Bay of Fires (29 page)

Hall walked to the end of the jetty and stood by himself. Roger Coker was crossing the dusty wharf. A hush replaced the chatter as he walked onto the jetty. Pamela and Don moved to avoid having to greet the man. Bunghole and his friends were talking about Roger in barely lowered voices.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” someone muttered.

Roger didn’t hear. He grinned and asked what was happening. There was a moment when it seemed no one was going to answer. Bunghole finally called out an answer.

“Bones, mate. What do you reckon about that?”

Roger kept smiling, his blue eyes scanning the crowd. He had his hands so deep in his pockets it gave his thin shoulders an awkward sloping posture. It looked like Roger was clenching and unclenching his fingers; the fabric of his trousers slid up and down his legs. Hall expected Sarah to assist Roger, to stand beside him at the least, but she was focused on the beach with her back to everyone. Hall stepped into the space between Roger and the crowd.

“Roger. How are you?” Hall asked.

“Very well, thank you. Very well indeed. I’m good, thanks. And how are you yourself?”

To halt Roger’s nervous small talk, Hall explained about how he found the bones with Sarah. He outlined the story he had written for tomorrow’s paper. With luck, Hall said, the police would be able to DNA and carbon test the bones and find some further information on the crimes.

Sam interjected, “They’ll be seal bones. Or whale.”

“Do you know how big whale bones are?” Pamela said. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

“Stop it.” Simone’s high pitch surprised everyone. “His father was an oceanographer. Sam would know better than anyone what the bones are.”

Pamela rearranged her sunglasses on top of her head and made a face at Flip.

“Whatever.” Sam shook his long hair over his eyes. “I’m going for a surf.”

“No!” Simone called as Sam pushed past the crowd on the wharf. “I don’t want to be alone right now. No one should be.”

Simone followed Sam, and they finished their conversation near where Hall was standing.

“I feel so stressed and my heart is beating so fast it’s like I’m about to have a heart attack,” Simone told her son.

“Okay, Mom.”

Hall felt sorry for the kid. Meanwhile, Bunghole moved closer to Roger. He was backed by a dozen men and women, some holding children. Bunghole had his hands on his hips, which were thrust forward, and his chin out, the typical stance of a short man who wished he was taller. Hall contemplated saying something to calm people down; but then again, if they didn’t let their tension out now, it would reemerge later, perhaps when he wasn’t there.

“Coker. You could go over and sign your confession now,” Bunghole said. “Save yourself a trip into town.”

“Maybe you should,” Sarah told Bunghole without turning around.

“Why should I?” Bunghole shot back.

“Just leave Roger alone. Let the police sort this out.” Flip’s voice shook.

Bunghole’s brother-in-law piped up, “Nothing criminal about our lot. None of us have a son in jail for holding up Chicken Feed.”

The campers laughed. Pamela and Don squirmed. Sarah had mentioned their son was in jail for a gambling-related problem; she hadn’t said he had tried to rob a two-dollar shop. Hall pretended to cough.

“Donald. Don’t just stand there,” Pamela said.

“What do you want me to do?” Don said.

“Nothing! Why would I want you to do something? You never do bloody anything.” Pamela turned to Bunghole and his wife. She spoke without her usual careful enunciation; she sounded like Jane. “Everyone here, at some point, thought it was you,” Pamela said, pointing at Bunghole, then her finger scanned across John, Flip, Erica, Sarah, Simone, and Don. “They said you killed that girl.”

“Don’t blame us. You thought it too.” Flip turned on Pamela.

“No. No, I never did. I’ve always said it was Roger Coker or Gary Taylor.”

“Only Gary since he turned up three days ago,” Flip said. “Before that you said Bung—Keith.”

“Gary Taylor didn’t do it. I knew the man. Speed wouldn’t.” Bunghole had to look up to yell at Pamela. “Probably was your husband; I’d do something like that if I was married to you. Blaming a man who’s not even here to defend himself!”

