It had been risky hitting the motel but it had worked. One haul had brought him as much as four or five individual scores, the weed and eccies an unexpected bonus. It was taking all his willpower to resist sampling but he knew, even as his windows of reason and sanity shrank, that he must. Mongoose would take them in lieu of payment. With the phones and camera and the other shit he’d scored in the morning, that would keep Mongoose off his back. Maybe he could get half the crystal he would normally ask for which would mean … shit, it was confusing … he retraced the thought, grabbed it like a goanna’s tail before it could get it into the scrub … yes, if he got half the crystal, he would actually be paying off a little of the debt. Then next time if he took even less crystal he could pay off a little more. He didn’t want to disappoint Mongoose. He saw what happened to Dana, and she was a chick. But, here was the thing, how long before the cops caught him? What he should do is get out of here but that was … shit, if he split Mongoose would hurt him real bad. But he’d have to catch him. Okay, he could never come back but so what? He’d miss Aunty but then he didn’t have many choices did he? So, he’d lay this stuff off on Mongoose, maybe take just a little crystal, lull him, then split. Yeah, that was a good plan.
He turned into Mongoose’s street and hit his brake pedal. There was a big guy standing on Mongoose’s porch talking to somebody inside. He was sure this was the same guy who had chased him. The fit fucker. He’d had to take to the roof. His gaze strayed to the car at the kerb. Yep, one them unmarked sedans. Shit. He turned quickly and pedalled back the way he had come, his brain a buzzing hive. Did they know who he was? Is that why they were there?
No, if they knew who he was they would go to Aunty’s place. Mongoose was a drug dealer, that’s why they were there. Might be nothing to do with him. He was lucky he hadn’t just rocked up though. He had everything on him. A new idea was forming in the small territory of his brain still working. Maybe the police were going to arrest Mongoose? And then Mongoose wouldn’t be able to punish him for not paying him back, would he? If he was going to split he may as well do it now. There had to be at least fifty pingers. He could trade those, smoke the weed. Didn’t matter really where he went, south, east, up north. He’d hitch a ride and go wherever.
‘Spoke to Mongoose Cole. He claims he had no idea what I was talking about.’
Josh Shepherd ate an apple as he delivered his news. Clement found this profoundly irritating. He hadn’t tried Louise again. The meeting with Marilyn had thrown him. He felt like a ball spinning in an uneven roulette wheel. One of Shepherd’s informants had suggested Mongoose was the new ice heavy in town. He’d not previously been on their radar.
‘How’d he get the name Mongoose?’
Shepherd took one final big bite and pitched the core into the wastepaper basket across the room. He spoke with his mouth full. ‘You’ll like this.’ He swallowed. ‘The previous go-to guy was Sammy “The Snake” Carlisle.’
Clement could see where this was going. ‘Cole got rid of Snake, hence Mongoose.’
‘You got it. Rumour is he took to him with a cricket bat. Snake fled back to Fitzroy Crossing.’
It showed how fast things moved in drug-land these days. Clement had assumed Snake was still one of the town’s three main dealers. Graeme Earle had already struck out with the others. That was not unexpected. The only way the dealers would cop to knowing the identity of Speedy Gonzales would be if the cops had leverage, which they did not.
Mal Gross strode in, looking pleased with himself. ‘Sidney Turner, nineteen. Spoke to Jammo from the Wanderers Hockey Club. Sidney’s from around Moore River. Went to school here for about three years from when he was fourteen. Jammo says he’s never seen anybody so quick. Kid stayed here with his great-aunt when his mum went off the rails. Quite a nice kid, did okay at school but then left to go live with his older brother. Jammo didn’t even know he was back but saw him running down the beach about a week ago. Said something had changed. Kid still looked fit but his wiring wasn’t quite right.’
Clement was already gathering his sunglasses. He didn’t have to ask Gross for the contact details, the sergeant was a step ahead.
‘Olive Pickering, eight McMillan.’
‘Text Graeme to meet us there. Is di Rivi still around?’ Clement wanted at least four of them.
‘Think she’s at the vet’s,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’ll grab her. You meet me there. Park up the street.’
Shepherd went immediately.
