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Dawn hovered under the hot water, letting it run over her face, through her hair and splash onto the chipped white tiles at her feet.
Visions flashed from the depths of her memory. A blonde girl—bronze skinned. Naked. Her body beaten, bruised and torn—lying on the rocky island surrounded by turquoise blue water. The tide rising fast, creeping through the rocks. The trickling sound as the water covered her delicate hands. The girl’s matted hair, rising and floating around her battered face.
Turning off the water, she leant against the wall, palms flat on the tiles, chest heaving as she caught her breath.
She ripped back the shower curtain and stumbled out, groping for a towel. She snatched it from the rail and held it tight to her face. Breathing deeply, she wiped the water away and peered at her reflection in the fogged over mirror, thankful she couldn’t see her own features.
Sighing, she wrapped the towel around her torso, reached for another and bound her hair in it. She fought back tears as her eyes found her mobile phone, perched on the corner of the vanity basin. All those calls from Lisa she’d ignored. So many texts left unanswered. Why hadn’t she taken her sister’s calls?
She knew the answer. It was only her own guilt making her question herself now.
She jumped as the phone vibrated on the porcelain next to her hand. An unknown number appeared on the screen. Her hand hovered as she considered if she should answer.
The last person she wanted to talk to right now was some spammer trying to sell her a new phone plan, but it could be the forensic team. They were still out on site. Maybe they’d found something.
‘Detective Dawn Grave speaking.’
‘Dawn.’ It wasn’t anyone she was expecting. Silence hung heavy. ‘Are you okay?’ The concern in Michael’s voice was evident.
‘I told you earlier. I’m okay.’
‘Yeah. I know you did. Call it instinct, but I don’t believe you.’
Dawn grinned despite the tension filling her chest.
‘I figure you haven’t eaten. I know you missed lunch. I certainly did. Meet me at the Top Pub for a bite to eat.’
Then he was gone.
‘I’m too tired for food,’ she spoke to her phone’s generic factory set screensaver.
He was gone. She sighed as she placed the phone back on the vanity, unwrapped her hair and gently rubbed the excess moisture away. Reaching for her comb, she teased out the knots.
Her phone buzzed. A text popped up on the screen.
You’ve got ten minutes. Then I’m coming up!
‘What the hell!’
How did he know where she was staying? Her first thought was to just let him try. She’d ignore the knocking. He’d go away.
Then what?
She shook her head, left the bathroom and flung open her suitcase. Throwing tops and pants in all directions, she searched for something other than suit pants and her preferred high-neck sleeveless tops.
Finally, she found a pair of green shorts and a rust-coloured cotton blouse, crumpled from travel. At least the sun had set. Hopefully the heat would soon be sucked out of the day by a cool sea breeze.
Frowning, she checked her reflection in the teak-veneer dressing table mirror at the end of her bed.
Wet hair. No make-up. What did it matter? She was back in town for one reason and one reason only. To find her sister.
Dawn reached for her room key. Shoving it into her shoulder bag, she checked her wallet was inside and adjusted her pocket pistol to sit snugly between the partitions. Satisfied, she twisted the antique brass doorhandle, flicked the old-style snib lock and slammed the door closed.
Her footfalls were soundless on the worn olive carpet as she descended the stairs to the bar. Voices drifted up the void. The source—a mixture of backpackers and locals lining up two deep, waiting to order drinks.
Dawn had been tempted to stay somewhere more upmarket. But there was something about the Top Pub that drew her in.
Nostalgia maybe?
Her brother used to work at the pub. Her dad certainly knew his way around the old Queenslander building. He’d slept at the bar regularly, before finally being pushed out onto the street when the owner needed to lock up for the night.
On occasion, the publican would let her dad sleep it off in an upstairs room, if the owner had a spare one and her old man could make it up the stairs.
She gave the publican a wave as she passed the bar. Two fingers touched his forehead in a scout-like salute.
His beard was trimmed shorter than she remembered. Probably because there was more grey than ginger these days. Still, what he lacked in facial hair, he’d made up for with more tattoos than she recalled.
Returning to this remote, monsoonal North Queensland town was never on her agenda. But her sister needed her.
Michael caught her eye with the raising of his beer glass. She crossed the room and slid onto the wooden bench seat opposite the ranger.
His hair was washed, wet like hers. He was wearing a tight-fitting light blue T-shirt, and she couldn’t help but notice his firm chest muscles. The colour contrasted against his dark brown skin. The smell of aftershave wafted on the warm night air.
‘Thought I was going to have to come up for a minute.’
It was the first time she’d noticed him smile.
‘I really should have ignored you.’
‘But you couldn’t.’ He rose. ‘What are you drinking?’