Darlene ushered two of her children to the back of the crowd.

“Well, where’s Gary Taylor been these last fifteen years? A man doesn’t disappear for no reason,” Pamela shouted back. “Don’t you shout at me, Keith.”

John had stepped away, slightly distancing himself from the discussion but watching with an odd smile. Simone clapped her hands. She was standing between the two groups and kept clapping, slowly and dramatically, for longer than was necessary to get everyone’s attention. This was more entertaining than a logging protest.

“All right, Simone,” Flip said.

Simone clasped her hands. “What are you doing? What are you thinking? Blaming each other. It’s counterproductive. I remember the days when we were all friends, sharing the catch of the day on the beach, popping into each other’s homes or the lagoon campsite. What has happened to you people? Shame. Shame.”

Flip groaned. “That never happened. You live in a dream.”

“Maybe I do. But it’s better than being part of this.” Simone gestured broadly at everyone.

The police crew on the beach were forgotten as the people on the jetty glared at one another. Overhead, a lone seagull flapped hard in the windless sky.

“Call it a night, I think,” Hall said to no one in particular.

Bunghole and his group left the jetty. They climbed into their various cars and flatbed utilities and drove away. Simone dragged her son by the hand toward her Mercedes. She opened the passenger door and sat inside before handing him the keys.

“I don’t think he did do it,” Roger said. “Gary wasn’t here either.”

“We’ll probably never know, Roger,” John said.

They watched the police, who were preparing to leave.

“I’m not standing here any longer.” Sarah pushed past everyone. “I can’t bear it. You all just stand here gawking and you don’t even know what is going on. I’m going over there to find out.”

“Hey, hey,” Erica said. “Make way for Miss Marple.”

Eager for relief, Pamela, Don, Flip, and John laughed. Sarah stopped, her face bright red. Erica’s fluty flight attendant voice carried across the gathering.

“Yep, forget forensic teams and the
Voice
’s special investigation; we have our own sleuth. She found the body, she visits the crime scene every day looking for clues, she patrols the bush tracks and has itemized the tip! People, if you could stop throwing rubbish in there each day, that would help Sarah the Sleuth because she has to keep going back to update her refuse inventory!”

Everyone was laughing now. Even Roger, although Hall suspected he didn’t know what he was laughing at. Sarah hovered, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She looked like she was about to swear at Erica. Her fists bunched up. Just as Hall was about to intervene, she walked away so fast she was almost running, crossing the empty wharf turning circle, away from the beach.

She would feel more embarrassed if Hall chased her. Feeling sorry for her, he wandered along the jetty. The water lapped the soaked remains of the Tasmanian oaks holding up the jetty floor. He crouched and rubbed his hand against one of the time-smoothed stumps. Over his shoulder, the remaining people faded in the twilight. Framed by the old fishing shacks and boatsheds with their peeling painted timber and stacks of broken cray pots, the scene looked ominous. If this were a movie, he imagined, the murderer would be watching through a slit in one of those sheds, biding his time as he chose his next victim. Pamela would make a nice twist, he thought, and then censored himself. There was no need to be nasty.

Hall left the wharf and drove back up the hill to the guesthouse. Between the scrub and the side of the guesthouse, well hidden from view of the road, a bronze utility was parked. It had a trailer attached to the back which was full of firewood. Hall stalled. Everyone said Gary Taylor drove a bronze ute. Hall could not see anyone in the garden, but he assumed Gary was in the alcove under the Nissen hut where Jane stored her firewood. Quite clearly this man was stealing his estranged wife’s chopped firewood.

Hall had noticed Jane chopping logs for several hours each day. It wasn’t easy work—especially for a fifty-something-year-old woman. Hall considered his options. He could confront Gary. Or he could look in the guesthouse and see if he could find Jane. That would be more sensible.

