgeon’s hazard lights. Fresh beads of perspiration puddle in the sags of his jowls. His hands are trembling as he snaffles a paper clip and pulls it apart.
Real slow.
Just in time, the green light on the drip-brewer starts flashing to a peculiar Reggae beat.
“Caffeine hit?” I suggest. The sarge looks like he’d benefit.
“Au lait, barista!” Darwin shouts, before the boss can get in a word.
I never find out if he’s road-testing his Romance languages or craving some milk. Because that’s when we get word the Minister’s on the hooter, demanding an update.
“You drive, Spanner,” the boss huffs a few moments later as we home in on an unmarked Ford in the car pool. “Charlie, find me some facts on Billing Estate Wines?”
Darwin’s cranked up his laptop on the back seat before Gudgeon finds the latch for his seat belt.
“Family business, hit financial strife when wine sales dropped, revived after a bold move to value-add cheaper lines,” affirms the stream of consciousness from the rear.
“Tell us something we don’t know, Charlie,” I shoot into the mirror.
Then I notice Gudgeon’s hairy eyeball, and fix my gaze back on the road. We’re cruising north on an arterial, heading for the vineyards in a river valley beyond the industrial zone.
Factory units and truck dealerships flit past like we’re in a newsreel. Leeuwin Billing’s life story’s the soundtrack. Only child. Degree in oenology. Spent a vintage working at a chateau in Champagne, France.
“Shares a passion for horses with wife, Amity. Equine vet. Highly regarded in the racing game,” Darwin furnishes as we hit the scrag end of the industrials. Used cars. A railway-shunting depot. A junkyard that’s trying to be upmarket by calling itself a recycling facility. “Runs her practice from the estate and is contracted to some of the wealthier studs. In last month’s issue of The Gallops she’s quoted as saying her dream is to set up her own Thoroughbred stud, with her husband.”
“Twee stuff, Charlie.”
But I stop wielding the bow to an imaginary fiddle and slam my hands back on the wheel when Gudgeon shoots me a meaningful. The Ford’s dash reveals the ambient temperature’s just topped the century. I flick the air-con to high.
“There’s a granddaughter, Sophie, seventeen. Studying food science at one of the techs.”
On cue the chief extracts a brown paper bag from his jacket, a donut from the bag, and shoves the scrunched bag in his side pocket. “Before anyone speaks, let it be known I skipped breakfast,” he mumbles, glumly chewing.
All’s silent apart from the sound of chomping and Darwin’s fingers scuttling across laptop keys. We’re off the arterial road now and onto a vein. Security mesh and razor wire’s given way to weed-infested hobby farms and tin sheds housing broiler chickens.
Then Darwin’s clearing his throat.
“Seems Billing Estate’s been plagued recently by attacks from... vandals.”
“Significant, surely?” Enthusiasm overrides the usual scepticism where my rival’s concerned. “You talking crop sabotage? Industrial espionage? Or just local youth on the prowl, up for some smash and grab?”
“I’m talking... parrots,” he says.
Gudgeon’s bulk stiffens in the death seat as Charlie pushes on.
“Rainbow lorikeets are decimating this season’s grape crop, on the estate and on properties contracted to supply fruit for vintage.”
Silence reigns for several blessed seconds, save for the staccato click of scrolling. “Shooters have been brought in, bounties offered...”
“But given that Ginnie didn’t have a bullet through her bonnet, they’re in the clear.”
“Sarcasm will get you nowhere, Spanner,” the boss bristles. “Get on with it, Charlie.”
“Big flocks of white corellas are the main culprits. They’ve quite literally been tearing chunks out of the heritage-listed family homestead, destroying roof shingles, chewing through reticulation pipes in the vineyard, nibbling electrical conduit...”
“A thrilling pastime, albeit brief,” I risk.
“Mrs. D-B recently made a generous public donation to an environmental group. But it was seen by critics as a token to appease the green lobby, who’d threatened violence if she went ahead with plans to cull birds.” Darwin ups his delivery from grave to manic. “Since then, corellas have nuked an avenue of Jacaranda mimosifolia and stripped bare a grove of Araucaria, not to mention several heritage Moraceae species still in production.”
The botanist inside that bland exterior is revving full throttle. He’s pushing the laptop on to Gudgeon so the chief can weigh up the foliage damage displayed on the Net.
But the boss’s patience with junior officers has reached the end of its rope.
“The only dead bird we’re interested in, turned up her toes after apparently pitching down her cellar,” he says rigidly. “Are we nearly there yet?”
“Not much farther, Sarge,” I’m elated to report as the Ford crests the last rise. About a hundred square kilometers of fertile river valley opens out on the coastal plain below us, red soil and green vines shimmering under a merciless sun.
From our high vantage point, the rectangular blocks of vines in parallel rows seem vaguely familiar.
Suddenly, it hits me. “Same pattern as the tubes making up a convective cooling system,” I enthuse to the boys. “Just like the new Rover’s radiator, look.”
But Darwin’s peering intently at images on his laptop. The chief’s snapping open his mobile. He starts punching in a courtesy call to Billing Estate, warning of our imminent arrival.
“The granddaughter’s agreed to greet us,” he announces as we turn off the main drag. “Head for the marquee in the picnic grounds.”
I steer the Ford past an architect-designed entry statement and onto a private limestone road. A cluster of white parrots lifts and screams obscenities as we negotiate the ruts. Temporary signage marking the route to yesterday’s harvest brunch is still in place. Trellised vines flank our trail of dust. Each end strut is numbered and planted with a white rosebush.
One glimpse prompts the geek to start airing his Latin.
“Rosa Iceberg, no doubt planted to show the presence of Erysiphe necator and Plasmopara viticola, two of the worst diseases plaguing Vitis vinifera.”
Condescension kicks in when he locks onto my steely gaze in the mirror.
“Mildews that attack grape vines, for the uninitiated. The rose is an indicator. Rather like a canary down a mine.”
“And there was me thinking it was because roses are pretty,” the DS sighs.
By now we’re pulling up at the picnic grounds. Turf cut within an inch of its life. Dappled shade, thanks to huge trees with spread-eagled branches which shut out the sky. The white marquee, roomy enough for Royal nuptials, stands out like a proverbial in a desert. Four sets of portaloos huddle discreetly behind a wall of shrubbery. Workmen in navy overalls move languidly, collecting plastic chairs and trestle tables. They’re being loaded onto the tray of a late-model Mitsubishi truck with a party-hire company logo splashed in primary colours on the door.
“Must’ve been some bunfight,” Gudgeon grunts as we emerge into the glare. Feels like we’re inside a wall oven.
“Wonder the food wasn’t off before the party had started,” is Darwin’s down-beat contribution.
I’d tell him as much, but Sophie Billing has her head down and is striding across the turf towards us. She’s slim, tanned, medium height, wearing denim jeans and a college T-shirt. Her pale apricot hair is long, dead straight, and spiky. It’s pulled back into a high ponytail. Reminds me of a fibre-optic lamp.