Clement picked up his own keys. ‘Mal, get a description out.’
Gross gave a thumbs up.
Of course Clement should have got Shepherd to pick up Jo di Rivi but that damn dog was worrying him. He retrieved his car and drove the three minutes to the vet, which was located in a newish short strip between a cake shop and dive hire place. There were no spaces out front so he drove around the block, down the back lane. He was lucky, a glazier’s van was just pulling out and he was able to park in the one free staff bay. Yes, he knew he shouldn’t, but he wasn’t going to be long. He got out of the car and walked back around to the front of the building. The day passed as mild for up here. Probably not yet thirty and a breeze was trickling down the street. A lump could mean anything: cancer, a cyst, an infection. He pushed into the vet’s waiting room. Despite a standard fan in the back corner and one on the desk, it was considerably warmer in here than outside and stuffy with the thick odour of dog. Di Rivi was nowhere in sight, nor was anybody else for that matter. He should have called first but he wanted to come in the flesh, maybe catch a glimpse of the pooch. He was about to press the desk buzzer when the door behind the counter swung open and di Rivi emerged with the guy he guessed was the vet, fair hair receding, a short white coat smeared with hair and a little blood. They were in mid-conversation but di Rivi was surprised to see Clement and stopped.
‘We’ve got a break on Speedy Gonzales,’ he said, aware he was shading the real reason he was standing there. ‘You can come with me.’
‘Sure. Thanks, Robert.’
‘We’ll know more after the biopsy.’
Clement said, ‘How is she?’
The vet took it on himself. ‘We excised the lump. It looks suspicious but it was very contained.’
‘Pooch is fine. She’s sleeping,’ added the policewoman.
Clement’s phone rang. Earle. ‘Yes, mate?’
‘Eight or eighteen? I can’t read the bloody screen properly in this light.’
And you might need glasses, thought Clement. ‘Eight, McMillan.’
‘I’m at the top of Orr.’
‘Shep will be there in a minute. I’m bringing di Rivi.’
‘How’s the pooch?’
‘We’ll know more later.’
Under ten minutes they were assembled just up the road, di Rivi behind the wheel, the three men at the side of Clement’s car.
Clement gave the run-down. ‘Graeme and I will go to the front door. Shep, I want you around the back.’ He looked at di Rivi. ‘When we’re about to go in I’ll radio to start …’
He never got any further. A cyclist swung by them, a slim fellow. He took one look at them and his eyes bugged.
‘Turner!’ yelled Shepherd after him.
The cyclist drove his feet into the pedals but in that lag before the wheels spun faster, Shepherd made quick ground. He lunged for the bike, which accelerated just as he was about to lay a hand on Sidney Turner’s leg. Shepherd got the slimmest tag on Turner’s ankle then cursed as he fell onto the road. Without waiting to be told, di Rivi gunned the car along the inside of the cyclist who looked panicked, stranded in the middle of the road. He might have been okay except for the small sedan that chose that moment to reverse from its driveway into his path. He tried to brake and swing right but he was travelling too fast and slid into the side of the car at a fair clip. He seemed to bounce and roll but miraculously sprang up. Josh Shepherd was on all fours making grunting sounds. Earle was a statue, more used to catching his prey with a fishing line. Clement charged. Sidney Turner ran towards Clement and went to dummy by him but this time Clement did not commit too soon. He kept his feet ready for the change of direction and when Sidney broke to his right, Clement dived to his left and wrapped his big arms around Turner’s slim waist, pulling them both to the road.
‘Calm down, Sidney. You’re going nowhere.’
The boy, for that’s what he seemed like to Clement, appeared to comprehend it was done. He stopped wriggling. Graeme Earle arrived and cuffed him. Di Rivi cruised back. Shepherd had regained his feet but was gingerly rolling his shoulder.
‘Better not have done a bloody ACL,’ he muttered.
Clement’s phone rang. Louise. He ignored it and told himself he would call back later.
The woman who had been driving the car involved in the collision was still in her seat behind the wheel. ‘I checked. He came out of nowhere,’ she said.
‘I know. We’re your witnesses,’ said Clement. ‘But you’ll still need to blow into the whistle.’
