Scorpio's Lot (94 page)

We decided to leave the parked
car and walk the short distance to the RSL, situated on Kelvin Street only a
block away. Arriving at the club the similarities were uncanny when compared to
the
Advertiser,
but with one noticeable difference. Whilst a large and
equally uninteresting building sat perched to one side, the land provided a
reasonable amount of exposed ground running beside the establishment. To the
rear of the building a car park was provided for members, in addition to some
bricked structure about the size of a squash court. It gave the distinct
impression of being used as a multi-purpose room for storage, tools and maybe
archives. The ground provided no irregularities and we conceded it was an
unlikely candidate, unless the interior offered a hint of some past giveaway.
Probably a further jackhammer prospect, I thought.

Given the close proximity of St
Patrick’s and the Regency Nightclub, we decided to pursue these further two
sites on foot. Following the short walk to the church grounds, the immediate
observation was rather daunting to say the least. It was Hamish who raised the
very point that plagued my mind.

Hamish groaned. ‘If this is to be
one of the sites, where on earth would you start looking for an entrance?’

‘Agreed,’ I replied, staring at
this vast area of worship.

Situated on Bridge Street, St
Patrick’s encompassed around one and half hectares of surrounding lawns and
gardens. In addition to its grand cathedral, a series of smaller buildings ran
parallel to the rear of the site, including a resident presbytery and community
hall. A tarred roadway carved its path down the left side of the church, where
a car park lay in wait for parishioners and clergy alike. In terms of a
possible tunnel entrance, I was beginning to think we might as well flip a coin
as to where our search would commence. Like Hamish, I groaned at the mere
thought of some excavation team going about their business of demolition and
unearthing possible access to the subterranean passageways. This would indeed
be a difficult site to address and one that time would hopefully dismiss.
Besides, I couldn’t see the church taking kindly to some hypothetical whim that
would result in this sort of disruption.

Continuing our walk a further
block down Bridge Street, we crossed the road and stood in front of the Regency
Nightclub. This establishment represented a somewhat cut-and-dried situation. A
solid sandstone two-storey building stood wedged between an insurance company
and a retail furniture store. The only visible entry was by way of a large
front door. Windows were blacked out to deny any visual intrusion and a sign
beside the entrance provided operating hours, including a telephone number for
general enquiries. The building covered the entire site where access would need
to be left for the police to inspect. We quickly decided to disregard the
Regency and press on to the next landmark.

With the remaining sites spread
further apart, Hamish suggested we return to the car and park near O’Riley’s
Inn, maintaining it would be more central to the last four destinations. I
couldn’t resist the opportunity.

‘And you call yourself a farmer,
Hamish. Your fitness should leave me for dead.’ I grinned at the Irishman’s
poor attempt to walk the distance.

‘Fair suck of the sav, Tom, I’ve
already walked twelve blocks.’

‘Four, to be precise,’ I quickly
corrected my friend.

As a result of Hamish’s
persistence we parked our car at the top end of Finch Street and then proceeded
toward our next port of call, the wholesale grocery outlet of Broadbent’s.
Situated in Covert Road, we stopped opposite to study the warehouse layout.

Again we were looking at a site
which appeared to be entirely covered by building, unless there happened to be
exposed land to the rear of the premises. A raised roller door provided a view
through to a sizable interior. I was rather surprised at the sheer depth of the
building. To the front a loading bay served to assist couriers or small trucks
with arrivals and deliveries. The remaining front section comprised of an
office which ran to the edge of the property. It appeared to be in every way a
typical warehouse layout. If Broadbent was to become a serious contender I
could envisage a jackhammer working overtime.

I was becoming frustrated with the
amount of landmarks that sat on a concrete base. The three-pointed star may
have provided the intended sites, but it didn’t pinpoint the precise spot at
the nominated address. By using Broadbent as an example, the authorities couldn’t
simply front up and start breaking up the entire floor. This would surely be
challenged by the tenants and most likely upheld in a court of law. No,
something was telling me we were going about this the wrong way. We ultimately
had to find the clue surrounding points one, two and three, concentrate on
these alone and eliminate the remaining six sites. Although an unlikely
candidate, I couldn’t dismiss the warehouse altogether. As with previous
landmarks, this also required police intervention if it were to be seriously
considered.

At this point in time I couldn’t
help but think the guesswork had far outweighed anything constructive. Becoming
pessimistic about the whole affair, I envisaged progress would be slow in
discovering this unlocked secret unless the police, through manipulative
authority, could uncover something by way of a thorough search. I kept
reminding myself we had to soldier on and not dwell on disappointments. To this
point our overall progress had been highly creditable and I wasn’t about to
throw in the towel. Looking at Hamish, whose expression summed up my current
feelings, I decided to at least brighten up our attitude and continue to give
this puzzle our best shot.

‘Three sites to go, Hamish, and
who knows what we might find,’ I encouraged.

‘Yeah, more concrete and
jackhammers,’ he responded, sounding disheartened.

‘Come on, a bit of optimistic
adventure, mate. We’ll head over to the market and see if we can uncover
something.’

‘Stop with the bullshit. An
Irishman never gives up,’ Hamish said with a broad grin.