Hall stepped into the main living room and waited for his eyes to adjust to the different light. A man jumped off the couch, knocking a newspaper to the floor. He did not pick it up. Hall had never met Gary, but he recognized him right away. Confident and guarded, Gary moved like a man who knew how to rely on himself.

Gary sized Hall up then walked to the sink. The soles of his boots flapped as he crossed the linoleum floor. He filled a glass with water and drank the lot in one long gulp. Jane was right; Gary had lived hard. The back of his neck was sun-worn and his matted hair looked like it would break a comb.

“If you’re looking for Jane,” Hall said, “she’s probably downstairs in her apartment.”

Gary leaned over the sink, slapping handfuls of water over his face with both hands. As he rubbed his face dry with a tea towel, Hall noticed tattoos wrapped around both of his biceps. His hands were huge. One set of salami-thick fingers were marked with letters, tattooed into his skin by an amateur artist. The technique reminded Hall of that used by people who inked themselves in jail. Hall wished Jane would come upstairs.

“Can I help you with anything?” Hall said.

The large man shook his head. He filled the kettle with water and lit the gas stove. Why did he need to boil water? Hall looked out the window to see if Jane was pegging washing on the Hills Hoist. There was no sign of anyone; even the dogs were quiet.

“I’m Hall Flynn, from the
Tasmanian Voice.
”

Gary cleared his throat. “So who is the murderer?”

Hall stared. “I don’t know.”

That wasn’t true, not entirely. He did have a theory about what had happened to the Swiss woman. It wouldn’t hurt to tell Gary. Hall started to explain, but he couldn’t remember the Swiss woman’s name.

“Accidental death,” Hall said.

Gary looked hostile, unsmiling. “There are no accidents.”

Hall needed to let Jane know that Gary was here. If anything happened, at least Hall would know that he had given her warning. He moved toward the internal staircase as Gary opened a tin labeled leaf tea and peered inside.

“Teabags.” He sounded disgusted.

“There’s no leaf tea,” Hall said.

Gary thought this was very funny. His laugh was loud and tobacco-rusty. He took two cups out of the cupboard. “She never buys leaf tea. Want a cuppa?”

Hall nodded, but he did not relax until they were seated at the table, drinking cups of tea. Silence, Hall knew, was a good way to get your companion to speak. It seemed Gary knew the tactic. Eventually, it was Hall who spoke first. He asked Gary what he planned to do with all that firewood. Hall didn’t accuse Gary of stealing, not outright, but hopefully his disapproval was implied in his tone. It was the least he could do for Jane.

“Leave it where it lands,” Gary said. “The old girl can stack it where she wants.”

Hall leaned back in his chair, slightly embarrassed. Gary wasn’t stealing the wood, he was delivering it. And Hall was as susceptible to gossip as any of those well-meaning shack owners.

As Gary drained his cup, Hall could see the letters on his fingers. One single blurry letter occupied each space between the knuckle and finger joint, together spelling
JANE.

F
rom the beach, Sarah saw Roger pottering in his yard. He was tying bailing twine around the gate that led to his beach track. Judging from how much of the strong orange string he was using, he didn’t plan to use the gate for a while.

Roger nodded gravely when Sarah told him she had placed the call to the ranger concerning the abalone shells.

“Maybe they’ll leave you alone now they have this to worry about.”

“They won’t leave me alone. I can’t stop them and they know that.”

Roger stopped winding the twine.

“When I was at school I use to catch the country bus that runs down from Anson’s Bay. Doesn’t run anymore. The other kids called me names, horrible names. That was when Grandma was in jail. They threw my shoes out the window and made me sit on the floor. You don’t want to know what Mum was like when I came home without my shoes. Other things those kids did I wouldn’t tell a nice lady like you.”

“Oh, man.”

“People say children are cruel. It’s not children. It’s people,” Roger said. “It’s people who teach children to be cruel.”

It was the most words he had ever spoken to her at one time.

