Grange and I get several odd looks as we make our way along the beach, just above the rows of sunbakers. The scent of sunscreen mixes with the smell of fish guts wafting from the pier. I can hear the tinkle of an ice-cream truck approaching, and several kids lift their heads in response. Grange struggles along behind me in his standard-issue police boots but I don’t slow down. The scene at the hospital has fired me up—I need to direct my rage somewhere.
A young mother with two chubby toddlers wearing head-to-toe lycra fixes her gaze on us, and I try to give her a reassuring smile. There are about a hundred people on the stretch of beach in front of the shops. Under different circumstances I’d be tempted to take a photo. Even I know that this is about as good as it gets: the white sand unblemished, the sky a bold blue, the glow of the sun locking the perfection in place. An old-school boombox is wedged in the sand, a breezy pop song swirling through the air. The waves reach for the sunbakers, crashing about twenty metres from the shore before lapping in giant semicircles on the lower stretch of sand.
Holding a hand above my brow, I scan past a trio of girls in gravity-defying bikinis to where a crew of young men are playing cricket. The redhead comically bowls, and his mate holding the bat swings wide and misses to a chorus of jeers. Three surfboards lie on the sand near a pile of towels. I detect English accents and recognise one of men from de Luca’s sleuthing.
‘Bingo,’ I mutter. I make my way around the girls, Grange still trailing behind. ‘William Mayne?’ I call out as the cricket ball smacks the ground near my foot.
‘Argh!’ The batsman collapses to the ground. Thick lines of white zinc cover his nose and cheeks. ‘You’re such a dickhead,’ he calls to his friend.
I toss the ball to him. ‘Are you William Mayne?’
‘Nope, sorry. Will’s over there.’ He points to two guys wrestling a few metres away. Their muscled backs are glowing red with sunburn, and I wince as one of them is thrown hard against the rough sand.
‘And you are?’ I ask.
He smirks, then notices Grange in his uniform and falters, turning even whiter. ‘Oh. Right. Will got that message yesterday. Fuck, sorry—we were supposed to meet, weren’t we?’
‘Your name, please,’ I snap as he stands up.
‘I’m James.’
‘James Peacock?’ I ask, recalling one of the highlighted names on the sheet.
‘Yeah,’ he says warily. ‘What’s going on?’
Another young man ambles over. ‘Sorry we bailed on our meeting with you this morning.’ He slaps Grange on the back. ‘We thought it was at eight, but no one showed and everyone said the surf was brilliant today. But it was nine, wasn’t it? I should have double-checked my messages earlier.’ He’s either drunk or stoned.
‘And you are?’
‘Oh sorry, how rude of me. I’m William Mayne.’
Beads of sweat have erupted all over Grange’s bald scalp. I feel moisture collecting in the small of my back.
‘Grab your other mate, then let’s get out of the sun,’ I say, walking off toward a picnic table under the trees at the top of the beach. A subdued James rushes to fetch Miles Procter.
The three of them sit opposite us, looking ridiculous with their zinc stripes and sunburned shoulders. William bites his lip; I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.
I hold out my phone with the image pulled from the town’s security footage. ‘Do you know who this is?’
‘It’s Robbie!’ exclaims William, laughing. ‘What’s he doing?’
‘Robbie who?’ I press.
‘Robert Weston,’ says James. ‘One of our mates.’
‘Where is Robert now?’
‘In Sydney,’ replies James, but he sounds uncertain.
‘He left on Monday, is that right?’
William grunts and rolls his eyes. ‘I hate how coppers do this, ask questions even though they know the answers.’
‘Shut up, Will,’ says James, elbowing him in the ribs.
‘Why did Robert leave?’ Grange asks.
‘He’s a whiny bitch,’ says William, giggling.
I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. ‘What do you mean?’
James gives William another scathing look. ‘He hurt himself surfing so he figured there was no point being here. He reckoned he’d go get a job in a call centre or something.’
‘Oh, come off it, he’d cocked up with the birds around here,’ adds William. ‘And he kept whingeing about it.’
‘Which “birds”?’ I say, failing to hold back the sarcasm.
‘All of them,’ William quips. He adjusts his fluorescent visor and water from his drink bottle sloshes over his head. ‘Whoops,’ he says, then giggles again.
The little patience I have is rapidly diminishing. ‘Mr Mayne, this is really important. Do you need to come to the station and sober up?’
‘Nah, nah. I’m alright. Sorry.’ He closes his eyes, inhales deeply through his nose and slowly releases the air via his mouth. I can tell he’s fighting another bout of giggles.
I look at James. ‘When did Robert hurt himself?’
‘Last week. Wednesday, I think.’
‘Are you sure?’
James looks slightly bewildered. ‘Yes. He went to hospital on Wednesday night. He got some painkillers, and the doctor said his wrist was sprained and he shouldn’t put any pressure on it for at least a month.’
‘And what about Saturday night? What did you guys do?’
‘Partied,’ says William obnoxiously.
‘Where?’ I say.
‘It was a house party,’ says James. ‘Two sisters.’
‘Robert came?’
They all nod.
‘How did you end up there?’ I say. ‘You’re not in high school.’
‘We heard it on the grapevine,’ sings William to the tune of the popular song.
‘We got chatting to some birds at the pub, and they said we should come,’ adds James.
‘Do you know a girl called Abbey Clark?’
‘The missing one,’ says Miles.
‘Did you speak to her on Saturday night?’ I say.
‘I’m sorry she’s missing, but she was a stuck-up cow,’ says William, the lightness in his voice gone. ‘Robbie was just trying to chat to her—he does have a habit of coming on a bit strong, but he doesn’t mean any harm. She was a real cock-tease though. I think she was having a tiff with her boyfriend or something. Whatever.’
‘You do realise she is only fifteen?’ Grange interjects, sounding outraged.
William doesn’t miss a beat. ‘No way! She looked way older. Robbie’ll be disappointed.’
‘What do you mean?’ Grange says.
‘He fell for her pretty hard. We had to walk past the supermarket all the time just so he could look at her. That’s Robbie though, he tends to get a bit obsessed.’
‘Did Robert speak to her at the party?’
James nods, while William guffaws. ‘He tried to. She told him where to go.’
‘Alright,’ I say, keen to get to the point so I don’t have to talk to William anymore, ‘how late did you all stay at the party?’
He smothers another chuckle. ‘Well, Robert was trying his luck with some other bird after that Abbey bird burned him, so we left his bitch-slapped arse at the house.’
‘Around what time was that?’
For the first time, William looks thoughtful. ‘I have no idea.’
‘It was just before midnight,’ says Miles. ‘I remember thinking the pub would definitely be closed.’
‘Where did you go?’
William kicks at the sand under the table and hooks his arms around the others’ necks. ‘We went back to the caravan park to drink beers in the pool until some old bat went off at us for making too much noise. Apparently you’re not supposed to swim after 10 pm, which seems kind of stupid.’
‘Did Robert come back there too?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, but later,’ says James.
‘What time?’ I press.
‘Around one in the morning, I think, but I was half asleep.’
‘Was he alone?’
William slaps his thighs at this, completely losing it. ‘He was beyond alone. He was all depressed the next day.’
I look at James. ‘What do you mean?’
James shrugs and looks uncomfortable. ‘Will’s right. He was acting weird. We were giving him shit about having a bad run with girls—you know, just mucking around—but he cracked it. We figured he’d cool off, but on Monday he said he was leaving.’ James’s thick eyebrows knit together. ‘We thought he was joking till he grabbed his stuff and cleared out.’