‘Tell Ben I’ll have a top shelf sav blanc, and don’t let him give you a house special.’
Michael’s eyebrow rose. ‘Sergeant Martin said you were from around here, but I thought it was a long time ago.’
‘It was. But not much has changed.’
‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
Dawn nodded as he stepped over the wooden bench.
She studied the picnic table, which would have been more at home across the road in the park, than in a pub.
As she ran her hand along the paintwork, she realised it hadn’t changed either.
A cheer rose from a group of backpackers playing darts behind her. The unmistakable accents of Britain and France drifted her way.
An old man perched on a bar stool frowned at her, before easing from the stool on unsteady legs. His glance didn’t waver as he wandered her way, one wobbly step after another.
‘You’re Fred’s daughter, hey?’
She wanted to say hey what, but there was no point. Far North Queenslanders ended most questions, even statements, with the word.
‘I am. Do I know you?’
‘Your old man used to talk about you all the time. He had you ...’ he belched, refocussed, then continued, ‘earmarked for the nineteen ninety-eight Commonwealth Games, hey.’
‘He did.’
Michael approached, stopped and waited patiently behind the old man. A smile on his lips told her he was listening.
‘What happened?’
‘I decided I didn’t like swimming anymore.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that.’
‘Excuse me.’
The man staggered sideways at the unexpected voice from over his shoulder. Scanning the room, disorientated for a moment, he finally focussed on Michael.
‘You with him?’
The man’s tone was icy. His lip curled in a snarl as he hoicked his finger at the ranger.
‘Well, he’s holding my drink.’
‘There was a time when his sort wasn’t allowed in here.’
‘Yes. And there was a time when old drunk men died early of liver cirrhosis too, but aren’t we lucky civilisation has advanced?’
The old man shook his head, as though he were trying to figure out if her response was indeed the insult he thought it was.
Scanning her hard-set features, he seemed to realise the conversation was over. Placing one unsteady foot in front of the other, he tripped and shuffled his way back to his bar stool, now occupied by a tall man with Scandinavian features and long, blond hair tied up in a man bun.
The old man’s body language told Dawn he was ready to hurl an insult but changed his direction for the front door instead.
Michael slid the wine across the table and sat down.
‘I can’t believe you said that.’ His grin was wide.
‘I can’t believe he spoke to you like that, and you just took it,’ Dawn countered and Michael shrugged.
‘No point arguing with facts. He’s right.’
Michael turned his beer glass a quarter turn clockwise on the cardboard coaster as condensation ran down the side.
Dawn gaped. Her mind raced with words ready to fire back at him, but she closed her mouth. What could she say?
Michael glanced up, his eyes sad, his face smiling. ‘It is what it is.’
‘That’s not a solution. That’s a cop-out.’ The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself.
‘You’ve been gone nearly twenty years, right.’
It was a statement of fact. She remained silent.
‘Not much has changed during those years. You said so yourself.’
Dawn reached for her wine, lifted the glass to her lips to prevent herself from responding. She knew how the system worked. It was one of the reasons why she left. It was why she became a cop. And now here she was, almost two decades later, in the same town, facing the same narrow-minded views she left behind all those years ago.
‘It’s okay Dawn. You can’t change people right away. It takes decades. But you can educate a new generation. Education is the reason I work with the Yuku Rangers.’
‘You’re not local, are you?’
Michael’s hair colour was not often seen in the local population.
‘My grandmother was of the Alawa people. She was moved to the Hope Valley Mission as a baby and then transferred to Woorabinda as a girl. My mother brought me back to our homeland when I was born, but my father wasn’t from around here.’
‘Where are the Alawa people from?’
Michael shook his head.
‘It doesn’t matter right now. Right now, I’m wondering why you came back to Cooktown. Did you know your sister was missing?’
‘Not exactly.’
They sipped their drinks in silence. Michael not wanting to push. Dawn not wanting to own up to ignoring her sister’s messages.
‘It’s a long story.’
Michael said nothing. His eyes watched her over the rim of his glass as he sipped his beer.
‘That piece of fabric you found today. It brought back memories I’d rather leave behind. But my sister messages me weekly. Sometimes daily. She’s never been able to let the past go.’
‘I know that feeling.’ Michael drained his beer and stepped over the bench seat. ‘I’ll grab another. You?’ He pointed to her half-full wine. She shook her head.
‘Didn’t you want me to explain about the past?’
‘Food first. I’ll grab menus.’
He left the table, and Dawn to her thoughts.
Did she want to relive everything she went through back then? Did she have a choice? The fabric proved her sister’s text messages weren’t the usual airy-fairy nonsense.
After twenty years, Lisa might finally have snagged a clue to finding Tracey Warren’s killer.