Bay of Fires (7 page)

Jane dug her elbow into his waist. “Watch out, you’ll be the news yourself tomorrow. You and me both.”

Hall had a good memory for names. He recognized most of the people from the emu parade and the door knock he had done immediately after it. There was John Avery and his wife, Felicity, or Flip as she had insisted. Simone (she pronounced it Sim-mon) was a blond American woman, who was in fact the mother of the young man. She was very friendly and had given him a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice when he knocked on the door of her holiday house. The shop owner was Don Gunn and the attractive woman with him was his wife, Pamela. She had invited Hall to the Abalone Bake when he was in the shop earlier that day.

Pamela waved. Carrying two plates she marched over, shaking her hair out from behind her ears.

“Flip is collecting the money.” Pamela’s gold bracelets jingled. “It’s seven dollars a plate. I already paid for yours, Hall.”

On the plastic plate she handed Hall was a pile of what looked like hot moist shreds of curly leather and a slice of lemon.

“I won’t have any, thanks, Pamela.” Jane rummaged in her handbag.

“You’re funny, Jane,” Pamela said. “Coming to our Abalone Bake and not eating.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t eating. I’ll have a sausage. Just not that. It’s disgusting.” Jane strode down the slope, an unlit cigarette between her fingers.

“She’s had a hard life,” Pamela told Hall. “I’m always a little bit careful what I say when I speak to Jane. She upsets easily.”

Through introductions and small talk, Pamela’s hand remained firmly on Hall’s arm and her cushiony breast kept bumping against him. She did most of the talking while he nodded, chewing and chewing a strip of abalone. It was gristlier than the toughest calamari he had ever eaten.

“Wash it down, mate.” John pushed a glass of red wine into Hall’s hand and smiled with porcelain veneers that were too white for his softening face. “Did you learn anything today?”

Hall was aware people were waiting for his response. He shrugged in a noncommittal way and sipped the wine.

“I wonder if the murderer is here now?” said the young guy who had pointed out the boats to Hall at the emu parade.

“That’s not funny, Sam,” Pamela said. “Don’t even joke about it.”

“Defensive, Pamela,” Sam said. “What are you hiding?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Pamela bristled.

For a moment Pamela reminded Hall of Laura’s good friend Sue, an antiques and oddities dealer who wore pearls and often took offense at harmless banter. Hall had tried to avoid Sue whenever Laura dragged him along to social events that required partners.

“Forget the murder for a minute. We think you should do a story on Erica,” Flip said.

Hall looked from Flip to Pamela. They wore similar pastel-colored shirts with the collars turned up and gold fob chains. Even their hair was cut in similar shoulder-length styles. Considering how ratty the shacks around here were, the people who owned them appeared well off, compared to most Tasmanians. Their cars were new models, BMWs and expensive four-wheel drives, and most of the yards contained boats or Jet Skis. Pamela’s husband, Don, wore a Rolex, although it could have been a fake for all Hall knew.

Hall tried to keep his tone cordial. “Who?”

“My younger daughter. She makes greeting cards. Pammy’s nearly sold out in the shop…wait there, I’ll get her.”

“It’s okay.” Hall had often wished for a dollar for every ridiculous story idea suggested to him. The less likely the idea would become a story, the more insistent the person was.

“Flip, you’re so boring. The story the
Voice
needs is Sam’s.” Pamela paused in arranging the sauce bottles and beer cans which were stopping the tablecloth from blowing away. “He wrote a letter, put it in a bottle, and threw it out the front here and it landed in New Zealand. A girl his age wrote back to him.”

“It’s stupid,” Sam said.

“That’s not stupid, that’s a great story.” The punters loved stories like that. Hall wanted to ask for more information when someone’s Labradoodle thrust its nose into his crotch. It could probably smell his cat. He pushed it away, as gently as possible. He was not a dog person.

“Henry. Scoot.” Pamela shooed the dog away. “Tie him up, Flip. Now, Hall. Let me know if there is anything else I can tell you.”

“Pammy knows everything about everyone,” Don called.

Pamela swatted him. “Watch out or I’ll tell him all your secrets, darling.”