‘Really?’ She looked worried. Di Rivi was heading over with a fresh kit. Again Clement was impressed by her foresight.
‘Have you been drinking?’ he asked as he pulled away the buckled bicycle that was pressing against the driver side of the Hyundai. Underneath it was a satchel. He carefully picked it out.
‘One glass. I was just going to get some milk.’
Clement felt sorry for her. The car had sustained damage. ‘You insured?’
‘Third party only,’ she said.
Di Rivi asked her to blow into the whistle. A few people had begun to emerge from houses like rock crabs at low tide. Josh Shepherd had headed off to get his car. Graeme Earle remained with Turner and patted him down.
‘Inspector,’ he called over.
Clement looked up to see a fat roll of cash in Earle’s hand. Then he opened the satchel: phones, cameras, some jewellery. Di Rivi sidled over to him and discretely showed him the reading from the woman driver. It was a tad over the limit. He felt like his shoulders were being weighed down a brick at a time. Normally he could turn a blind eye, advise her to park her car and go walk for her milk.
‘You’ll have to book her,’ he whispered to di Rivi. ‘Take my car.’
Shepherd arrived back with his vehicle. Clement had one ear on di Rivi as he called out to the cuffed suspect.
‘We’re taking you back to the station, Sidney. First though, hospital, have you checked out.’
‘I’m fine. I don’t need hospital. You got the wrong guy. She’s the one you oughta arrest.’
‘Well, we’ll discuss that later.’ With a jerk of the head he indicated Shepherd should take him away.
‘I’m the one needs to get checked out,’ mumbled Shepherd to Graeme Earle as he placed Turner in the car.
‘Sidney is a good boy. That bag probably isn’t even his.’
He guessed Olive Pickering was in her late sixties. She stood with her arms folded in front of a rich, dark-wood dresser topped with a cluster of photos. Several showed her with a beaming young Sidney in his school uniform. The pride burst from her as much as from him. Another black and white photo from around the late ’60s or early ’70s showed two young Indigenous women in check blouses smiling shyly at the camera. Clement thought one looked like a much slimmer Olive and guessed the other might be Sidney’s grandmother, her sister. There was not a single photo that showed any man who may have been a husband. The house reminded Clement of that of his widowed aunt Patricia. Her husband had died when Clement was so young he could not even remember meeting him. Unlike Aunty Patricia, who unfathomably did not keep a pet despite what must have been a lonely existence, Olive clearly had some four-legged company. A pet bowl sat on the floor. Beside it, stacked high, were seven or eight large bags of unopened pet biscuits. Along a wall was a small sewing table on which resided an old Singer machine. A pattern had been left open and a little purple thread flecked its base as if there hadn’t yet been time to sweep it away.
‘Would you mind if Detective Earle checked over Sidney’s bedroom?’
‘I don’t mind. You won’t find anything.’
She indicated a room towards the back of the small house. Earle put on gloves and aimed for it. Clement came as far as the threshold and looked in. Sidney Turner’s bedroom was surprisingly neat. Well, perhaps not that surprising when you considered the rest of the house. The single bed was made perfectly. It smelled fresh too.
‘You sew?’ he offered, by way of making conversation. Olive Pickering stayed at his shoulder where she could make sure Earle wasn’t planting anything.
‘Worked for nearly thirty years for Mr Jeffrey.’
The tailor. Clement saw him now, as he had when he was ten or eleven, outside looking in through a plate glass window – stooped over his counter, lean, balding, impeccably dressed even in this climate.
‘Always wore a bow tie.’ He was remembering aloud as he pictured him.
Olive looked at him curiously. ‘You from around here? I don’t remember you.’
‘My family had the caravan park.’
‘Ah,’ she said and nodded sagely as if she had already made some unspoken judgement on him. Her eye flicked back to check on Earle.
‘What became of him?’ Clement wasn’t just making conversation now. He was curious. The man had been background to his everyday life as a kid for three or four years but then one day he was gone. He hadn’t spared him a thought for a generation.
‘He retired, died.’
