Chapter Ten

At the lighthouse, the large crowd lost interest in the pirouetting whales when two lifesavers raced around the cape on roaring jet skis. They were moving at such speed they were hurling themselves airborne off the back of waves, only to crash down to the water with a bone-wrenching thud just in time to take off again. Inspector Begley and Constable Anderson watched on as Harry, speaking into his radio, directed the lifesavers to the lost board.

The radio came back to life when one of the jet skis responded. ‘Harry, I think you’re right. It is Pat O’Shaughnessy’s board. Can you call it in? Over.’

Harry confirmed, then turned to Begley. ‘They’ll tow the board to Main Beach. I’ll get our boat stood up at Brunswick so she’s ready to go as soon as we get the word. Then, its over to you – missing persons is your turf.’

Begley had seen many false alarms like this – surfers being separated from their boards, only to be found at the pub a few hours later with their mates. He said, ‘I’ve sent Sergeant Kowalski to O’Shaughnessy’s house. I’m sure we’ll track him down soon. In the meantime, I’ll leave Anderson here for liaison.’

As Begley drove down Lighthouse Road, he lowered the car window and lit up – the real reason he’d left Anderson behind. Smoking was banned in the cars, and Anderson, a right little do-gooder, would be whining for the entire length of the cigarette.

Begley loved this drive. Panoramic views of the beaches came and went as the road wound its way down from high on the cape. Best of all, interposed between him and the view were women of all ages power walking or running along the elevated walkway. Some wore figure-hugging lycra, others wore less. There were men too, the younger ones often shirtless, their tanned skin canvases for eagles, serpents and skulls, but Begley barely noticed them.

The traffic queued to get back into town would be at a standstill, so Begley switched on the red and blues, hurled his cigarette butt out the window and turned towards the boat ramp at The Pass. He drove along the beach, slowly weaving his way between scantily clad sunbathers and toddlers chasing seagulls.

When he arrived at Main Beach the surfboard had already been pulled onto the sand and a crowd had gathered. Begley didn’t like crowds. You always had to assume someone had a camera on, which meant being nice to all of the people all of the time, even when they were lunging at you with a meat cleaver. Why did everything have to be uploaded these days? He was sure some of these idiots would even take selfies sitting on the shitter.

The lifesaver patrol captain introduced himself. Begley had trouble taking anybody seriously when they were wearing budgie smugglers, the silhouette of his little penis clear for all to see.

‘It is Patrick’s board,’ said the lifesaver, ‘and it’s bad news, very bad.’

‘Did you find his body?’

‘No, but I’m not sure we will.’

They pushed their way through the seething biomass of rubberneckers. The surfboard was laid out on the sand. It wasn’t the large shield-shaped Mark Richards logo that caught Begley’s eye, nor the bright-red colour of the board, instead his gaze was captured by a serrated chunk gouged out of the left side of the board towards the tail. A large, semi-circular, bite-shaped chunk. Fuck, thought Begley, a shark. This was going to be a bloody circus. He thought of all the photos that had already been taken. There was no way he was going to be able to keep this in the can.

Begley asked the lifesavers to disperse the crowd, then kneeled to examine the board. The outline of the missing section was roughened by teeth marks. Big teeth. He could only hope the shark attacked the board and missed O’Shaughnessy’s leg, and that the man had miraculously found his way to shore. But Begley wasn’t confident, shivering at the thought of the gruesome alternative.

The press were going to be all over this. And he was going to be in the firing line if they didn’t find O’Shaughnessy fast. He phoned Harry.

‘Harry, the board has been attacked by a shark.’ There was silence at the other end. ‘Are you there, Harry?’

‘Sorry, yes. Poor Patrick.’

‘We’ll set up the search command post up there with you. Can you get the Marine Rescue boat activated?’

‘I’m on it.’

Begley called Anderson and ordered him to get his arse down to the beach yesterday. He then made calls to get the search started, and to authorise both the Search and Rescue chopper out of Lismore and the Water Police out of Ballina. He re-joined the patrol captain, who was telling his crew to close the beach. Several lifesavers dispersed with megaphones and whistles, calling everybody out of the water. Buggies roared off along the sand, and the jet skis set off to round up the surfers.

Constable Anderson arrived quicker than Begley expected, he must have commandeered a car. He ran down the beach towards Begley, eager as always. He was like a Labrador pup – excitable, but not very bright. Begley had the constable load the surfboard into the back of the police truck. There was no way Begley was going to be seen carrying that shark-bitten surfboard – a photo like that in the press was no way to keep out of the limelight.

Begley’s mobile rang. It was Kowalski.

‘Have you got him?’ Begley asked.

‘No. He’s not at The Beacon and he wasn’t at home. I’ve sent units to look for his car at the usual surfing spots. You’re not going to believe this – I caught two people breaking into his house.’

‘You’re bullshitting me?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Are they frequent flyers?’

‘They say they’re related to Patrick, at least the woman does. But they always say that, don’t they? Neither had ID so I’ve brought them in for questioning.’

‘That’s a pretty weird coincidence – his house being robbed the day he goes missing.’

‘I’ll see what I can get out of them.’

Begley cut the call and took a last look out to sea. Those in the water hadn’t needed to be told twice to get out, and a wave of people was headed shoreward. With the surfboard safely out of sight, Begley climbed into the police car and Anderson carefully drove between the throng towards the ramp.

Begley lowered his window and lit a cigarette.

Anderson shot him a glance and said, ‘Sir—’

Begley cut him off. ‘One word, Anderson, one more bloody word and you’re walking.’ He took a long drag. ‘And turn on the lights.’