It was funny that she should say that. There was something familiar about Don. His low, articulate voice and his deferential manner of pausing between each sentence gave Hall the feeling he had met him before. He wondered if Don recognized him. If it was from a situation Don regretted—a court appearance for drunk driving or domestic violence—they would both pretend to have forgotten. It was easier that way. It could have been during the police raid on a Windmill Hill brothel which Hall had attended last year. Those blokes had all been well-to-do guys like Don Gunn. If that was the case, Hall didn’t care. Other people’s sex lives were not a topic he was inclined to pass  judgment on.

Metal tapped against glass. John Avery cleared his throat; some people were still talking.

“Quiet, children,” called Pamela, and the chatter subsided.

Obviously comfortable in front of a crowd, John spoke about the tradition of the Abalone Bake and the importance of getting everyone together. He spoke with the precise enunciation of a private school–educated man. Behind him, Jane slipped into the shadows along the edge of the park and lit a cigarette. She didn’t speak to anyone. He could venture over, make some small talk. He always felt sorry for people who were nervous in crowds. But tough luck tonight. He was here to work, not chaperone misfits to community functions. Hall focused on what John was saying.

“We love this place. I’ve been coming here every summer since I bought my block of land twenty-seven years ago, you see. Eight thousand dollars.” John lifted his glass, and red wine splashed onto the grass. “Worth a bit more than that now. We all are.”

“John,” Flip cautioned.

“We all feel the same. What has happened here breaks my heart and I know it breaks the heart of everyone standing before me.” He poured himself more wine, took a sip, and added, “I don’t know what happened to Chloe Crawford and I don’t know what happened to the Swiss woman, Anja…Anja.”

“Traugott,” called Pamela.

Anja Traugott, an unlikely name for Tasmanians to pronounce. Soon everyone would know her name. Chloe Crawford was a name that sparked discussion in any pub across the state. Everyone had an opinion. Some thought the teenager from the west coast had staged her own disappearance and run off with a boyfriend. Hall understood her family was deeply religious, so this was possible. Others surmised she had been raped and filmed for pornographic purposes and her body buried on a remote and impenetrable bush block owned by one of the local dubious motorbike clubs. A few thought she had fallen into a mineshaft while bushwalking. Everyone had a theory, but no one knew for sure. Despite a massive search, not one of her personal belongings had been recovered, not her surfboard nor any of her clothing. She had one bank account with the Commonwealth Bank, and it had not been touched. Uncertainty fueled speculation. Hall didn’t know which story he believed; all he knew was that it made good newspaper copy.

“I don’t know what happened to Chloe Crawford, and I can’t explain why Anja Traugott was murdered,” John repeated.

“Serial sex offender,” Pamela muttered loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Don put a hand on Pamela’s arm, which she shook off.

“Don’t shush me, Donald,” she said.

As John continued, Hall noticed Sarah for the first time that evening. She was sitting on a picnic table, drinking beer out of a bottle and peeling off the label. Tanned and almost as tall as he was, she looked capable of skippering a maxi-yacht. When she saw Hall looking, she rolled her eyes. She was laughing at everyone. He wasn’t sure if she was laughing at him, too, so he just nodded and looked away.

At the beginning of his speech, John had made eye contact with everyone. Now he kept glancing over the top of the crowd, his gaze returning to his audience briefly before being drawn back to something on the rocks. Hall turned to see the distraction and realized many others were doing the same. The fading light made it hard to see clearly the hunched figure causing the murmuring. Against the gray ocean, Hall could make out what looked like an old man holding a stick. A woman’s voice rose above the whispers. “Roger Coker makes my skin crawl.”

“Boo!” Sam said, right in Hall’s ear. His breath was hot on Hall’s neck.

Hall didn’t have a chance to tell him to back off. From that point, everything happened quickly.

Dogs barked, women screamed, and everyone scattered. The Labradoodle was flat on its back as a black dingo-like dog snarled on top of it. The cause of the trouble, a plate of barbecued meat, was upturned on the grass. As the dogs fought, someone stepped closer to break it up, but the black dog lunged, a chain attached to its neck swishing across the ground. The man jumped back. The black dog dove onto the plate, gobbling up the sausage and seafood. The Labradoodle barked and the black dog lunged and bit its neck. Everyone screamed.