After Roger finished speaking, she placed a hand on him. Her thumb touched the underside of his forearm. She could feel the bone through his soft downy skin. Her fingers slid up and down, grinding over his coarse arm hair. It must have been at least a minute before he removed his arm from her grasp.

John Avery knocked on the open guesthouse door as he entered. He greeted Hall and handed him the day’s paper. The front-page headline was huge.
Bones Wash onto Beach: Possible Human Remains.
In case readers of the
Voice
didn’t draw the connection, there were photos of Chloe Crawford and Anja Traugott.

“I thought you’d be pleased to see your story on the front page,” John said.

“I am. Thank you.” Hall scanned his story to check that it hadn’t been changed too much. “You know, you gave me a fright the other day.”

“When was that?”

“A few days ago now. You were on the patio.” Hall gestured out the window. “You were busy with something under the tank stand.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t know who it was. I’m embarrassed to admit, I was startled until I realized it was you.”

John shook his head. “Wasn’t me. You must be mistaken.”

“No. It was you. Pretty sure.” Hall smiled in a friendly, nonconfrontational way, looking at the paper to avoid John’s scowl.

“I said, it absolutely was not me who you saw.”

He was lying, Hall was certain. “Well, I must be mistaken. Pays to check your facts in my industry, doesn’t it?” Hall held out the newspaper. “Do you want this back?”

“No. I bought it for you. I have another here.” John licked his thin lips. “Apparently there might be something on abalone poaching.”

“Really? Tell Sarah not to hold her breath. The ranger needs to catch them red-handed to lay charges.”

“She won’t like hearing that.”

“That’s why you’re telling her,” Hall said, and John laughed.

The men shook hands and John left. Hall sat on the couch. Inadvertently, he was too involved in this murder story. Here he was, sleeping with the daughter of someone who could be a suspect. If he had had to give advice to another journalist in this position, he would simply tell him to throw down his cards and ask to be reassigned.

Warm wind blowing low across the farmland toward the coast collected flecks of dirt that stuck to the sunscreen on Sarah’s skin. In the dry heat her beach towel had turned into salty stubble.

“Can you smell smoke?” Erica called from the other end of the veranda.

Sarah didn’t answer. She had not spoken to her sister since the scene on the jetty yesterday. She sniffed; something was burning. Assuming it was someone barbecuing lunch, Sarah closed her eyes.

It was Pamela who warned them. She was driving to every shack, alerting residents.

“Fire’s burning at the tip,” Pamela shouted as she came across the lawn. “Don’t panic. It’s contained. No need to evacuate.”

Sarah and Erica jumped off their deck chairs. A single plume of smoke spouted out of the bush behind the lagoon. It curled into the blue sky until gusts of high wind tossed it. Erica sprinted inside to get her camera.

Pamela’s rings glinted in the sun as she listed on her fingers the preparations she had made for a major bushfire. “I’ve had the yard mowed, and the park. We have proper chemical extinguishers, three of them. I have fire blankets, two water tanks almost full, and two and a half lengths of hose. I’ve done everything.”

“You’re making me nervous,” Sarah said.

Orange dustballs moved in both directions along the long straight road beside the beach—more traffic than Sarah had ever seen on that stretch. It was the only route out of there, unless you had a boat. She walked around to the front of the shack. The wind was offshore. As long as it didn’t change, the shacks were safe.

“Back in the car, darling. I’m coming,” Pamela shouted to Don, who was crossing the backyard. The grass was long enough to cover his shoes. It could do with a mow. In fact, nothing about the shack was fireproof. Gutters stuffed with bird’s nests and debris, wooden boards brittle from the harsh east coast sun. One loose spark on the roof and the structure would incinerate like kindling.

“You said you would be quick.” Don smiled. “Are you having a cup of tea?”

“I’m coming.” Pamela rolled her eyes for Sarah’s benefit. “How many times do I need to tell him something?”

