The Fourth Season

by Dorothy Johnston

  I found the Monaro Highway, traffic light along it, maps of Jindabyne and the route up into the mountains open on the seat beside me. I felt myself beginning to relax, picturing my children happily occupied, Derek and Valerie at the soccer oval cheering from the sidelines. I let my thoughts take me where they would, in a more reflective and less agitated way.

  I’d convinced myself that it had been Ben Sanderson in that tram with Laila, but admitted that I might be wrong. The mountain air was tinder dry. Gradually, small alpine eucalypts replaced the taller lowland varieties. Grey paddocks held scatterings of handfed sheep, but most were empty. I’d heard on the news that the Snowy catchment area, source of water for the huge hydro-electric scheme, was in deep trouble, one of the worst drought-affected areas of all. I couldn’t have said why, but felt sure that I was on the track of Laila’s mystery lover.

  Recalling Ivan’s dismissive reaction when I’d told him about them, I allowed for the possibility that Laila’s sketch and diagram were no more than the expression of a childish fantasy, one she’d never seriously intended doing anything about. This was certainly Ivan’s opinion, and I expected that anybody else I put the theory to would react with equal, if not greater scepticism. I’d read as much about the Babel canyon as I’d been able to get my hands on, and about the Maria Rosa. I’d been disappointed to discover that, although one source had the ship sinking more or less in the vicinity that Laila had marked, others suggested that the vessel had gone down much closer to the Victorian coast. Various groups of divers had been looking, but had never found it.

  I’d also learnt that ExxonMobil’s Babel rig was meant to have been the first of what had provisionally been called the Babel Cluster, but that development had been postponed pending the government’s final decision on the boundaries of the marine park.

  I’d only ever been to the snowfields once, and hadn’t taken much notice of Jindabyne township on that trip. Now I was curious, negotiating the steep descent towards what was supposed to be the water’s edge. Bare sand and clay stretched for a further hundred metres. I passed the bowling club, the statue of Strezelecki and service station on my right, driving slowly as I kept an eye out for the caravan park. I was surprised to see so few trees on what would once have been the water line. A bike path wound its way much further up, sometimes dipping in and out between alpine gums and casuarinas.

  I found the park entrance a few kilometres further on. The place was deserted except for a few single men who liked to fish, judging by the rods that leant against their vans, the metal tables obviously used for gutting and cleaning their catch. One elderly couple looked to be living there permanently and had gathered around their van the detritus of long lives, in overflowing bags and boxes, some under cover, others open to the weather.

  When I asked the manager about the cottage Bill Abenay had rented, he told me where to find it with the expression of a man who’d be grateful for a bit of extra business. We discussed the drought and its effects. He told me with a wry, encouraging smile that the fish, what was left of them, were still biting. I said I might be interested in hiring a boat, and he replied that he’d be happy to supply it.

  When I pulled out my photograph of Laila, he shook his head and told me he’d never seen her at the van park, or anywhere in Jindabyne.

  What struck me immediately was the cottage’s isolation. It was a proper cottage, rather than a shack. It even had a bit of garden round it, spiky bushes that were surviving the drought. The park manager had told me I could have it for a hundred dollars for the night, but I was sure he would have taken seventy if I’d offered it to him.

  I parked and did a quick circuit. Each window was covered with a thick brown blind, fully drawn. The building was weatherboard, with a curious double chimney at one end. I tried counting rooms. If the cottage was as old as its chimney suggested, it would, in its original state, have had only one bedroom. I let my mind play over the ­possibility that Bill Abenay and Laila had shared it.

  Had Abenay expected payment for what had amounted to an unusual diving lesson? If he had, what might Laila’s reaction have been? It was easy to assume that Laila had been the dominant one, gracing a middle-aged solitary man with her desirable presence, doing him a favour just by offering him her company. According to Abenay’s version of events, he’d refused her request to dive alone, and she’d seen the folly of this and relented. Had his story been an attempt to show me that Laila hadn’t had him wrapped around her little finger, that his word had counted for something?

