Bay of Fires (21 page)

“Guests?”

“Stickybeaks more like it. Sticking their noses in where they are not wanted.” Jane glared, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun. She shook a gloved fist at the car and it accelerated away toward the shop and the boat ramp.

“Where’s Hall Flynn?” Sarah tried to sound casual.

“No idea.”

“I offered to take him fishing, that’s all. Later. Doesn’t matter. I’ll go without him.”

Jane was arranging the netting over the herbs and didn’t answer.

“I guess he’s out looking for murderers,” Sarah said.

“He won’t find one.”

“Why not?”

“It’s hard to find someone who doesn’t want to be found.”

“They’ve still got a lot of people to talk to.”

“Good luck to them.”

Jane’s guest had been killed. The murderer could have been inside the guesthouse. He could easily come back. The nearest neighbor was a kilometer away. Jane must have been over all this in her mind.

“Are you afraid?” Sarah asked, but she knew the answer before Jane spoke.

“Got the dogs.” Jane banged her gardening gloves on her thigh. A cloud of wood dust billowed out. “I better get back to work.”

T
here was a great story on Apple Isle TV news last night,” Elizabeth said as soon as Hall answered his phone. “Vigilantes frustrated with police have taken the law into their own hands following the unsolved murder of Swiss backpacker Anja Traugott. A local man has been victimized with a dead devil thrown at his house in the night. Furthermore, a piece of graffiti at the nearby wharf accuses the same man. Police plead for calm.”

The last bit Elizabeth said sarcastically.

“I’m assuming Apple Isle TV gave no attribution to me.” Hall had not seen the previous evening’s news bulletin.

“Why would they? That piece you filed barely covered the facts. I gave it a rewrite myself—the chief sub didn’t know what to do with it. But still, the TV news had a much stronger story than we did.”

Of course the chief sub wouldn’t touch it. He didn’t want to be sued for fabrication.

“I’m not comfortable with beating—” Hall said.

Elizabeth interrupted. “If you’re not filing, there’s no point you being there, is there? As much as I’d like to give you a company-sponsored beach holiday.”

After the phone call Hall slammed his car door hard. He used so much force that the side mirror cracked, which made him more irritable.

A good story took groundwork—talking to locals, waiting for people to return your calls. The vultures at the television and radio stations often let newspaper journalists do the grunt work for them. He felt worse because the devil story should not have appeared in the paper at all. Vigilante stories encouraged destructive behavior, copycats and the like. The problem was that Elizabeth had called him five times that day. It was a slow news day and she needed something.

Why was he even surprised? Hall had known when he typed it up it would get subedited into a sensationalized version of the facts. Unfortunately, that was what sold newspapers—and kept people tuning in to the six o’clock news.

From Pamela’s kitchen window, Hall watched the crowd gather in the park. Milling around the two policemen in the center, the radio girls clutched handbags and microphones as their heels sank into the grass. Near the road the Apple Isle TV crew waited beside their company car; the cameraman smoked and the producer wrote on his clipboard. Hall knew the presenter, an attractive woman who was peering into a side mirror and rubbing makeup on her jawline. Anyone who’d ever had a drink with her knew the only thing she cared about was to get a job with CNN. A car rolled down the hill and everyone looked up. It was a black four-wheel drive and it didn’t stop. The media pack resumed their conversations, and Hall’s toes curled in his leather boots.

Behind him at Pamela’s kitchen table sat Anja Traugott’s parents. They were a slight couple, their faces bleached of emotion. They drank coffee silently as Pamela and the police media officer, Ann Eggerton, discussed the problems of designating an official nudist beach.

“I’m not a prude, but it’s the caliber of person it attracts that bothers me,” Pamela was saying. “Flashers and perverts and the like.”

What a ridiculous topic to be discussing while two bereaved parents sat by, waiting to beg the public for information on their daughter. Hall took a hard bite out of his bacon and egg roll. The paper had sent down a photographer, and he was using his zoom lens to shoot the locals who were lingering at the edge of the park. Some shifted in the hot sand on the beach while others hung back behind the swings and slide, all curious to see the parents of the murdered woman. As Hall watched, the Apple Isle TV presenter marched over to her cameraman. Whatever she said made him slide his phone into a pouch on his belt and heave his camera onto his shoulder. If she’d known about the exclusive shots the
Voice
’s photographer had just taken inside Pamela’s kitchen, she would have been furious. The thought made Hall grin.