“Do something, Donald!” Pamela handed Don a metal barbecue spatula.

“No,” Jane shouted as Don hit the black dog.

He belted the animal’s back several times with the metal instrument. It made a hollow whack and pierced the skin. Blood spurted across black fur and the dog cried.

“Enough, you piece of shit,” Jane told Don as she scruffed the dog’s neck.

“Control your animal!” Pamela yelled.

“Who do you think you are?” Jane called over her shoulder as she dragged her whimpering animal out of the park.

Don looked confused, standing there holding the spatula with his mouth open as though he didn’t know what he was doing. Everyone slunk away, and Pamela turned on her husband.

“What were you thinking, Donald?”

“You gave me the bloody spatula.”

“That was psychotic. She’ll press charges.”

“Shut up. Just shut up.”

Jane let the dog go as they walked up the hill. It trotted along by her side, its tail down. Her handbag slapped against her leg, forgotten. From the rocks Roger Coker watched the spoiled gathering. The man was motionless, as much a fixture on the landscape as the granite boulders and scraggly banksias.

“They’re a bunch of dickheads, if you haven’t worked it out yet.” Sarah pressed a beer into Hall’s hand. It was fresh from the Esky and cold water trickled down his arm.

“Is that right?” She didn’t seem to care if anyone heard her.

“They’re mad; there is a group of them going round telling everyone not to swim in the lagoon. They think it’s too close to Roger Coker’s house, and it’s hidden from the road, so therefore they deduce that’s a possible murder site.”

Hall laughed, although he could see she was partly serious. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Why?”

“Some people get posttraumatic stress disorder after seeing what you saw.”

“I’m not as fragile as I look.” She tilted her head back and finished the last of her beer. “Help yourself when you want another.”

They watched the park empty. The dog fight had ruined the mood. Simone Shelley smiled at Hall as she walked past him, looking for her son. Sam was with some of the older kids milling around the swings. Sam stood out, his blond good looks and substantial physique setting him apart. He was better dressed, too; his khaki shorts and T-shirt looked newer and more expensive than what the other kids wore.

“I’m staying for a bit,” Sam told his mother. “I’ll be up in an hour.”

Hall didn’t hear what she said, but Sam reluctantly followed her out of the park. Everyone was scared to be alone tonight. Standing with Sarah in the long twilight’s soothing dimness, Hall did not want to return to his empty room. As though she could read his thoughts, she suggested they take a nightcap down to the water’s edge.

“And then I’ll walk you home,” she said. “It’s not safe to walk on your own in these parts. Too dangerous.”

“Very kind of you.”

She grinned, revealing a dimple in her cheek. His confidence had diminished since he turned forty. These days it took a dozen games of pool, sixty bucks’ worth of bourbon and Coke, and the Batman Faulkner Inn’s jukebox had to be playing the right kind of song for him to muster the courage to leave with a girl. He always went to their place, and he never brought them home. Somehow, as pointless as it was to think this, it felt a betrayal of Laura to bring another woman into what had been their bed.

Right now Hall was far too sober to consider having sex with anyone. He liked the straight-talking country girl sitting next to him, and common sense told him to say good night. Cut his losses before he made a fool of himself.

It was her smile that made him stay. Her smile was easy, glad, as though she had nothing more pressing on her mind than enjoying a cold beer on a warm evening.

It was hard to tell how late it was. The sky above the ocean was brighter than in the city. There was a chance it was almost midnight; the sun did not set until nine o’clock and it wasn’t dark until an hour after that. The grass, rocks, and sea had melded into one. Hall looked over the ocean, drinking Sarah’s beer as he listened to the waves rolling. He couldn’t tell if Sarah was drunk; her speech was clear and she was steering the conversation. Earlier she had told him that men found her intimidating. Now she was saying she would make a good mistress.

Hall said some silly things too which he knew, in a vague drunken way, he would regret in the morning. He told her an old story about the time he and Laura were locked inside the public toilet block in the city park. The toilets were notorious for attracting unsavory characters, and Hall had stood outside the cubicle door while Laura was in there. The caretaker, not realizing they were inside, locked the padlock. It was a winter evening, and they were stuck there for three hours, rattling the gate and calling out, until someone came past to help them. Hall had been so young then, barely thirty years old.