  I fetched a map and a pair of binoculars from the car. No proper path followed the recently exposed shore. I climbed a small rise, ­figuring that Wollondibby Creek and Inlet should be on the other side. The creek was dry, but that wasn’t what took my attention. A huge pile of granite, rocks of all different shapes and sizes, rose up at the Inlet’s mouth. I wondered why Abenay hadn’t mentioned them as I checked my map. Curiosity Rocks, they were called. The water was so low that you could almost wade out to them.

  The launching ramp was clearly visible from the rise, though not at all from the cottage. I counted seven four-wheel drives with trailers lined up, but only three boats were visible from where I stood. The water was flat and there was no wind at all. A small pontoon supported a shed with Boat Hire printed on it in large letters. Several dinghies and canoes were tied up there, but I could see no sign of anybody and the shed was closed.

  I turned around and looked up towards the hills rising behind me, wondering what the valley must have looked like to the first white ­settlers. I spotted a narrow dirt path winding through a stand of poplars and walked towards it. Thistles were getting a good hold on the soil, but apart from that it was desperately bare. I followed the path to the ramp, stopping for a few moments to watch a water-skier take off. The ramp was a simple concrete slope, on the other side of it another creek and inlet.

  Widow’s Creek: I found it on the map and thought about the name as I walked around the shore close to the water. Though muddy in patches, it was easy going for the most part. I shaded my eyes and squinted at a boy running in the shallows up ahead, a dog barking excitedly beside him. For a moment I imagined it was Peter and Fred, when Fred was still alive.

  The boy threw the stick he’d been holding and the dog swam after it, taking off with an almighty leap.

  ‘Great dog,’ I said, coming up to them.

  ‘Thanks.’ The boy grinned, pretending indifference to the compliment.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Max. He’s a mountain dog.’

  ‘He looks like the dog my son used to have, except his coat’s thicker.’

  ‘Do you live round here?’ The boy shot me a glance. ‘I ain’t seen you before.’

  When I said I lived in Canberra, he shrugged. We talked while he threw sticks and Max retrieved them, looking as though he would never tire of the game. I learnt that boy’s name was Justin and that he used to work at the fishing shop next to the service station before ‘mean old Mr Robben’ had given him the sack.

  ‘I never did nuffin’ and me Dad belted me cos he didn’t believe me.’

  Mr Robben organised fishing trips for ‘townies’ and dives to the homestead, ‘though you could practically walk out to it now’. When I asked Justin if he’d been diving there himself, he shot me a look bordering on contempt and said old Robben was far too mean to teach him for nothing, and where would he get the money to pay for scuba gear?

  ‘You said you’re from Canberra? I thought nothin’ ever happened there, I mean like nothing violent. But there’s them two murders.’

  Somewhat surprised by the comment, I agreed that two murders in a short space of time was unusual.

  ‘I reckon I seen that girl, you know, like of what she was wearing, this red—I don’t know what you call it—’

  ‘A red waistcoat?’

  Justin nodded. ‘I seen it on the telly and I thought, that’s her.’ He stared at me as though weighing up his options.

  I to
ok out my card and showed it to him. Justin frowned, but didn’t comment, or ask for an explanation. Max panted and looked up at him intently. Justin bent to pat him, then threw the stick again.

  I drew Justin’s story out of him with the help of twenty dollars.

  Laila had appeared at the boat ramp while he was there with Mr Robben, getting ready to take a couple of guys out for a spin.

  ‘In his new boat. Pride and joy, in’it?’

  Laila had walked right up to Robben’s Landcruiser, and Robben had leant out of the driver’s side to speak to her. It was obvious that they knew each other, and that he wasn’t pleased. ‘She was like wow, you know. I never seen a girl like her except in the movies.’ Justin shook his head and turned away, but not before I caught the glitter of a tear in his eye.

  Max flopped down at his owner’s feet. Justin scratched him lovingly behind the ears and said, ‘I never seen what happened next because Mr Robben sent me back to the shop to fetch some extra life jackets.’ These were supposedly for the tourists, but they didn’t need them. There were plenty of life jackets in the back of the Landcruiser, Justin said disdainfully. He described the tourists as ‘Just fellas. Townies. Nothing special.’