The photographer had taken some great shots of the grieving parents, candid pictures that told a thousand words. The only photograph Hall still needed was a decent one of Anja. Her parents had supplied a photo which the police had distributed. It lacked personality. Anja had worked in a bank, and the photograph looked like it had been taken for professional purposes.

A chair squeaked against the cork floorboards as Ann Eggerton stood up.

It was time.

Hall held open the colored plastic strips while the Traugotts trundled out. Mrs. Traugott’s eyes were bloodshot, her face taut. She had cried the entire time Hall had interviewed her. Now she held a white handkerchief to her chest with both hands; it would have made a good shot. Mr. Traugott retucked his black shirt into his black slacks. He nodded at Hall. Earlier, tears had streamed down his face as he tried to verbalize, in someone else’s language, how it felt to lose his daughter.

“What went through your mind when the Swiss consulate told you it was likely that the woman found on the beach was your daughter?” Hall had asked. It was one of his least favorite questions; the answer was so obvious it often angered interviewees. Hall filled three pages with notes and decided it was enough; this story would write itself.

“I better go and see what’s happening out there.” Pamela flipped her
Closed
sign around and sighed as though she had no choice.

As Hall followed the group across the grass, he noticed John Avery standing among the onlookers, one hand on the shoulder of each of his daughters. Hall couldn’t see Sarah’s face, but as he passed, John pulled Sarah and Erica closer together and spoke into their ears. Flip stood off to the side, her hands shoved inside the pockets of her shorts, an uncharacteristically boyish stance. Simone and Sam were there too. They were standing closer to each other than a mother and teenage son usually would, their bare arms touching. Disconcerted, Hall looked twice at them. There was still space between them, and perhaps they were simply scared, but their stance gave the impression of two people very much physically aware of each other. It was a fleeting impression and then it was gone, and Sam was slouched beside his mother, looking bored while she glanced around for someone to talk to.

The press conference began. Ann Eggerton introduced the mayor, the senior inspector, the Swiss consular officer, and the Traugotts and handed out a press release, which Hall put in his pocket without reading. The senior inspector explained that toxicology reports showed there were no drugs or alcohol in Anja Traugott’s body at the time of her death. The cause of death was drowning; the examination of her body was continuing, however. He explained that it was difficult to clarify what injuries had occurred before or after she drowned. The senior inspector was tactful in the presence of the Traugotts; the real aim of the press conference was to encourage members of the public to come forth with new information.

Hall stood a few paces behind the jostling reporters as Mr. Traugott answered their questions in broken English. Mrs. Traugott said nothing; Hall was not sure how much she understood. Twelve minutes later the media officer thanked everyone for coming and the pack surged around the Traugotts. Two uniformed police officers steered Mr. Traugott away as strangers tried to press cards into his hand. His wife was already gone.

“We’re finished for today.” Ann Eggerton often became flustered at large press conferences. She held her hand up, indicating the press needed to back off. “You all have what you need.”

The Apple Isle TV producer nodded as Hall left the park; Hall kept his sunglasses pointing straight ahead.

His Holden took four attempts to start. Glancing up, Hall saw Simone Shelley talking to the Apple Isle TV producer. A wide straw hat hid her face. He eased the gear stick, glancing once more at them in the rearview mirror as he drove away.

Hall spotted the flowers as soon as he got out of his car. Roses, tied to a heavy piece of driftwood. They looked fresh. Bingo. Taped to the plastic wrapping was a large photo of Anja. It looked like it had been taken on a summer camping trip: she was tanned and happy; there were trees and a river in the background. He couldn’t have hoped for a prettier photo. So much better than the passport mug shot the
Voice
and every other media outlet had been running.

Carefully Hall peeled the photo away from the flowers and slipped it into his pocket. In his room at the guesthouse he scanned and e-mailed it to the office. Afterward he held the photo for a minute, thinking, before putting it safely away in his laptop bag. Other reporters could track down their own photo. Wind could easily be blamed for its loss.

Sitting at his desk in the guesthouse, Hall read over his list of the people who attended the press conference. Beside each name he noted who that person suspected of the two presumed crimes.