In a surprise move he immediately
sped up his footwork. Hamish had come to life for his steps were now bordering
a canter. I was promptly left behind with his sudden lease of life.

‘Hang on! Are you on a mission or
something?’ I called out.

‘Yeah, I smell an entrance.’

‘You’re bloody hopeless, Hamish.’

The aptly named Market Street
stalls were closed on this particular day, which would allow Hamish and me to
explore the area without the public’s irritating presence. The Pedley Market
had historically occupied this site for more than fifty years. Open only on
Wednesdays and Sundays, the market offered a variety of produce and
horticultural lines, in addition to arts and crafts for those in search of a
tempting bargain. It stood on a hectare of vacant land, where lines of trestle
boards were erected on appropriate days. The ground was generally level and
offered no indication of some hidden passageway.

Perhaps the one and only
noticeable exception was a public convenience building situated on one side of
the marketplace. It was a drab grey brick structure erected beside a group of
silver birch trees. As I studied the toilet block, its size was reminiscent of
some of the structures at the caravan park. I tossed around some ideas in my
mind on the basis of a hypothetical situation. If this was indeed one of the
three landmarks, why wasn’t there evidence of some structural damage caused by
the unstable ground it sat on? No, this building was very sound and offered
little to get excited about. I dismissed this site as being the least likely of
all.

A little over a block away and
still on Market Street, the sight of O’Riley’s Inn came into view. The hotel
had a Tudor theme that looked both smart and inviting. Situated on the corner
of Finch Street, it offered all the amenities to lure a good cross-section of
the community. The main building was a two-storey structure where the entire
first floor accounted for accommodation and a central lounge providing
satellite and computer access. The ground level offered both a public and
sporting bar, in addition to a restaurant and gaming-cum-TAB facility. A large
beer garden was situated to the rear of the hotel and a drive-in bottle shop
was conveniently located on the corner. Locals and visitors alike generally concluded
that O’Rileys was Pedley’s premier facility.

I looked over the hotel wondering
if it was indeed a prime candidate. There were numerous areas to be considered
including the beer garden and rear grounds. To be expected, the property had an
abundance of concrete pavement but I didn’t allow this to detract from the
possibilities. The hotel would undoubtedly have a basement and I could foresee
the police conducting their comprehensive search of the total site. Although
only working on a hunch, I couldn’t help but think that O’Riley’s had strong
claims. After all, my intuition was generally correct.

The land covered a vast area full
of possible locations and the property stood unusually high when compared to
its neighbouring market site. It was as if a huge mound of earth had been
brought in to create its own individual hill. Considered prime real estate, it
boasted incredible views overlooking the township and nearby Sapphire Bay. I
could envisage the authorities in those early days erecting a stone house on
this elevated site to maximise the splendid scenery.

Yes, all the ingredients were
here. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced O’Riley’s was a
front runner in laying claim to one of the subterranean passageways. If I’d
been a betting man I would have placed my money on this site. I turned to my
Irish friend to see a reassuring nod of approval.

‘Um ... quite possible, don’t you
think, Hamish?’

‘Yep! I’d like to know what’s
under that bloody hill,’ he responded.

‘Okay, one site left my friend -
the vast area of the Botanical Gardens.’

We both groaned at the sheer
magnitude of the parkland. This would undoubtedly become the biggest challenge
of all. The pride of Pedley was set on approximately eight hectares of winding
gardens and foreshore. Gravel footpaths wound their course among an abundance
of gums and deciduous trees. Manicured gardens with a small array of winter
flowers provided a half reasonable backdrop to this tranquil setting. The
parkland in places was undulating, leveling out when nearing the foreshore.

The sound of breaking waves could
be heard as they repeatedly crashed against a distant rock pool. It was quite
understandable why so many people frequently visited the Botanical Gardens to
idle the hours away.

Hamish and I stood and looked
around at this vast area before us. From an underground passageway perspective,
it would be anybody’s guess as to where to start searching. Small mounds of
earth scattered throughout the park contributed to the undulating effect. I
guess it was feasible to assume that the ground could have been deliberately
formed this way to accommodate such an entry. Garden sheds, possibly four or
five, were strategically placed throughout the parkland. Some were erected in
stone from a nearby quarry, while others were slapped together in what appeared
to be treated pine. Maybe these small granite sheds were further possibilities
to consider. We then spotted a gardener going about his business, raking
together a large pile of oak leaves. I decided to seize the opportunity and
question this fellow about some of the parks structures.

‘Excuse me. Could we have a
moment of your time?’

‘Yeah, sure. What’s on ya mind?’
he replied.

‘My friend and I are doing some
research on these gardens and we have a couple of questions if you don’t mine.’

‘Fire away.’

‘With these mounds of earth you
see throughout the park, do you have any idea how they came about?’ I asked.

‘Remember it well. The council
commissioned Crompton and Betts with the job of unloading all the landfill.’

‘When did all this happen?’

‘Seven years ago. The Botanical
Gardens was given a grant to improve the place. The rest of the money went
towards trees and plants and some timber sheds. The white gazebo you see in the
middle of the park was given a facelift.’