  There’d been no one else at the ramp, and Justin had not seen Laila again.

  ‘The next day Mr Robben fired me, after I got to work on time and all. No notice, nuffink. He can rot in hell for all I care. Never told me what I done wrong, and my old man belted me because he said I must be lyin’.’

  They’d all been gone when Justin returned to the ramp with the extra life jackets. He’d waited for a while, then, not knowing what else to do, he’d gone back to the shop. ‘A mate of mine dropped by and we went and had a game of pool. I reckoned Mr Robben could find me if he wanted me. I hated working Sundays anyway. And he never paid me extra for it.’

  When I asked about Mr Robben’s boat, Justin said, ‘Worth a hundred thousand. Reckons he got it cheap.’ Justin made a face, half scepticism, half envy. ‘He’s a mean bastard, but I don’t reckon he’s a thief. Too bloody obvious in a place like this.’

  I thanked him for talking to me. ‘Would your dog let me pat him?’

  ‘Sure. Max, listen. This lady is a friend. Max knows the word friend.’

  I said I was sure he did.

  . . .

  A large sign over Bernhard Robben’s shop said ‘Lake Jindabyne Trout Fishing Adventures’. Smaller ones underneath it offered fishing lessons, fly rod hires and boat trolling. Another said, ‘Qualified Diving Instructor, Altitude Specialist’. A Landcruiser was parked at the front, and the door was ajar. I wondered where the new boat was kept.

  The door opened onto a large variety of rods and other equipment. A counter held a cash register, computer, fax machine and phone. A big pin board took up half a wall, mostly covered in photographs of smiling men holding improbably large fish.

  There were a few groups of divers in wetsuits as well, with the expressions of startled inanity that diving masks create. I stared at one that looked familiar. He was standing in front of a yacht with a tall apricot-coloured sail. I took a step closer to read the name, as a voice behind me said, ‘Can I help you?’

  A man with dark hair tied back in a pony tail, dark eyes and good bones nodded a greeting.

  I introduced myself and said I was interested in diving.

  Robben pushed a strand of glossy hair off his face with his left hand. He wore a wedding ring. He described the trips he offered, and handed me some brochures.

  ‘I’m told you need to be pretty experienced,’ I said.

  Robben blinked rapidly. His eyes were a very dark brown, almost black.

  ‘The lake’s a bit low at the moment. In general, well, there are certain conditions that make it more hazardous than diving at sea level.’ He looked me up and down. ‘Sudden drops in temperature, for one. Hypothermia can be a problem. On the other hand, you don’t have to worry about sharks.’

  I smiled and said that was a relief.

  ‘Why don’t I take your contact details, Ms—’

  ‘Mahoney,’ I said, and gave him my mobile number. ‘Is the Kalkite homestead hard to find?’

  ‘Not if you know where to look. If you don’t, there’s seven and a half thousand hectares of water out there. Or there used to be.’

  ‘Does anyone dive without a guide?’

  ‘Of course. There’s a boat hire place at the caravan park. That’s where most start off. Some find the buildings, some don’t. You’ve got to be lucky with the weather too. The water temperature can get down to three degrees Celsius.’

  I asked Robben if he knew why the homestead hadn’t been removed.

  ‘Removed?’

  ‘I understand that most of the buildings were taken away before the area was flooded.’

  ‘The Snowy Mountains Authority might have kept records on that. I’ve no idea.’

  I pointed to the photo of the yacht. ‘A beautiful boat. Does it belong to you?’

  ‘If only.’

  ‘You enjoy sailing?’

  ‘I do.’

  Robben’s phone rang and he turned away to answer it. I took the opportunity to take another look at the rest of the photos.

  He spoke softly to whoever the caller was, then raised his voice to ask, ‘Will that be all, Ms Mahoney?’

  ‘Please let me know next time you’re arranging a dive trip.’

  Robben glanced upwards, his expression sceptical.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Pray for rain.’

