Digger Field by Damian Davis

way Tearley can be so logical.
    ‘So what’s he taking down? It’s not like he could fit much stolen stuff in the bag either.’
    ‘There’s lots of small things that can be worth a lot of money, Digger. Jewellery. Guns. Drugs.’
    ‘Drugs?’ I said. ‘Do you really think he’s a drug dealer?’
    ‘Perhaps,’ said Tearley. ‘But I don’t know how a load of drugs would make a scratching noise on the trapdoor.’
    Just then Mum came out and said, ‘Hey, Cindy, you probably should go home. Your mum’ll be getting worried about you, and it’s time Dribbler went to bed.’
    Dribbler?
    When I got to my room, Dean was lounging on his bed, reading a surfing magazine.
    ‘Got a girlfriend, have you?’
    Dean is such a dumbnut. He’s got no idea how much pressure I’m under, trying to catch a criminal, buy a tinnie and break a world record. Why would I waste time with a girlfriend?

CHAPTER 23
DAY 21: Friday
    My skims: 25
    Wriggler’s skims: 0
    Tearley’s skims: 9
    25 skims! Bring on the record.
    Money made for tinnie or Tearley: $0 ($825 to go. As if.)
    Tearley and Wrigs came over to my place really early.
    I was still angry with Wrigs.
    ‘Why didn’t you warn us Mr Black was coming down to the house?’ I asked him.
    ‘I didn’t see him,’ said Wrigs.
    ‘You have one simple job and you stuff it up,’ Tearley said.
    ‘I was, kind of, indiposted.’
    ‘Indiposted?’ said Tearley. ‘Do you mean “indisposed”, idiot?’
    ‘Don’t call me an idiot,’ said Wrigs. ‘I wasn’t there. Well I was there … but I wasn’t looking.’
    ‘What were you doing then?’ I said.
    Wrigs’ face went bright red. ‘It’s just that I was busting, so I went into the bushes. He must have walked past me then.’
    ‘Wrigs, you’re an idiot,’ said Tearley. ‘Lookouts can’t leave their posts because they want to pee.’
    ‘I’m not an idiot,’ said Wrigs. He was glaring at Tearley. He looked like he was heading for a Wrig-out. If there is one thing Wrigs hates, it’s being called an idiot.
    I changed the subject. ‘We’ve got to show the photos of Mr Black to the police.’
    ‘But they don’t prove anything,’ said Tearley. ‘What do we say to the police? “Officer, we don’t know who this man is but we think he is up to something bad. And he’s got a hessian sack.”’
    ‘I’ll go to the police on my own then,’ I said.
    ‘I’ll come, too,’ said Wrigs. He was trying to make up for being such a bad lookout.
    ‘Well, okay then. So will I,’ said Tearley. ‘But I bet they don’t believe anything we say.’
    As we walked through town to the police station Tearley said, ‘Why do you reckon Mr Black came and talked to us yesterday? That was freaky.’
    Wrigs said, ‘I thought you said he seemed all right.’
    ‘Well, he did when he spoke to us,’ said Tearley. ‘But now I reckon he was trying to find something out from us.’
    ‘Maybe he wanted to know why we’re always hanging around down by the river,’ I said.
    ‘Or maybe he wanted to find out if we were suspicious of him,’ said Tearley.
    ‘Do you still think he’s a ghost?’ I asked Wrigs.
    ‘Well, I don’t know how he got past me.’
    ‘’Cause you’re an idiot,’ said Tearley.
    We arrived at the police station just before 9.00 am. We had to wait for an hour before a cop even turned up.
    Then he made us sit on a bench near the counter for another twenty minutes while he made himself coffee, checked his emails and had a long conversation on the phone with someone about how much it had cost to get his car serviced.
    Finally the policeman called us into his office. He said his name was Sergeant Tranh. He looked like the kind of policeman that they put on TV ads. He was tall and looked like he could run a hundred metres in under twelve seconds. You could imagine him jumping fences and chasing down bad guys. His uniform was perfect. When he sat down he pulled the bottom of his jacket down so that it wouldn’t crumple