Clement was appalled by the impermanence of life, not so much life itself – with the job he worked, that was a given – but our place in other people’s perceptions of it. The hunched elderly gentleman in the bow tie, a man of a different era, odd, comical to the young Clement listening to Prince on a Sony Walkman, had yet still been part of the fabric of his life. The tailor probably had a wife, children, dreams, secrets, but now perhaps only Olive Pickering was there to vouch that he was no figment of a schoolboy’s imagination.
‘I was fifteen when I started sewing for him,’ she said. ‘The nuns taught me.’
She offered no more insight into whether he had been fair, tyrannical, finicky – though one almost naturally assumed a tailor would be. Clement tried to picture the location of the old shop.
‘What’s there now?’ he asked.
‘Hairdresser,’ Olive Pickering said.
Clement thought there was some insight into modern humanity in that: men no longer cared about their appearance but women still took trouble with their hair.
Olive Pickering proved to be right about finding nothing in the bedroom. Clement guessed that whatever way Sidney was ingesting ice, he was doing it off premises. Earle was as careful as he could be in returning the room to its previous state but Olive still made a show of neatening it all up. They found nothing in the lounge room. Clement did not wish to insult Mrs Pickering by asking to check her bedroom.
As it was, there was plenty of evidence against Sidney in the satchel. Clement stared at it now on the long desk in the squad room, spread out in plastic evidence bags: seven phones minus sim cards, four cameras, a watch, several pieces of jewellery, fifty-six ecstasy tablets, a big pouch of pot. Turner had been carrying five hundred and sixty dollars in cash. Given he’d had no job since returning to Broome, it was a fair guess that this money had come from wallets which had then been tossed away. The woman driver had been charged and di Rivi had driven her home. Turner had been interviewed but was now claiming he’d found the bag. His attempted escape, he claimed, was just a reaction to being freaked out by the big guy – Josh Shepherd – yelling at him. Clement had tried to get Turner to implicate Mongoose but Turner was sticking to his guns.
‘Nearly five dozen eccies. We can charge you with dealing. Are you working for Mongoose? He gives you crystal in return?’
‘I told you, I found the bag. I don’t do drugs.’ His body language said otherwise. Lack of the drug was already starting to bite.
‘This might be the best thing for you, Sidney, a chance to get off it.’
The boy looked at him, guilty, knowing it. ‘I found the bag. I’m not saying any more.’
They’d locked him up. There would be a bail hearing in the morning. Clement had determined Shepherd should handle it all himself, give him some responsibility. He’d sent him off to brief the police prosecutor.
‘He’s a flight risk so we have to oppose bail but there’s no indication he’s violent. Make sure he’s checked regularly through the night.’
It was now close to 5.00 pm. Earle was busy writing up the report on the arrest when Scott Risely walked through the door with an older man who seemed familiar.
‘Good stuff on getting the B&E guy. This is Richard Lane. He’s working privately for the Feisters. I assured him he would have full cooperation. I’ll leave you guys to chat, bring each other up to date. And see you tonight.’
Clement extended his hand to Snowy Lane, that’s the name he remembered him by now. No wonder he seemed familiar. Snowy Lane had cracked the Mr Gruesome case. The guy’s handshake was like Iron Man’s.
‘Afternoon, Inspector.’
Lane obviously didn’t recognise him. Clement considered mentioning an earlier crossing of paths but quickly expunged that thought. It would probably be embarrassing to bring it up. Snowy Lane had been a legend at one time long ago and he didn’t want to highlight a failure.
‘You like a tea or coffee?’
Lane waved that off. ‘I’ll have a beer when I get back to the hotel.’
Clement pulled up one of the plastic chairs for him and they sat facing one another with the long squad table on one side. Clement cleared a space among the exhibits for Lane to place the folder he was carrying.
‘We had a successful afternoon,’ he explained.
Lane studied the haul but didn’t say anything. Clement felt obliged to make some light conversation before business.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Mimosa.’
Of course that’s where he’d be staying if Feister was footing the bill.
‘When did you get in?’
‘Couple of hours ago. Drove up from Hedland.’
That did for niceties.
