Mike Dixon

avid drove the next day. Tim was in no fit state
D to take the wheel and lay on the back seat with a
wet towel over his face. He blamed David for not helping
him demolish the wine cask saying it was the last pint
that had done the damage. It was a weak joke and a poor
excuse. David was not impressed. He‟d spent a restless
night worrying about their pursuers and how to shake
them off.
They were towing a trailer with an inflatable boat and
scuba gear. Even idiots like Baseball Cap and Floppy Hat
would figure they were planning to go diving. All they had
to do was follow along behind and not crash into them –
as they‟d almost done at the rail crossing. The pair were
incompetent. Their clothes didn‟t fit and their surveillance
methods were rat shit. They couldn‟t even handle the ex-
pensive vehicle they were driving. It wouldn‟t be difficult
to give them the slip. All that was needed was a change of
routine.
The coastal road led to Cape Tribulation. It was a fa-
mous tourist destination and home to the Daintree Forest,
an area of pristine beauty that had been saved from log-
ging by the concerted effort of environmental activists. It
was now a declared World Heritage area. David was keen
to see it but they weren‟t going there. They were going to
Cooktown and they were taking an inland road. He
glanced in his rear mirror. The Landcruiser was following
at a distance of about five hundred yards. The turn-off to
Cooktown was a mile away and there was a forestry track
a further five miles from that, just beyond the town of
Mossman. He passed the turn-off, checked that the Land-
cruiser had a clear view of him – and accelerated away.
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