  He ushered me out the door, then leant against it, watching me get into my car.

  I drove towards the shopping centre, past a motel and another service station, spotting a small red sedan in my rear vision mirror. Red was not a colour to choose if you wanted to be inconspicuous. I pulled into a carpark. The red car parked as well. I wished I’d asked Justin what kind of car Robben’s customers had driven.

  The red sedan was a newish Hyundai Xcel with NSW registration. The driver was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, and talking on a mobile. I wrote down the rego number, then took out my photograph of Laila once again, and headed for the supermarket.

  The woman behind the counter was reading a magazine and appeared uninterested in serving me. Autumn was probably their ­quietest time, I thought, after the summer bushwalkers and campers, and before the ski season began.

  I bought bread rolls and orange juice. The woman gave my photo no more than a glance, before saying, ‘That’s the girl who was ­murdered down in Canberra.’

  ‘Did you ever see her around here?’

  ‘What, in real life you mean?’ She stared at me, startled, as though I might be referring to Laila’s ghost.

  ‘Did she come in here?’ I asked. ‘With an older man, perhaps?’

  The woman shook her head.

  Even careful planners—and I imagined Bill Abenay as a planner, who would have stocked up on Laila’s favourite foods—might need to buy certain items locally. After a glance around the carpark—the red car was still there, the driver still on his phone—I headed for the closest service station.

  This time, there was a customer ahead of me and I had to wait my turn.

  When it came, the young man who gave me change for a packet of chips went pale beneath his tan and said yes, he had seen Laila. Like the woman in the supermarket, he looked at me as though I might be a messenger from whatever place she’d gone to. He said she’d used the rest room and bought some bottled water. It was clear from the way he spoke that Laila had caught his attention. But there’d been a queue of customers and he hadn’t seen what kind of car she’d come in, or with whom.

  He didn’t know if she’d had a phone with her, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Laila had used her time in the rest room to call someone. I was about to ask another question when the bell over the door rang and I turned to see the man from the red car. I stepped to one side, pretending to study rows of motor oil. The man paid cash for his coke, and did not glance i
n my direction as he headed back out the door. He was clean shaven, dressed in jeans, black running shoes and a black T shirt. He was still wearing the baseball cap and glasses. His complexion was a healthy olive, and his general appearance cared-for. He looked as though he lived, and relished living, out of doors.

  There was something about his build, his stance and way of walking that made me think I had at last come face to face with Cameron Fletcher.

  I stood in the carpark. The red car was gone, and I began to wish I’d hurried after Cameron and followed it.

  I spent the next hour looking for paths around the lake, keeping an eye out for the car. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find several boat ramps, but only came across one more, and no paths that Laila could possibly have fallen from into the water. I pictured Laila as Bill Abenay had described her, returning to the cottage dripping wet. She could have waded into the lake, or been pushed or dragged. But fallen? No.

  I spotted two elderly fishermen settled comfortably on folding chairs. Neither recognised the victim of a brutal murder, and neither had seen Laila at the township or the lake.

  ‘What do you catch?’ I asked them politely.

  ‘Barramundi,’ one replied with a grin.

  His friend sniggered. ‘Yeah, and blue-fin tuna. That’s common here as well.’

  When I drove past Bernhard Robben’s shop again, his Landcruiser was outside, still without a boat or trailer. Parked next to it was the red sedan. I stopped around the corner, hoping neither man had been looking out the window.

  I drank my juice, and ate a roll. I hadn’t felt hungry all day, but was now aware that I could do with a good meal. I decided to give Robben’s visitor another twenty minutes. While I waited, I mulled over all I’d learnt about Laila’s weekend at the lake.

  . . .

  It was late by the time I’d driven back to Canberra, and Ivan was asleep.

  That night, I dreamt I was searching the muddy bottom of Lake Burley Grifffin, nosing at it with my face mask like a platypus, half-blinded by the silt. Then I was swimming through an abandoned farm house, slowly and laboriously. The water was thick and viscous as oil, but strangely I could see better there.