‘I’m sure the Super filled you in: we’ve put the word around to all our people and Fisheries, Parks et cetera. We’ve had two flights a day checking a radius from Sandfire, which we’ve gradually expanded, and I’ve sent a memo to all the mining companies who fly over the area to be vigilant.’
Lane nodded with each of these steps as if offering approval. Clement didn’t care if he approved or not. He felt no ill will towards the man who had helped solve one of the biggest cases in Perth criminal history. In fact he respected him. However, that was many moons past. Good luck to Lane for landing Feister as a client but he didn’t need the guy reviewing him. Lane seemed to study the tabletop again, then shook that off and turned back to him.
‘You were the one who collected the Sandfire footage?’
‘Yeah. You’ve seen it?’
Lane had. ‘The family are concerned about the boyfriend. I don’t know about you but I didn’t see anything that suggested there was any problem between them.’
‘Same.’
Lane sighed, scratched his eyebrow. ‘It may be nothing. The girl has done this before but …’
Clement completed the thought: ‘… she was carrying a large sum of money and it’s odd we haven’t found any sign of her.’
They sat in silence for a few seconds. Lane broke it. ‘I’ve been told there’s been no recent abductions, murders, carjackings up this way.’
‘It’s not North Queensland.’
‘I don’t know. I heard you had a few bodies here a year or so ago.’ He winked.
Clement didn’t want to like the fellow, he just wanted a neutral professional relationship, but there was some force of life about him that was oddly compelling. Still, he resisted the overture for camaraderie.
‘We’ve got an Aboriginal aid, Jared Taylor, works with us. He knows every crevice, every creek and probably the nickname of every bloody goanna from here to Kununurra. I’ve been waiting to send him up the Gibb River Road but he’s had a family death up Beagle Bay. He’s due back tomorrow.’
Graeme Earle sidled up with his jacket slung over his shoulder. ‘Finished. See you tomorrow.’
Earle acknowledged Snowy Lane and took his leave. Mal Gross had already handed over to the evening shift and left.
Clement said, ‘You got any thoughts on how you might proceed?’
‘I’m going to ask in shops, show the photos …’
‘There was no sign of the car on any CCTV.’
‘The car might have carked it. They cadge a lift …’ Not for the first time Lane left his thought dangling for Clement to nibble on. Clement had to concede the possibility and was annoyed he had not seen it himself.
Lane was continuing. ‘It’s not much to go on but they had mentioned heading to Broome. Now, whether they just meant the general direction or the town, who knows? Perhaps they had a specific reason to travel here, meet somebody, say. I’d like to rule that out. Besides, I might meet somebody else fresh into town who just had a barbie with them at Fitzroy Crossing or wherever. I’ll do the pubs tonight. Coffee shops, supermarket, chemist tomorrow. Doubt I’ll need to check real-estate agents or hairdressers.’
Lane’s thoroughness told Clement he’d not been taking the whole thing seriously enough. The thief, the wedding, Louise, had all been blurring focus.
‘I’ve got dinner with the boss tonight, otherwise I’d be glad to come with you.’
Lane waved the offer away. ‘Appreciated, but sometimes it’s better not to be a cop or even around one.’
Lane stood to leave. Clement reminded him he was welcome to call him if anything turned up and handed him a card.
By the time Snowy Lane walked out the building it was close to 6.00. There was still time for a quick call to Louise. But that’s what it would be, quick and cursory. Clement needed to get home and shower. And he couldn’t get Marilyn out of his mind; like a shape that had appeared on the perimeter while he’d drawn sentry duty, he wanted to get closer, get a better look. Was she waiting for him to challenge her assertion they didn’t have a future together?
He found himself in the car heading away from the station without remembering the steps in between. Idly he studied faces as he cruised by, Snowy Lane’s hypothesis playing in the background. Could Feister and Coldwell have driven to meet somebody specific and then met foul play? If that were the case, the best chance would lie in finding that vehicle. He drove to the wharf and parked in front of the chandler. Would a text be enough? Show he hadn’t completely forgotten Louise? Or was that the coward’s way out? He sat in the hot car and hit the phone keys. Sorry missed you. Flat out. Dinner with boss. Call tomorrow. He stopped. A whole new problem had loomed out of the ocean Moby Dick–like. You can’t put ‘love’, he told himself, but you put nothing and it seems curt doesn’t it? He found a solution by scrubbing out Call tomorrow and replacing it with Looking forward to catching up tomorrow.