Each person he had interviewed in the past week had happily made an off-the-record suggestion. Often these revealed more about the accuser than the possible killer. Most of the wealthy folk in the shacks thought it was one of the blokes who camped and fished at the lagoon. Hall had interviewed many of them, although it was difficult to speak to them all. Several times he had found the camps empty, everyone fishing or swimming or boating. For their part the fishermen thought it was either Roger Coker or Don Gunn. Pamela had changed her mind; currently she suspected Gary Taylor, although from what Hall understood, she had not seen him for more than a decade.

Simone Shelley had laughed that throaty laugh when Hall pressed her for her thoughts on a suspect. He had sat beside her for a short time on the beach, where she was relaxing, holding a book, watching her son surf.

“That’s not the way to make small talk with a woman, Hall,” she said. “You could ask me what I am reading; that would be nicer.”

He glanced at her book.
Señor Barton’s House.
It was not a title he recognized.

“It’s about a utopian Australian settlement that was formed in Paraguay in the 1890s,” she said. “The New Australia, they called it.”

Hall was intrigued, but he refused to be diverted. Simone had a way of derailing a conversation, quite charmingly, so it would not go where it needed to go.

“Simone, you’re levelheaded,” Hall said. “What happened to those women?”

She sighed and stretched her legs on her towel, pointing her painted toenails into the sand. She had lovely legs. “I think humans underestimate Mother Nature, Hall.”

Only one person suspected John Avery.

“Have you interviewed Dr. Avery?” Sam Shelley had said when he gave Hall the bikini top.

Hall had said yes. He thought he had. But later, as he filed his breaking story on the dead woman’s bikini washing to shore, he realized that although he had spoken to John Avery many times, he had not actually interviewed him or quoted him in any article. It rankled Hall that Sam had noticed this and he had not. He stared out the window until his screensaver flashed.

John Avery had taken the gas bottle into St. Helens to be filled, Sarah explained as Hall followed her around the side of the shack. A glass of red wine was beside her tackle box on the wooden table. She picked it up and sat down, gesturing for him to do the same.

“Went diving earlier. Did a bit of redistribution. Relocation project, you could say.”

“You did what?” Sitting across from her, he could smell the wine on her breath.

“Along the back wall of the gulch, north of where I took you fishing, best real estate.” She didn’t check to see if he was following her erratic conversation. He grinned as he realized she was drunk; it was the middle of the afternoon. “Most successful crays live in those sea caves. Deep and quiet, good views. Fat cats of the sea. You didn’t see any buoys near there, did you? No one puts their pots there. Too stupid. They get enough, though. Not tomorrow. Nothing tomorrow. Should have left them one, just to let them get excited. Oh, well.” Sarah laughed, and when the effort made wine splash out of her glass, she flicked it off her hand and laughed some more. “Oh, well. Maybe I’ll be kinder next time.”

“You took everyone’s crayfish out of their pots?” Hall said.

“Yep. Released them.”

There was a big straw hat under the table, a sombrero, and she put it on. She wasn’t as tough when she was drinking; the dimple was ever present and her skin flushed in a girlish way that made her freckles seem brighter. She tightened the hat string under her chin, jumped up, and handed him her half-full wineglass.

“You have mine,” she said.

An empty mug lay on the grass and she poured a dash into it, swished it out, and then poured herself a generous measure. The bottle label stated it was a Peter Lehmann Stonewell Shiraz from 1992. He wondered if John knew she was drinking it.

“Pamela was telling me about those middens,” he lied, feeling only slightly guilty.

“She knows jack.” Sarah took the bait. “I’ll tell you.”

Hall nodded encouragingly and sat back to enjoy the glass of wine.

The rock wall was exactly where Sarah had said it would be. It was positioned between a new barbed wire fence that marked the perimeter of Franklin’s Apple Farm and an unprotected beach. The rocks were football-sized stones that would have been gathered from the paddocks behind. There were days of work in that rock wall. The farmer would have parked his tractor in the middle of each paddock and loaded the trailer with as many rocks as the suspension could handle. Driven the tractor over to the edge of the property and unloaded. Days of backbreaking, repetitive work.

Too much effort just to build a wall in the middle of nowhere.

Hall recalled what he knew about the farm. He was fairly sure it was owned not by one farmer but by a superannuation consortium. It was old, the original apple orchard established on the site in the 1880s. The main entrance was on the other side of the property, on Anson’s Bay Road, where the original homestead and packing shed still existed. Here on the fringe Hall estimated fifty head of cattle were run, probably just to keep the grass down. Neat bushy lines of the orchard were visible on the distant hills.