A crisis in a small town and everyone wanted to help; it was one of the beauties of a rural community. Within twenty-five minutes of the call going out, the jet boat was in the water, working its way upstream from near Wyndham, and the pub had disgorged itself of patrons eager to join in the search. I’d also called in for back-up from the Gore police station, thirteen kilometres up the road; my Mataura community station came under its umbrella.
I was now walking knee deep in damp grass along the river’s edge. A ballet of torchlight criss-crossed the fields and groves along the bank, a scene repeated on the far side of the dark and now ominous Mataura. I shivered, not just from the chill that seeped through my damp trousers. The river proved difficult to search on foot. Often, we had to clamber back up the bank and over farm fences when faced with a scarp or impassable scrub. At least the jet boat made better progress. The water level was higher than normal, making for an easy passage. Bill had promised one quick sweep of the river while there was still some light, then he’d get out again at first light if needed. But the Mataura was never straightforward to search, with banks of willows, and coal benches which jutted out beneath the water and could conceal a body. I began to hope the gamble of a search of the river wasn’t a waste of time. What if there was some other simple explanation?
Despite the oddity of the note, there was a part of me that still fervently hoped Gaby Knowes would turn up at home, returning from a friend’s place, having lost all track of time. That all she’d have to do was live down the stigma of having abandoned her child for a few Chardonnays and a gossip session with the girls. It was a futile fantasy. Instinct told me Gaby was already dead and it was now a matter of when we found the body, not if. Bodies that didn’t beach straight away invariably popped up after seven days, when the gases from decomposition finally built up enough to make them float in our chilly southern waters. My predecessor had had the task of searching for a couple of people who had died after going into the river off the Mataura bridge.
This was my first.
It was by far the most serious event I’d encountered in the time I’d been on the beat in Mataura. Other than the scuffles of those who worked hard and played hard, life here was ordered and mundane. The country had a gentle rhythm that revolved around the milking habits of its dairy herds, and the shifts at the freezing works. Most of my time was spent in the investigation of farm equipment and vehicle theft. There was a lucrative black market for motorbikes, quad bikes and other small farm vehicles – they were plentiful in districts like this, with the trend towards lifestyle blocks and townies looking for a slice of rural paradise. Down shifters, they euphemistically called them; bloody nuisances was more accurate. And probably a bit harsh, but the locals did take a while to warm to new residents: just look at Gaby Knowes. The rat-race refugees had a standard-issue uniform, which included a quad bike to go with the Aertex shirt and Hunter Wellington gumboots. The bikes were easy pickings for both the opportunist and the more organised criminal element. Fortunately, the latter didn’t hit here often. A strong rural Neighbourhood Watch had made a decent impact on theft.
My head jerked upwards in response to a distant report, and my eyes followed the graceful red arc of a flare against the night sky. It would have been beautiful had it not been for the sense of foreboding.
‘Shit,’ I muttered.
I called across to Dave Garret, who was working to my left. ‘That’ll be the jet boat; they must have found something. What do you think? That would be a good k away?’
‘At least.’
‘The terrain is pretty crap from here. I’m going to climb back up there and run along the road till I find them. You and the others continue along the bank, just in case.’
‘Yeah, sure, Sam. We’ll catch up soon enough.’
I was right: once I’d climbed the bank, the road was only two fences and twenty metres away. I negotiated the fences and set off at a run in the direction of the flare, my eyes straining for any sight of the boat. The road was higher than the river and I was afraid I’d miss it. The moonlight helped to some extent, but it was still difficult to distinguish bank from bush from animal. I didn’t like running at night at the best of times, but in these circumstances, and with my breath unnaturally loud in the darkness, I was more than a little creeped out.
At last I caught a glimpse of light down to my right. It had taken just over five minutes to get here. The spot was downstream from an area known as Sam’s Grief. Appropriate. I made my way across the paddock towards the bank; the sheep did not approve of my intrusion and flocked to a distant corner. At least they were sheep, and not cattle, or worse, deer. From this distance, I could now see the pools of torchlight that illuminated a prone figure on the bank, as still as the dark hump of the jet boat parked near by. I swallowed hard. It had to be her.
Another realisation hit. Shit, I was on the wrong side of the river. I climbed the fence, then, with as much control as I could muster in the wet grass, slid down the bank to the river’s edge. Its once pleasant sound now seemed malicious. A beam of torchlight from across the water struck me in the eyes, then descended to my boots.
‘Is that you, Sam?’
‘Yes, it’s me. Is it shallow enough for me to get across here, or will I have to go back to the bridge?’
‘Wait there, I’ll come over and get you.’
A portly figure detached itself from the group and walked over to the boat. The roar of the engine ripped the air, and I was startled, even though I had expected it. Bill Stevenson pulled alongside and, with skill, managed to hold the boat steady while I leaped on board.