He got out of the car feeling sticky and climbed the stairs.
Sometimes when you spend several hours on a boat you get off and the earth feels like it is swaying. That’s how I felt after I left the police station. Not literally. I mean I hadn’t been on a boat for a start but things didn’t seem quite as they should. The reason was mental not physical. One of the worst things you find as you get older is that, whereas a few years earlier you would have an answer at your fingertips with the merest hint of a question, now you knew you knew the answer but couldn’t find it. It was shoved down the back of your memory, crumpled and hidden. There was something I’d heard or seen when Clement had been talking to me that should have grabbed me like a high-kick long-legged chorus line but it might as well have been the featureless Great Northern Highway I’d stared at for the last day or so. Was it something about the Feister girl? Not exactly. Something else. It was pointless to waste time on it, it would bob up eventually. Meantime I had questions to ask. The burger I’d eaten at the roadhouse was still sitting heavy in my gut so while I should have been dying for some fine food, I wasn’t. The cops had already done the rounds at the Mimosa Resort and other pubs, asking if they had seen Ingrid or the boyfriend, but I figured there was no harm trying again. Like I’d told Clement, sometimes people won’t talk to a cop, especially if they’ve been with those you were asking about, smoking weed, or shooting up or whatever. Starting at the Mimosa, fuelled by a welcome mid-strength beer, I worked my way around Broome showing pictures of Ingrid, Coldwell and their car without uncovering any definite leads. A couple from Queensland thought the car looked familiar from two days earlier on the Gibb River Road. A pretty girl from France believed Ingrid might have been at the airport. I made notes. At the Cleopatra Tavern, I got the same negative response but on the flipside there was a poster advertising sExcitation for the following Monday. I’d meant to try and track them down but had put that on hold after I couldn’t locate any website of that name. The poster indicated a Facebook page. Despite Tash’s continuous urging, I wasn’t on Facebook myself – hey, I’d stubbornly resisted flares too when they were the rage and believe me there was no regret – but it was proving to be a useful investigative tool.
By 11.30 that night I was back in my unit at the Mimosa. It was a perfect night, with a cool breeze blowing from the ocean but not strong enough to clear the scent of the surrounding gardens. I ran through Facebook and located the page for sExcitation. According to their schedule, they were in Tom Price tonight and, as the poster had suggested, Derby Saturday, then Broome the following Monday. I didn’t expect to get anything from them but, having come this far, I was going to tie up every possible lead. After messaging sExcitation, pretending I was interested in hiring them, I sat back with time on my hands. For once my timing meshed with Barcelona. It would be late afternoon. I pushed my IT skills to the limit, logged on to the Mimosa internet and checked Skype. It said Tash was online so I gave it a go. I sat listening to my modem or whatever it was calling across vast oceans and was given to thinking that each ring was a modern day pebble thrown against Juliet’s window. I was old enough to remember television before satellite, cricket on a radio wave, the FA Cup, something for the morning paper’s late news on a back page in pink ink; and while I’d been mightily impressed when it became reality that we could sit in our lounge chairs and watch live the first ball of a Lord’s Test as it hit the infamous ridge, or a Gunner netting at Wembley, nothing was quite so impressive as this: staring into the eyes of the object of my affection who was on the other side of the world. That the mundanity of our conversation – the reference to weather, the furnishings of the rooms we found ourselves in, the checklist of tourist highlights – fell so far short of the beauty of the technology and the perseverance of the human spirit that had allowed it was a shame but not a disaster. After all, people had wandered past Van Gogh’s paintings without blinking and no doubt propped themselves against David for a quick slash after too much vino and some ducal hijinks. Most of us are unable to elevate ourselves to the plane on which reside the greatest achievements of our peers. That’s what makes us human. But all of us yobbos, no matter how emotionally inarticulate, are grateful for anything that helps us see, hear, draw closer to, our distant loved ones.