After Pamela left, Sarah sat watching the smoke. Within half an hour the sky was mottled gray. A wallaby burst from the bushes and hopped across the back lawn. The animal paused, ears twitching at uneven angles as he assessed his options. His brown eyes met Sarah’s for a moment before he hopped up the hill, crossed the road, and disappeared into the scrub. Sarah went to find the mower.

The fire had started in the tip trench, probably by a flame igniting beneath broken glass, in Hall’s opinion. Capable men from the camping ground tidied the tip surrounds, shoving discarded mattresses, broken cane cray pots, and anything that could catch a spark in the ditch. They used planks of wood and a crowbar to slide the items into the flames, jumping back as soon as they had done so. The fire was so intense, Hall could not stand close to it for more than a few seconds. A couple of wrecked cars had already been shoved in—a sensible move to contain the fire.

Hall and Jane bucketed water onto the grassy ground surrounding the tip. Jane had given Hall a scarf to wear over his mouth and nose to keep the smoke out, but his eyes stung. Even though he was sixty meters away, Hall could feel the heat coming through the eucalyptus scrubland. It was getting louder, crackling and belching bursts of black smoke. The St. Helens volunteer bushfire fighters had arrived and ordered the spectators to remain in a clearing farther up the road. What was going to be a filler with a picture on fire management had turned into a half-page story on a disaster waiting to happen.

Hall wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. But Pamela and Don, standing at the back of their Range Rover, were whispering, and it caught his attention.

“If you’re sure it was him, Pamela, you need to tell the police.”

“I don’t know. They’ve had enough people spreading rumors.”

“It’s not a rumor.”

“I just don’t want to say something and cause a heap of trouble if I’m wrong.”

Don muttered something. Hall pretended to check the batteries in his camera. Without turning his head he could see Don, his hands either side of an open Esky containing wrapped sandwiches and bottled water. Wearing his SES volunteer uniform, Don was prepared for any level of emergency.

“It probably wasn’t even Roger Coker.” Don lifted the Esky. “Your eyes are terrible.”

“I had to pull over to let him pass. It was the Valiant, no mistake.”

“So tell the police that.”

“Okay.”

“He deserves what he gets.”

“Watch your back when you lift that—I’ve got enough to do without you putting your back out again.” Pamela wasn’t whispering anymore. “Maybe you’re right. Firebugs incense me.”

Hall tried to make sense of their conversation. He walked toward the tip area, standing as close to the heat as he could bear, and peered through the smoke at the roof of one of the wrecks. It did look like Roger Coker’s black Valiant. If that was the case, what was it doing here and, more important, where was Roger?

By eight p.m. Sarah and Don had driven Jane’s Land Cruiser between the fire and Pamela’s shop more than ten times. Jane reckoned her eyes weren’t good enough to drive in the glaring twilight, and Sarah wasn’t arguing. A plastic water tank was strapped to the Land Cruiser’s trailer. Sarah and Don’s job was to fill it with water from the shop’s concrete tank and bring it back to the fire. Bunghole and the other men were pumping water with Bunghole’s generator. The plan was to wet down the bush on all sides of the tip and contain the fire. High winds were forecast—southerly, too, which would blow it right through the shacks. Roger’s would be hit first, and if the flames were dragged with the wind, every other shack up to the boat ramp would be next. The timber frames would not stand a chance. Embers wafted through the air like shooting stars. It would be pretty if it wasn’t so dangerous.

Trouble was, the fire was growing balls. Each time Sarah floored the accelerator over the crest of the hill, one hand on the horn to warn pedestrians, the flames had risen higher in the eucalyptus canopy. The air felt hotter, a hot dryer blowing through her open window.

Riding in the truck bed, Don smacked his hand against the roof.

“Back it up another inch, girl!” he shouted, and she released the heavy clutch. Don rarely raised his voice, but all afternoon he had yelled instructions at everyone.