‘Thanks,’ I said. That was the extent of conversation. The journey to the other side took mere seconds. I got out, straightened my clothes, drew a deep breath and walked over to the group. I was acutely aware of the squelching sound my boots made as I came near; there were no voices to mask it. Then the circle opened to admit me: I may have been acknowledged, but I had eyes only for what lay at its heart. I knelt beside the pitiful figure of Gabriella Knowes where she lay face down in the sand, her clothes plastered to her motionless body. She had landed in a small shallow, with her head and chest on the silt-covered stones and her hips and legs still in the water. I reached out for her throat and felt for a pulse I knew would not be found. Her skin felt cold and waxen, and I pulled my hand away, repulsed by the touch of death. I had seen dead bodies before, some as a result of violence, but most in their beds, where gentle old age had claimed them with dignity, not crudely like this, strewn as flotsam. I stood up and examined the array of faces around me. Some were solemn and subdued and looked anywhere but at the body. Others stared at her with a morbid fascination that I found disturbing and voyeuristic. I shuddered.
‘Gentlemen,’ I said, to draw their attention. ‘Thank you for coming out tonight to search for Gaby.’ Their focus was now on me and I felt an unspoken pressure to say something appropriate to the occasion. ‘I know it will be small comfort to Lockie now, but we have found her. He will be able to grieve for her, instead of forever wondering what happened. He will be grateful to every one of you for stepping up to help at such short notice. As you can understand, there will be an investigation as to the exact circumstances of this tragedy. This will be done with as much sensitivity as possible, but this is a small town and everyone knows the Knowes family, so please show them your compassion. They will need it.’ I hoped they would get the hint to keep speculation and idle gossip to themselves. ‘Who found her?’
‘Me. It was me.’ It was the quiet voice of Craig Stevenson. Poor Craig. He was only seventeen and, to judge by the bloodshot eyes, overwhelmed by the evening’s events.
I laid a hand on his arm. ‘Thanks, Craig. That must have been bloody hard for you. We all appreciate it, we really do. Has she been moved at all or is this how you found her?’
‘She was lying like that, but we pulled her clothes down over her a bit.’ He sniffed back the tears and his dad put a big arm around his shoulders.
‘That’s OK. She would have appreciated your giving her some dignity. Thank you. I’m going to take some photographs, then we’ll cover her over.’
By now more searchers had been drawn to the area, like moths to a flame. The danger was they’d trample heavily over the ground, obscuring possibly vital evidence. The Gore officers hadn’t yet arrived at the site – I hoped they wouldn’t be long.
‘Thank you again.’ I spoke as loud as I could, but out of respect for Gaby I didn’t want to yell. ‘If you can all go straight back to The Arms as arranged, I will be there as soon as possible to say a few words. It’s a real plus that we’ve found her this quick. Now we must do all we can for Lockie and Angel and give Gaby some privacy.’
People began to turn and take their leave. It was a relief to see them go. I scanned the remaining faces for anyone familiar. Bill Stevenson was a responsible bloke; Trevor Ray was there too, a local farmer and community leader who I could entrust with this task. ‘Bill, I will need you to stay with her – and you too, Trev, while I go and tell Lockie. The Gore officers will be here soon to take over. Does anyone have a vehicle near by?’
Colin Avery did; he offered to give me a ride back to the Knowes’ house. Cole was Lockie’s best mate and I knew I’d be glad of his moral support. God knew Lockie would need him.
Meantime, there was a preliminary scene examination to do. I took photographs, careful to cover every millimetre, every angle, as best I could in the dark. Although there were a lot of footprints around, I was grateful the searchers had kept at a decent distance from the body. The body. It seemed such an impersonal way to look at it, but for now I simply couldn’t afford to consider the personal side of things. I crouched down and looked closely at Gaby. She had no obvious signs of injury; there was no blood, only a few scrapes, as you’d expect on someone who’d washed up from a river. Her hair and the clothes that were out of the water weren’t sodden, merely damp, which suggested she’d been washed up for a while – the dew must have moistened them again. I stood up and looked in the direction of the road. The spot where she lay must have been obscured, otherwise a passing motorist would have seen her. Then I took the lightweight tarp out of my backpack, bent forward and reverently covered her. A prayer or something seemed in order, even though religion wasn’t my thing. I whispered a ‘God bless your soul, Gaby,’ so nobody could overhear. I straightened up and looked at the small group that hovered behind.
‘Thanks, guys, for staying here with her. I’ll be back as soon as possible, but first I have to break the news to Lockie before he hears it from anyone else. You got enough torches?’
‘Yeah, Sam, we’ll be right. We’ll make sure she’s OK,’ Trev said.
It was a bit late for OK, but I knew what Trev was trying to say and appreciated it. I could tell from the shake in his hands he was upset by it all. I didn’t like to leave the scene without proper police guard – it wasn’t exactly protocol – but tonight, Lockie’s needs outweighed all else.
‘Thanks, guys. We’ll all have earned our beer tonight.’ I arched over and stretched out my back. A mental checklist of procedures and people to contact worked through my mind.
Who was it who said, ‘Be careful what you wish for’? Not that long ago I had yearned for a bit more excitement in my work. Now it had arrived, it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. To break a major crime ring: that was my idea of excitement. The base reality of Gaby Knowes’ body in the silt was all too personal. I was from a farming family, where the cycle of life and death played out in a no-nonsense, down-to-earth fashion every day. But even that had not prepared me for this. Still, it was some comfort to be able to slip into the authoritative, take-charge role. It meant I didn’t have to examine my underlying feelings – for now, anyway.