Unfortunately Grace was off having coffee with a friend. Nothing Tash or I said to one another impacted any aspect of the world in the slightest, and yet the simple joy of talking to her coursed through me. One day maybe we’ll be able to skype the dead and I’m sure we’ll have the same inane conversations. I doubt we’ll be sitting around waiting for wisdom on how to make the world a better place, how to save the planet from greed or plague. I reckon we’ll just gaze into the eyes of our departed loved ones and chat about the weather and ask if plants are blooming and what we’ve been eating.
After fifteen minutes, we’d said all we could. Tash kissed the screen and I was a young man again.
I pottered for another twenty minutes writing up a report and emailing it to Dee Vee. Just after midnight I switched off the computer and the lights and went to bed where I tossed and turned for another fifteen minutes. Then I got up and peed because that’s what men do post fifty-five. I slipped outside for a minute and gazed up at a million timeless stars that looked like they’d been hurled from a bucket and stuck. With the smell of fresh salt air in my nostrils I slipped back under the sheets and gave myself to sleep.
I ate breakfast like a Viking. Well, there was space in there. I’d fasted since yesterday’s lunch but there’s something about eating under a clear blue sky off a big white plate, with cutlery heavy enough to anchor a tinny in a cyclone, that increases appetite. The bacon and perfectly cooked eggs lasted less time than an Italian parliament. I never swim straight off after eating; however, the breakfast hadn’t even registered in my stomach and with unusual foresight I’d packed my bathers, though to be honest I assumed I’d be swimming in chlorine. But here I felt an irresistible pull.
I’ll just go for a look, I told myself.
Within a few minutes I was on Cable Beach standing on a cape of white sand that stretched endlessly to my left and right. Ahead was a sheet of Indian Ocean, flat as a spirit level. The waves were too polite to lap, they softly hushed. A couple of people in the water about two hundred metres north were having a dip, otherwise it was deserted. If I hadn’t checked and rechecked it was safe from box jellyfish this time of the year, I would have thought that was the cause. Reason told me there’d be no great whites up here, didn’t mean there weren’t other sharks, crocs even. If I was ever to swim in the ocean again though, this had to be it. I had my budgies on under my shorts. I dropped them and my cotton shirt, a birthday present from the girls, and walked towards sea. I was not scared, on the contrary, as I eased myself into the water I felt an amazing privilege, and a sense of awe. Maybe this was how monarchs feel when they are anointed. This was my cathedral and I was the chosen one, inducted into a line of the specially blessed in a place that suggested a Power infinitely greater than me. I crouched down so the chill water reached over my shoulders to my chin. I could hear the frenzied shouts from the day Craig Drummond had perished, as clear in my head as if a soundtrack was playing. I had no vision of Craig like you might see in a movie, no flashback but – and I know this sounds like a cliché – I sensed him with me. I began to swim and any fear or residual tension left me. My body was out of practice, the muscles not too bad but my breathing slightly shallow. For maybe twenty minutes I swam parallel to the shore, and with each stroke I became more comfortable. I floated a few minutes on my bed and thanked Craig, and then I swam back to the shore and walked back along wet sand to where my shirt declared itself on an otherwise snow-white backdrop. I’d not brought a towel but by the time I walked back to the car I’d pretty well dried. I put on my shirt and brushed the sand from my feet, whole again.
After I’d showered, I redressed and began hunting through the town, again proffering the photos of Ingrid Feister and Max Coldwell. After ninety minutes I had nothing to show. Maybe it was the earlier reminiscence of Craig Drummond that did the trick, I don’t know, but as I passed by the little watchmaker jeweller on the way to the chemist, something slapped my consciousness. I stood staring through the window at the rings, necklaces and watches, and I knew what it was that I’d seen without seeing at the police station last night. In one of the evidence bags on the long table had been a bluebird pendant. I should have recognised it straight away. I’d stared at that damn thing day after day, night after night, for months. It didn’t look like a bluebird really, more like a flying swallow, and that was why I knew it was the one-off piece designed and sold by a small London jeweller in 1989 to a visiting Australian businessman looking for a gift to his daughter. That daughter was Jessica Scanlan and she had been wearing it nearly twenty years ago when she’d gone missing.