“Almost. Stop.” Don jumped down and ran around to attach the pipe. She suspected he was enjoying it as much as she was.

Sarah was guzzling water from a Mount Franklin bottle when Jane stuck her head through the open window.

“Coker’s not home and he’s not here,” Jane said.

“Right.”

“Well, where the hell is he?”

“Does it matter?”

“If this turns, his is the first place to cop it.”

“Did you go down there?”

“Someone had to, didn’t they?”

What Jane didn’t say, but Sarah knew, was that Pamela had not bothered driving down Roger’s potholed sand trap of a driveway.

“As long as he’s not home, I guess that’s all that matters.” She hoped his cats would smell the danger and flee. “Jane?”

The older woman turned.

“Keep it to yourself, won’t you…that we don’t know where he is.” Absence could be mistaken for guilt. They didn’t need people jumping to conclusions. Jane’s eyes flicked to Don at the back of the vehicle. She understood.

“Gotcha,” Jane said.

At sunset the entire sky turned red and the ocean took on a strange glow. Driving hard, Sarah felt wired, as alert as when she was belting her mountain bike over rough terrain. Every second counted, every decision had to be the right one. Things that kept a woman lying in endless darkness worrying were irrelevant.

Hall heard the burning car’s fuel tank explode as he ran, carrying buckets of water, down the sandy tip road with Jane. It sounded like gunfire. Startled, Jane dropped her water bucket. Hall picked it up and gave her a quick one-armed hug. Inside the black fog, men shouted. It was fortunate Bunghole and his crew had had the foresight to shove the car into the trench. If it had exploded outside the trench, flying debris might have injured someone.

Bushfires could move quickly, Hall knew, from severe to catastrophic in minutes. There were rules for survival. In the event of a fire, residents should either remain to defend their property, if they were capable, or evacuate early before escape routes become hampered by smoke or flames. So far this fire had remained in the tip trench, and the wind had not picked up as predicted. There was still time to evacuate. Hall mentioned as much to Jane.

“Maybe that explains where Roger Coker is,” she said.

“Evacuated?”

“Well, he’s not here. And he’s not at home.”

The St. Helens firefighters were busy dragging their hoses and yelling to one another. Hall raced over to them. He identified the man in charge by his badge. Quietly, Hall explained his fear that one of the wrecked cars might not have been empty.

“I could be wrong,” Hall said.

“I hope to God you are,” the fire chief replied. “The blokes said it was empty when they shoved it into the pit.”

“We haven’t been able to locate the owner of that car,” Hall told him.

“We’ll check it out.”

It was not safe to examine the vehicle immediately. Hall continued to water the ground, watching the firemen and the fire from the distance. Heat spiraling from the burning wreckage made it impossible to stand close enough to see even the vague outline of what might have been Roger’s car.

Hall stared through the darkness, watching the firemen move around the tip trench. If there was a human body in that sizzling hole, the person would have to be identified with dental records or DNA. Hall was not a forensics expert, but he was pretty sure the cause of death would be impossible to ascertain. If a man had been stabbed with a fishing knife, or suffocated with a plastic bag, or strangled with a piece of wire, no one here would ever know for sure. A fire of this size did its job thoroughly.

The creepiest thing was the possibility that the perpetrator was lingering in the well-meaning crowd fanned out in the bush clearing. It never did any good to speculate on murder suspects without solid evidence. But Hall could not help it. As he filled his bucket with water, he searched the grim face of every man there.

No one was secretive, no one was behaving strangely. John Avery had barely acknowledged Hall each time they passed on the track, but he was always serious. Sam Shelley, in contrast, had given Hall a cheerful thumbs-up as he worked alongside his mother. Don, riding in the back of the Land Cruiser, seemed more aggressive than usual. So did Bunghole and his brother-in-law. But hard work required aggression. Maybe, as Pamela had suggested to her husband earlier, it was suspicious that Roger was not here.