The Peppercorn Project Read Online Free PDF Page A

weren’t a local unless you had ancestors in the graveyard.
    Matt nodded politely at one of the men who caught him staring, and averted his gaze. Before anyone could draw him into a conversation, he pushed open the doors of the pub and stepped out onto the street without a backward glance.
    *
    Voices came from the old timber pew that had sat forever outside the front of the pub. Old blokes sitting in the dark, smoking, chatting and solving the world’s problems. Also no doubt watching the newcomers arrive in town, like Matt had done from his position at the station earlier. He could barely make out the features of the men sitting in the dark, but the orange glow of the tip of their cigarettes indicated there were three of them.
    ‘G’night, copper,’ one of them called out in a deep gravelly voice reminding Matt of the rumble of a Harley Davidson. That would be Tom Morrison – tough as nails and rough as an old leather boot. Tom ran a large sheep and wheat farm outside of town and was a regular at the pub every night.
    ‘G’night, fellas.’ Matt stepped off the kerb onto the street, not bothering to check for traffic – there never was any. He touched his fingers to his forehead and tipped his head towards the men in a mock salute. ‘Hope none of you are driving home tonight.’
    ‘Always the copper,’ Tom said with a throaty chuckle.
    Matt bit back a retort. These old codgers didn’t understand how impaired their driving became after a few beers.
    ‘Nah, mate, we’re not driving,’ another man replied, his own voice raspy from years of smoking. ‘Me missus’ll come and get all of us shortly. Just killin’ time, ya know. Keepin’ an eye on things.’
    ‘Yeah, I know,’ Matt replied. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who thought Joe and Rachel’s idea was crazy.
    ‘We’re missin’ one,’ Tom called out, stopping Matt in his tracks.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Only nineteen arrived. One hasn’t made it.’
    ‘How do you know?’ Matt asked.
    ‘Lived ’ere all me life. I know which cars belong to locals and which one’s don’t.’
    ‘Maybe one of them changed their minds,’ Matt said.
    ‘Hope they didn’t hit a ’roo on the way.’ Tom blew out a puff of smoke.
    Worry punched Matt in the gut. He swore under his breath. The last thing he needed now was to perform a late night search and rescue. Maybe they were just lost. A GPS on a smartphone was only useful if there was mobile phone coverage, and out here in the middle of nowhere it was patchy.
    ‘Maybe you should check it out, mate. Head back down the road a bit,’ Bob suggested.
    He should, but he’d been drinking too. ‘No. I’d say someone’s just changed their mind.’
    ‘Unless that’s them now,’ Tom said, as two pale yellow headlights appeared.
    Matt swivelled around. He checked his watch and frowned. Surely no one would be arriving this late? He hoped they had a booking somewhere. All available accommodation at the pub was taken, and even the rundown weatherboard shacks that Pat Wallace called ‘cabins’ at the caravan park were fully booked. Matt felt a flash of concern but then dismissed it. It wasn’t his problem.
    The headlights moved slowly, as though the driver was uncertain they were in the right place.
    ‘Yep, this is Stony Creek,’ Matt said to no one in particular, as he stepped back off the road.
    Stony Creek wasn’t a ‘blink-and-miss-it’ kind of country town. Drivers heading to Port Augusta always expressed their surprise at the town that popped up out of nowhere just when they thought they were about to drive into the side of the mountain. Of course, in the dark, the driver approaching them wouldn’t be able to see the looming giant that was Mount Remarkable.
    The car pulled up beside him and the first thing Matt noted were the registration plates: Victoria – On the Move . Somewhat ironic, he thought. The passenger window wound down and the tired eyes of a young boy stared out at him from the front