Chapter Thirty-three

Even though he knew it was childish, Jack unplugged the dentist’s Nissan Leaf as he walked away. He promised himself he would brush his teeth twice a day from now on, and start flossing – anything to avoid ending up in the hands of Lars Nielsen.

Back in The Beacon’s Toyota, he checked his phone. Nothing from Caitlin. He searched through his photos and brought up the image of Patrick’s surfboard. He was sure he was right, and the pathologist wrong – sharks don’t untie leg-ropes before dining on surfers.

Jack started the car and drove to where it all began, at Tallows Beach, to take another look, and to think. In the carpark, the endless cycle of surfers coming and going was playing out, with boards of all shapes and sizes being pulled from the backs of vans, others being washed off and re-stowed. Wetsuits were squeezed into, others peeled off. A young couple sat on a blanket behind their campervan, she with eyes closed smoking a joint, he practising guitar.

Jack retraced what would have been Patrick’s final steps down the soft sandy path through the casuarina trees to the beach beyond. For Jack, those last few steps where the closed forest suddenly opened to reveal the long sweep of sand and surf always took his breath away. He remembered the many parties he and his friends had here in the summer holidays. They’d sit around fires, laughing and messing until dawn. He smoked his first joint here, and that had also taken his breath away.

Two topless girls sunbaked close to where Patrick’s body had been pulled up onto the sand. They draped arms across their chests as Jack walked past towards Cosy Corner, where Patrick would have launched his board on that last day. The surfers were having good luck with the waves, at the very place where Patrick’s luck had run out almost a week before.

Jack returned to the carpark along the wider track to the south, just as an old man, hauling a large plastic water container, shuffled past and disappeared into the forest. Jack interrupted a couple of well-wizened surfers vigorously towelling themselves off. ‘How was it?’

The older of the two snorted. ‘Really shit. Mostly sitting around listening to him bore me to tears.’

His mate offered a lopsided smile to Jack. ‘Don’t listen to him. He’s just a crap surfer. There were plenty out there all right, if you knew what you were doing.’

The older one rolled his eyes.

Jack asked, ‘Were you here the morning of the shark attack?’

The younger one answered, ‘Would have been. The best surf would have been here. But just as well, I guess.’ He shook his head. ‘Bloody awful way to go, poor bugger.’

Jack was puzzled by his answer. ‘Why weren’t you here if the surf was so good?’

‘The gate was closed at the park entrance, so we all ended up at The Pass, bums on boards. I saw the ranger a few days later and he didn’t know anything about it. Probably some prick messing around, trying to keep the best surf to himself, or landing some drugs.’

Jack left them to wriggle out of their wetsuits, and crossed the carpark to where he’d seen the old man vanish into the forest. There would only be one reason he was carrying water – he must be camping rough. Maybe he’d seen something.

A faintly worn path of flattened soil led Jack to a fire trail and on deeper into the forest until a tangle of fallen branches blocked the way. Jack climbed over and walked on, the waves sounding louder with each step. Out of nowhere, three tall white greyhounds were suddenly upon him. He stood still, wary, his heart pounding. The dogs raced towards him as a pack. They were sleek and swift and closed in on him quickly. When the first one jumped up he held his breath and expected to feel teeth, but it was attention it was seeking, not his throat.

When Jack recovered enough to resume walking, the dogs trotted beside him with their tails wagging. The path led to a makeshift camp where a tiny A-frame tent occupied one side of a small clearing. A tarpaulin stretched between trees, shading a small table, a gas stove, the water container and the old man. The man sat on a folding canvas chair, watching Jack. His clothes were tidy and clean, a green-checked flannelette shirt, shorts and thongs. His wide-brimmed straw hat was at least twenty years too late to prevent the sun-spots littering his face.

He looked at Jack warily. ‘The track doesn’t go anywhere; you can walk down and have a look yourself if you want to.’

‘Actually, it’s you that I’ve come to see.’

The man’s eyebrows lowered, the wrinkles deepening in his brow. ‘You’re not from Social bloody Services are you?’

Jack laughed. ‘No. Worse. I’m a journalist.’

The man’s demeanour hardened. ‘Oh, Jesus. Not another bloody do-gooder writing about the homeless. Well, you’ve got the wrong man. I like living here.’ Then, more accusatory, ‘And I like my own company.’

‘Good for you. I’m not here to bother you. I just wanted to ask you if you saw anything the other night.’

‘What night?’

‘Sunday. A surfer was taken by a shark early last Monday morning.’

‘What day is it today?’

‘Saturday. So almost a week ago.’

The man thought about it. ‘Was that the one with all the sirens? I thought someone might have been swept out, or one of those crazy hang-gliders might have crashed. A shark?’

One of the dogs ambled over and rolled onto his back in front of Jack, who reluctantly crouched down and started rubbing its belly. ‘Do you remember anything at all?’

The man crossed his arms. ‘I might be homeless, but I’m not stupid.’

‘The man died.’

‘From the shark attack?’

‘So they say, but I’m not so sure. That’s why I’m asking.’

He looked at Jack suspiciously. ‘Are you gonna tell anyone I’m here?’

‘As far as I’m concerned you can stay here as long as you like. Half your luck, it’s a great spot.’

The man was quiet for a few moments, then nodded. ‘I use the toilets at the carpark. That night I was caught short for a number two. There was a big black van and people moving around so I kept my distance. You never know what trouble you might get into. Sometimes drunks, or druggies.’

Jack stopped patting the dog, but it wriggled up against him until he started again. ‘Were there any other cars?’

‘Nah. It was early. The surfers don’t arrive until around dawn. It was still dark when I got back here, but I heard a boat motor.’

‘What makes you think it was a boat?’

‘I walked back along the beach, to avoid whoever was in the carpark, and saw some lights just offshore. And next morning there was a new orange buoy floating off the beach. Probably a drug drop, or illegal fishing. Happens from time to time. I keep well out of their way.’

‘Anything else?’

He thought for a while. ‘Only the sirens later that day.’

The dog lost interest and loped off.

‘Thanks, you’ve been a big help.’ Jack held out his hand.

Without getting up, the old man took it. ‘I’m Eric.’

‘Jack. Nice to meet you, Eric. Do you need anything?’

‘If you’re offering, food for the dogs. It’s bloody heavy, and a long way to carry.’

Jack turned to leave, but the old man stopped him.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me about the next night? They were back again.’

‘The same people?’

‘Either that or someone else pinched their orange buoy – it was gone the next day.’ The man nodded towards the path. ‘The track does go down to the beach, I just tell people it doesn’t so they clear off. Why don’t you have a look?’

The dogs kept Jack company as far as the beach before turning back. He walked across the warm sand and sat, staring out to sea. There was no orange buoy to be seen today; it was just him, the warm sun, a billion billion grains of sand and the mesmerising waves. And thoughts of murder.

Jack was now even more certain the pathologist was wrong. And yet he had nothing tangible, no proof, nothing that would stop Begley from throwing him out of the police station again and accusing him of time-wasting. And there was nothing Jack could write in The Beacon either – no amount of ‘allegedlys’ or ‘sources close to the murderer’ could give this story any credibility. So, for the moment, he would keep his own counsel. And keep turning over rocks to see what might lie beneath.

A sooty oystercatcher strutted along the shoreline. The bird inserted its long, lipsticked beak deep into the wet sand and pulled out a worm, distracting Jack long enough for a large wave to catch him by surprise, and soak his shorts.

‘Shit.’ He checked his watch. There was no time to dry off in the sun, he had an appointment with Caitlin, and he would only just make it in time.